The doors to the waiting area open.
The Extended Family has arrived.
They enter in a phalanx of expensive cologne and judgment. Leading the pack is Aunt Meredith Kensington, Catherine’s sister. Walking near her, but definitelynotwith her, is Uncle Frederick. They are not married; they are simply united by their shared tax bracket and their mutual disdain for everything that isn't a yacht.
Trailing them are their respective children: Tripp, Frederick’s son, and Sloane, Meredith’s daughter.
"Maxwell," Aunt Meredith says, offering a cheek that feels like cold marble. "The flowers are... adequate. Though I would have chosen hydrangeas. Roses are so... pedestrian."
"Hello, Aunt Meredith," Max says stiffly.
Uncle Frederick grunts, looking at me. "Still a doctor? Haven't moved into hedge funds yet?"
"Still saving lives, Frederick," I say, smiling tightly. "The market for organs is very stable."
Cousin Tripp pushes forward. He is not the slick snob his father is. He is wearing a suit that is too shiny, Google Glass spectacles (which I didn't think existed anymore), and he is vibrating with nervous energy.
"Max!" Tripp says, cornering him. "Listen, before you say 'I do', have you considered diversifying the wedding registry into the blockchain? I’m launching a new coin calledMatriMoney. It’s a decentralized ledger for dowries. The whitepaper is solid, Max. It’s going to the moon."
"I do not invest in speculative assets, Tripp," Max says, taking a step back. "Especially ones named after a pun."
"It’s the future of finance!" Tripp insists, pulling out a phone to show a graph that is clearly crashing. "Web3 is where the romance is!"
"Back off, Tripp," a cool voice cuts in.
Sloane Kensington steps forward. She is wearing a black jumpsuit that looks like it could double as tactical gear. She is typing on two phones simultaneously.
"Tripp, if you pitch him a rug-pull on his wedding day, I will have your hard drive erased remotely," Sloane says without looking up.
"You can't do that," Tripp squeaks.
"I have a contact in Tel Aviv who says otherwise," Sloane says calmly. She finally looks up at me. Her eyes are sharp, assessing. She nods. "Nice security detail, Jax. Although I noticed a blind spot near the north transept. I have a friend in the Mossad who could patch that with a satellite feed if you want."
"I think we’re good, Sloane," I say. "But thanks."
"Offer stands," she shrugs. "I like chaos. This feels like... organized chaos. I approve."
Just then, the doors open again.
Catherine York enters.
The room goes silent.
She is not wearing the "Mother of the Groom" beige. She is not wearing navy. She is wearing a floor-length, beaded gown in a shade of "Champagne" that is so pale it is legally white. It has a train. It has lace. It looks exactly like a wedding dress.
"Oh my god," Luke whispers from beside me. "She came as the bride."
Aunt Meredith lets out a sound that is half-gasp, half-delighted cackle. She steps forward, circling her sister like a shark sensing blood in the water.
"Catherine, darling," Meredith purrs, her voice dripping with venom. "Did you get confused? This is a wedding, not a renewal of your vows to narcissism. You look like a runaway bride who got lost on the way to 1985."
Catherine flushes a deep, violent crimson. She clutches her beaded clutch like a shield.
"It isbespoke, Meredith!" Catherine snaps, though her voice trembles. "The tailor in Milan?—"
"The tailor in Milan hates you," Meredith interrupts with a cruel smile. "Clearly. He sent you out looking like a meringue thatcollapsed. Really, Catherine. Wearing white to your son’s wedding? It screams 'Freudian slip'. Or just plain desperation."
"It is Champagne!" Catherine shrills.
