I hit the speaker button.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Preston’s voice purrs through the intercom. "This is Preston York. While I appreciate the vocal range of the sopranos, you are currently trespassing on private property. Furthermore, the bribe you are carrying—the champagne—constitutes an unsolicited gift under the York Foundation’s ethics bylaws."
"Mr. York!" It’s Catherine’s assistant, clearly holding the phone in the lobby. "Mrs. York just wants five minutes! She wants to apologize! She bought you a pony!"
"A pony?" I whisper to Max, who has just walked in wearing pajama pants and a look of profound exhaustion.
"She bought me a pony when I was six," Max says, pouringcoffee. "I was allergic to it. I calculated the dander load and refused to enter the stable. She was furious."
"Tell Mother," Preston says into the intercom, examining his fingernails, "that we do not want the champagne. We do not want the choir. And if she attempts to send livestock into a Manhattan high-rise again, I will report her to PETA and the Co-op Board."
"But Mr. York?—!"
"Also," Preston adds, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Tell her that Maxwell and Jax have eloped. They are currently in Fiji. I am just house-sitting."
"WHAT?" The scream from the lobby is audible even without the intercom.
"Have a lovely day," Preston says, and cuts the feed.
He turns to us.
"That should buy us twenty-four hours," Preston says. "She will now spend the next day calling every resort in the South Pacific to verify your location. It will keep her busy."
"You lied to her," Max says, taking a sip of coffee.
"I created a diversion," Preston corrects. "It is a tactical maneuver. Also, I’m keeping the champagne. The doorman can bring it up. The choir can keep the pony."
“I’m so glad you’re on our side,” I say to Preston.
"I know," Preston says. "Now, pass the jam. Fighting matriarchy makes me hungry."
Max
The final fitting. The suits are ready. The wedding is in forty-eight hours.
We are standing on the podium. Enzo is circling Jax like a shark, muttering about inseams.
"Do not flex the glute," Enzo commands, slapping Jax’s thigh with a measuring tape. "The fabric is Italian. It does not stretch. It drapes."
"I’m breathing, Enzo," Jax complains. "Can I at least breathe?"
"Minimal expansion," Enzo compromises. "Shallow breaths. Think thin thoughts."
Suddenly, the front door of the atelier slams open.
"I KNOW THEY ARE HERE!"
Catherine York storms in. She looks... disheveled. Her hair is slightly windswept. Her Chanel suit is wrinkled. She is holding a garment bag like a weapon.
"She found us," I whisper. "How did she find us?"
"She tracked the credit card," Max realizes, checking his phone. "Enzo charged the deposit ten minutes ago. She has a localized alert on the Amex."
"Maxwell!" Catherine shouts, marching toward the podium. "You are not in Fiji! Preston is a liar! A malicious, silk-wearing liar!"
"I prefer 'creative strategist'," Preston says from the lounge chair, where he is sipping an espresso.
"Catherine," Enzo steps in front of the podium. He is five-foot-six, but he holds a pair of fabric shears that are ten inches long. "You do not have an appointment."
