I am waiting in the vestibule, scrolling on my phone, guarding the door.
I see her.
She doesn't storm in this time. She doesn't have an entourage. She doesn't have a gift.
Catherine York walks up the steps of the Cathedral. She is wearing a simple black dress. No jewelry. No power suit. She looks older. Smaller.
She stops in front of me. She doesn't try to push past.
"Jax," she says. Her voice is hollow.
"Catherine," I say, crossing my arms. "The answer is no. He’s calibrating."
"I know," she says. She looks at the heavy oak doors. "I don't have a plan, Jax. I don't have a bribe. I just... I need to say it. Before tomorrow. Because if I don't say it, he will look at me walking down that aisle and he will only see the chequebook. He won't see me."
I look at her. I look for the trick. I look for the angle.
But for the first time, I don't see the General. I see a mom who realized she broke the one thing she was trying to save.
"Five minutes," I say. "If you raise your voice, I’m carrying you out. And I won't be gentle."
She nods. "Five minutes."
I open the door.
Max is sitting in the front pew of the Lady Chapel, a small side altar. He is staring at the statue of the Virgin Mary.
He hears the footsteps. He stiffens.
"Jax?" he asks, not turning around.
"No," Catherine says softly.
Max freezes. He doesn't turn. He just grips the pew in front of him.
"You breached the perimeter," Max says. "Jax is slipping."
"He let me in," Catherine says. She sits in the pew behind him. She doesn't try to touch him. She keeps the distance. "Because I surrendered."
Max turns slowly. He looks at her. He scans her data—the lack of jewelry, the black dress, the red-rimmed eyes.
"You look... unpolished," Max observes.
"I feel unpolished," Catherine admits. She looks at her hands. "I sat in the penthouse for three days, Maxwell. I called the florist. I called the caterer. I called the Archbishop. And every single one of them told me the same thing."
"What did they say?"
"They said, 'Mr. York has handled it.'"
She lets out a shaky laugh.
"Mr. York," she repeats. "Not Alistair. You. You handled it. The contracts. The timing. The crisis management. You did it all without me."
"I am capable," Max says. "I have always been capable."
"I know," Catherine whispers. And then, the dam breaks. "That’s what scares me."
Max frowns. "Explain."
