Catherine looks at him. She really looks at him. She sees the man who stood on the boat. She sees the Ice King who melted.
"I can accept that," she whispers.
"Good," Max says. "Then go home. Fix your makeup. You look visibly distressed.”
Catherine laughs. It’s a wet, broken sound.
"You sound like your brother," she says.
"No," Max corrects her. "Preston sounds like me."
He turns and walks back to the altar.
I hold the door for Catherine as she walks out. She stops in front of me. She looks exhausted. She looks relieved.
"He invited you?" I ask.
"He gave me probation," Catherine corrects. She looks at me. "Take care of him, Jax. Or I really will find a way to turn your trauma centre into a pilates studio."
"I’ve got him, Catherine," I say. "And good luck with the pilates equipment."
She nods. She walks down the steps of St. Patrick’s, into the noise of the city.
I walk back into the chapel. Max is sitting in the pew again.
"You okay?" I ask, sitting beside him.
"She was scared," Max says softly. "She acted out of a fear algorithm. It was... illuminating."
"You let her come," I say.
"I did," Max says. He takes my hand. "Because she needs to see it, Jax. She needs to see that I don't need the armour. She needs to see that I have you."
I squeeze his hand.
"Tomorrow," I say.
"Tomorrow," Max agrees. "Now, let’s go. I believe Alistair is hosting a 'Pre-Game' at the Plaza, and I have a feeling he’s going to try to teach the Archbishop how to do a keg stand."
Chapter 12
The Wedding
Jax
The Cathedral is not just a church today. It is a fortress of white roses, private security, and generational wealth.
I am standing in the vestibule with Max. We are hidden from the main nave by the massive oak doors. Outside, Fifth Avenue has been partially closed. Inside, the air smells of beeswax, lilies, and old money.
"Heart rate?" I ask, checking Max’s pulse.
"One hundred and ten," Max reports. He is adjusting his cufflinks—the sapphire ones he agreed to wear, not for Catherine, but for tradition. "Within acceptable parameters for a life-altering event."
"You look good," I say. And he does. In the midnight blue suit, with his hair perfectly styled and his eyes clear behind his glasses, he looks like the King of New York.
"You look... capable," Max says, smoothing my lapel. "And you are gliding."
"The shoes finally broke in," I admit. "Or my feet went numb. Either way, I can walk."
