"It ismagenta, Preston," Alistair corrects him, beaming. "It is the colour of a specific orchid I found in the cloud forest. It screams 'vitality', does it not?"
"It screams," Preston agrees dryly.
Alistair laughs, slapping the bar top. "Bartender! Two more of these! The 'Spicy Helmut'!"
"Please do not make us drink anything named after Helmut," I say.
Alistair waves a hand. "Fine, fine. Tequila on the rocks. For the nerves."
He hands us the glasses. Then, his expression softens. The boisterous "Jimmy Buffett" mask slips just a fraction, revealing the manunderneath—tired, a little sad, but looking at us with a fierce, undisguised pride.
"Look at you two," Alistair says quietly. He reaches out and adjusts Preston’s tie, his touch gentle. "Preston. You look sharp enough to cut glass. Your mother says you’re 'difficult', but I tell her you’re just... curating. You have an eye, son. You see the things the rest of us miss."
Preston blinks, clearly taken aback. He stiffens, then relaxes. "I see the cracks, Father. Someone has to."
"And you," Alistair turns to me, his hand moving to grip my shoulder. "The Ice King. But you’re melting, aren't you, Max? I see it. The way you look at that green boy on the bench."
"Jax is not a boy," I say automatically. "He is a Trauma Surgeon."
"He’s your chaos," Alistair corrects gently. "I’m glad you found him, son. I really am."
He takes a long sip of his drink, looking out at the water.
"I know I haven't been... present," Alistair admits, the joviality gone now. "I let Catherine build the walls. I let her write the scripts. I thought if I just paid the bills and kept the peace, it would be enough. But watching you two lately... fighting for the cake, fighting for the venue... fightingher..."
He looks back at us, his eyes shining.
"You’re better men than I am," Alistair whispers. "You’re breaking the cycle. And I am so damn proud of you. Both of you."
"Father," Preston says, his voice unusually soft. "Are you drunk?"
"I am lubricated," Alistair winks, the sparkle returning. "But I am also honest. Don't let her win tonight, boys. If she tries to flatten you... you flatten her back. You have my proxy."
"We have more than your proxy," I say, patting the pocket where the NDA documents still are, ready to be used.
Alistair grins. It is a conspiratorial, mischievous grin. "Evenbetter. Give 'em hell. Now, go save your fiancé. He looks like he’s about to hallucinate a sea monster."
We are seated at a long table covered in white linen. Jax has returned, looking pale but medicated. He is gripping my hand under the table.
"I’m floating," Jax whispers. "Max. I’m on a cloud. A nauseous cloud."
"The scopolamine is working," I assure him.
Mother stands up. She taps her glass with a spoon. The sound is sharp, piercing. The room falls silent.
"Welcome," Mother says. "To the rehearsal of what promises to be a... memorable union."
She smiles. It is the smile of a shark that has just scented blood.
"When Maxwell was born," she begins, her voice pitching into a practiced, gentle register, "we knew he was... unique. He didn't like to be held. He didn't like loud noises. He required... adjustments."
My stomach tightens.
"We worked very hard," Mother continues, her eyes misting over with performative martyrdom. "To mold him. To ensure he could function. It wasn't easy. There were doctors. There were specialists. There were... costs. We spent years smoothing out the edges, calibrating the responses."
She looks at me. Her eyes are cold.
"And now, watching him marry a man who is so...vibrant... sounstructured... I worry. I worry that the calibration will fail. That the chaos will be too much. That Maxwell will revert to the broken child he was before we fixed him."
