I nod, the tightness in my chest loosening by a fraction of a millimetre. Preston has always been the 'Spare' to my 'Heir', the observer to my participant. Growing up in the York household, we were pitted against each other like racehorses, but somewhere between his medical school residency and my tenure as Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery, we found a demilitarized zone.
"Thank you," I say, the words feeling heavy and strange on my tongue. "For the extraction. And for coming with us. I know you probably had other plans.”
Preston softens. It is a rare expression for him, one that cracks the polished York veneer. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Max. And besides, it’s what brothers do. I couldn't let you get absorbed. You’ve fought too hard for your autonomy."
"I have," I agree.
"Consider it an investment," Preston says, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "I’m simply returning the favour in advance. I’ll need you to do the same for me when it’s my turn."
There is a beat of silence.
Next to him, Luke freezes. The macadamia nut he was about to throw into his mouth pauses in mid-air.
"Your turn?" Luke asks, his voice squeaking slightly. "Babe? What do you mean, your turn?"
Preston’s eyes go wide. The clinical detachment vanishes instantly. A flush of colour, bright red and completely uncharacteristic, creeps up his neck and settles high on his cheekbones.
"I—I was speaking hypothetically," Preston stammers, suddenly finding the rivets on the fuselage incredibly interesting. "In a theoretical timeline where… statistically speaking…"
"You want to get married?" Luke beams, practically vibrating in his seat. "To me? Oh my god, are we eloping too? Can we do a double Elvis? Max, tell him we can do a double Elvis!"
"We are not doing a double Elvis," Preston hisses, snapping his journal open and burying his face in it. "I was speaking of a distant, abstract future. Read your comic book, Luke."
"He’s blushing," Luke whispers loudly to me. "Max, look! The Ice Prince is melting!"
"I am not melting," Preston mutters from behind the paper wall. "I am experiencing a vascular dilation due to the altitude. Go away, Maxwell."
I almost smile. For a moment, the terror of the wedding recedes. We are just four men in a metal tube, navigating the chaotic biology of being human.
Then, the universe corrects itself.
Bing.
The seatbelt sign illuminates. It is an angry, insistent orange that cuts through the cabin lighting.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking," the voice comes over the intercom. It sounds hesitant. Baffled, actually. "We, uh… we have a slight situation."
Jax opens one eye. The sleepy warmth vanishes, replaced by the sharp, predatory focus of a trauma surgeon. "I don't like 'slight situations'. In my line of work, that usually means a bleeder."
"We have just received a transmission from AirTraffic Control," the Captain continues, his voice trembling slightly. "It appears that while we were over Ohio, a hostile corporate takeover occurred. Trans-Continental Airlines has been purchased in its entirety."
My blood runs cold. It is a physical sensation, like liquid nitrogen pouring down my spine. The hum of the engines suddenly sounds less like propulsion and more like a trap snapping shut.
"The new owner," the Captain sighs, the sound of a man who knows his pension is now at risk, "is the York Foundation."
"She bought the airline?" Jax sits up so fast his seatbelt locks. "She bought the whole damn airline? In forty-five minutes?"
"Wait for it," Preston says, lowering his journal, his face still flushed but his expression grim.
"The new ownership has revoked our landing clearance for Las Vegas," the Captain says, sounding like he needs a stiff drink. "We have been ordered to return to JFK immediately for a… 'branding inspection'. Also, I have been informed that the in-flight movie has been changed to a three-hour documentary about the history of Chantilly lace."
"She bought the sky," I whisper, rocking slightly. "Jax, she bought the sky."
"It’s a blockade," Jax growls, looking out the window as the massive plane begins a slow, sickening bank to the left. The g-force presses us into our seats. "She’s sieging us. It’s a tactical retreat!"
The cabin erupts. Business Class is usually a quiet ecosystem of noise-canceling headphones and gin and tonics, but now there is shouting. A man in row 3 is demanding to see a manager. A woman in row 5 is crying about her bachelorette party, screaming that she "can't go back to New Jersey sober."
The noise hits me like a physical blow. The shouting, the engine whine, the collective spike in cortisol levels. It is a sensory assault. The data is coming in too fast—the smell of spilled champagne, the pitch of the woman’s scream, the vibration of the turn. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
