"Ready," I say.
We walk down the aisle, past the white dress, past the expectations, past the trauma, and out toward the massive oak doors.
"To the Plaza?" Max asks as the sunlight hits us.
"To the Plaza," I agree. "I think Luke left a pretzel there."
We step out into the city, married, calibrated, and ready for whatever chaos comes next.
Chapter 13
Alistair's Secret Revealed
Jax
If the Cathedral was a fortress, The Plaza is a palace of excess.
The chandeliers are dripping with crystal. The centrepieces are towering structures of white orchids that probably cost more than the annual budget of the hospital's sterile supply department. The band is playing a jazz standard that is smooth, expensive, and perfectly calibrated to the ambient noise level of three hundred wealthy New Yorkers eating lobster thermidor.
And in the centre of it all stands The Cake.
It is not the gray, Earl Grey-infused monstrosity Catherine wanted. It is a five-tier, chocolate ganache masterpiece. It is dark, rich, and unapologetically decadent.
"It is structurally sound," Max observes, holding the silver knife. "The density of the ganache provides a stable foundation for the upper tiers."
"Just cut the cake, Ice King," I whisper, my hand over his.
We slice into it. The chocolate gives way. We feed each other. It's messy. I get a smear of frosting on Max's nose. He doesn't wipe it off. He licks it off my thumb, right there in front of the Senators, the Board, and AuntMeredith.
The crowd cheers.
"Victory tastes like cocoa," Max murmurs against my ear.
We take our seats at the head table. The room is buzzing with that specific, high-frequency energy of a wedding that has gone surprisingly right.
The band transitions into something warmer. The lobster thermidor is making its rounds. Preston is refilling his champagne with the quiet efficiency of a man who has earned it. Luke is already talking to someone's grandmother, his tie loose, his smile at full wattage.
And then the ballroom doors open.
Not with the grandeur of a late guest. With the cheerful, unself-conscious violence of someone who has never once waited to be invited anywhere.
A woman in leopard print strides in. She is wearing a plastic tiara that saysBride Squad— still crooked, now additionally secured with what appears to be a Plaza Hotel hair grip. A Ritz-Carlton key card is dangling from her wrist like a charm bracelet. She has a bottle of Dom Pérignon in each hand and is flanked by three women in varying states of sequin. One of them is still holding a neck pillow.
Preston turns slowly in his chair. He looks at the leopard print. He looks at the Ritz key card. He looks at the tiara.
Recognition crosses his face like a sunrise.
"Oh," Preston says softly, with the reverence of a naturalist watching a rare species return to its habitat. "It's the bachelorette party."
Luke follows his eyeline. "The what?"
"From the airport," Preston says, setting down his champagne. "Mother diverted their flight to Vegas. They were on their way to seeThunder From Down Under. Mother bought them the Ritz instead to neutralise the situation." He pauses, watching Donna scan the ballroom with the focused intensity of a woman who knows exactly how to find a free bar. "Apparently that wasn't the end ofit."
Donna spots me across the room. She points. She grins.
"HEY! IT'S THE DOCTOR!" She weaves through the tables with zero regard for the centrepieces. "We're still at the Ritz! Nobody ever checked us out! It's been four weeks! Housekeeping just keeps coming! Tina learned to use the bidet!"
"I have changed as a person," Tina confirms from the doorway.
