I stare at her. "How are you still there?"
"Nobody told us to leave," Donna says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. "The lady — the one in the pantsuit — she said the reservation was open-ended. So we stayed. We figured she'd call." She pauses. "She didn't call."
"She had a wedding to organise," Max says.
"Fair," Donna decides. She looks around the ballroom — the orchids, the chandeliers, the jazz quartet. She nods slowly, deeply impressed. "Okay. This is nicer than the Thunder from Down Under venue." She pulls out a chair at the nearest table and sits down with the confidence of someone who has never once doubted her right to be in a room. She puts her feet on the chair in front of her. "We're staying for dinner. You got a beef option? Tina can't do shellfish."
"I'll flag a waiter," Luke says immediately, already half-standing.
"Luke," Preston says.
"She deserves a beef option, Preston."
Preston considers this for exactly one second. He flags the waiter himself.
"Incredible," Preston murmurs, watching Donna cheerfully commandeer a bread basket from the neighbouring table. "She turned a flight diversion into a four-week luxury holiday and a wedding invitation. Mother tried to buy her silence and accidentally funded her entire autumn."
"To be fair," I say, "Catherine didn't set a checkout date."
"Of course she didn't," Preston says. "End dates imply abudget. Yorks have never had a budget. They have consequences they discover later."
He raises his glass toward Donna, who raises one of her Dom Pérignon bottles back without missing a beat.
"I like her," Preston says. "She's the only person at this wedding who got exactly what she wanted."
The speeches begin.
Preston York takes the microphone first.
He stands at the podium, looking immaculate in his tuxedo. He is twenty-four, thirteen years younger than Max, and he wears his role as the "Spare" like a suit of armour made of silk and sarcasm. He adjusts the mic stand with a manicured hand, waiting for absolute silence. He gets it.
"Good evening," Preston says. His voice is cool, dry, and sharp as a scalpel. "For those of you who are currently betting on how long this marriage will last, the over/under is 'Forever,' so you might as well cash out now."
Laughter ripples through the room.
"I have spent my entire life observing the phenomenon that is Maxwell York," Preston continues. "When I was ten, Max went to medical school. I honestly thought he was a cyborg sent from the future to organize our pantry and depress the curve for everyone else. He was efficient. He was brilliant. He was... monochromatic."
Preston pauses, sipping his champagne.
"I assumed he would eventually marry a calculator. Or perhaps a very organized spreadsheet."
He looks at me.
"And then came Jax. The Trauma Cowboy. A man whose idea of a good time is triaging a pile-up on the I-95. On the surface, this merger makes zero sense. Max is structure; Jax is abull in a china shop who then performs emergency surgery on the china."
Preston smirks.
"But I have watched Jax do the impossible. He didn't just fit into Max’s world; he broke the algorithm. He taught the cyborg how to feel. And frankly, watching my brother actuallysmile—not the PR smile, but the real one—is the most terrifying and wonderful thing I’ve ever seen."
Preston raises his glass.
"To Max: You’re welcome for the endless moral support and parental interference runs I have provided over the years. And to Jax: Good luck. You married a York. The therapy bills are in the mail. Don’t forget you chose this.”
Max raises his glass, his eyes shining. "I love you too, you brat."
Preston sits down to thunderous applause.
Luke Silva grabs the mic next.
