The limousine screeches to a halt at the pier. Alistair kicks the door open, the strains ofThe Girl from Ipanemaon repeat still leaking out into the cool evening air.
"Land ho!" Alistair shouts, stumbling out onto the pavement. "Or... sea ho! Whatever the nautical term is for 'we are about to drink heavily on water'!"
I help Jax out of the car. He is gripping my hand so hard I can feel his metacarpals grinding against mine. He looks at the water. He turns a shade of green that is scientifically fascinating.
We look up at the venue.
The vessel is not a boat. It is a floating city-state with a helipad and a moral deficit.
"It is theS.S. Sovereign," Mother announces, waiting for us at the gangplank. She has beaten us here, presumably by teleporting through a wormhole powered by sheer rage. She is wearing a nautical-themed Chanel suit with gold buttons that makes her look like the Admiral of the Ice Fleet.
"I rented it from a very delightful oligarch who is currently under house arrest in Zurich," Mother explains, checking her watch as we approach. "It sleeps thirty, holds two hundred, and has a panic room. Which I suspect we will need."
"Does it have a stabilizer?" Jax asks, his voice trembling. He is staring at the gentle ripple of the Hudson River with undisguised horror.
"It is a mega-yacht, Jackson," Mother scoffs. "It doesnotroll. It glides. Now, board. The captain is waiting, and I have a schedule to keep. Cocktails are at 18:30. Toasts at 19:00. Despair at 19:30."
"She didn't say despair," Luke whispers to Preston as we step onto the gangplank.
"She implied it," Preston corrects, adjusting his cuffs. "It was in the subtext. Also, the font on the invitation was basically screaming 'Abandon All Hope'."
We board the ship.
As soon as my foot hits the teak deck, I feel it. The subtle, rhythmic sway of the river. To me, it is a mild vestibular input, a variable to be accounted for. To Jax, it is the apocalypse.
"I need a focal point," Jax wheezes, clutching the railing. "Max. Give me a focal point. The world is tilting."
"Look at the Freedom Tower," I instruct, guiding him toward a bench near the stern. "It is stationary. Do not look at the water. Do not look at the horizon. And do not, under any circumstances, look at Mother’s dangling earrings. They are swaying in counter-rhythm to the boat."
"I brought supplies," a voice announces.
Rosa Ortiz appears beside us like a sequined angel of mercy. She is wearing a floor-length gown that glitters like a disco ball and is entirely inappropriate for a Monday, which makes it perfect.
She presses a care package into Jax’s shaking hand.
"Ginger chews. Scopolamine patch. And a Xanax," Rosa lists off. "Take them all. Now."
"I love you," Jax whimpers, slapping the patch onto his neck immediately.
"I know," Rosa says, patting his cheek. "Now, pull it together. If you vomit on this teak, Catherine will charge you a cleaning fee that could fund a heart transplant. And I am not doing the paperwork for that."
The sun is setting over New Jersey, casting a blood-red glow over the water. The guests have arrived. It is a small crowd—only the "inner circle," which in York terms means fifty people who hate each other but love free champagne.
Mother is holding court by the ice sculpture. She is flanked by two Senators and a man who I am eighty percent sure is a spy for a pharmaceutical conglomerate.
I leave Jax on the bench under Rosa’s supervision ("Breathe, honey, think of dry land") and walk toward the bar. Preston falls into step beside me.
"Target acquired," Preston murmurs.
Alistair York is holding court at the bar.
He is wearing a white dinner jacket, a black bow tie, and a cummerbund that is... electric pink. It matches the silk pocket square that is exploding from his chest pocket like a tropical bird.
"Maxwell! Preston!" Alistair booms, spotting us. He spreads his arms wide, nearly knocking over a tray of champagne. "My boys! The Heir and the Spare! Come here!"
He pulls us both into a hug that smells of expensive cologne, salt air, and tequila. It is suffocating and strangely warm.
"Father," Preston says, extricating himself and smoothing his lapel. "You are wearing pink. It is... a choice."
