Max looks at his mother. He nods, a slow, respectful acknowledgment of the truce.
Catherine sits down. She looks relieved. She looks like she finally let go of the steering wheel.
And then, Alistair York takes the stage.
He bounds up to the podium. He is beaming. He is sweating slightly, his face flushed, but his energy is electric—almost vibrating. He adjusts his neon magenta pocket square, grabs the microphone stand like he’s Freddie Mercury, and spreads his arms wide.
"HELLO, NEW YORK!" Alistair booms. "What a night! What a crowd! Look at this! The Yorks, the Kensingtons, the terrified waiters! It’s a cabaret!"
He laughs, a little too loudly, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with a silk napkin.
"I look at my boys," Alistair says, swaying on his feet. "My two sons. My pride. My joy. My legacy! I remember when Max was born. He didn't cry. He just looked at me with those big eyes, like he was already judging my tie collection. And he was right! It was the 90s! The ties were wide, and the choices were poor!"
Laughter ripples through the room, mostly from the younger cousins.
"And Preston," Alistair points a shaking finger. "My sharp, dangerous Preston. You kept us stylish. You kept us lethal."
He takes a deep breath. He looks... shaky. His skin is turning a strange shade of gray, but his eyes are bright, manic pinpricks.
"I am so proud," Alistair says, his words starting to run together like melting wax. "I am so happy to see Max marry for love. Because love... love is the chaos! Love is the flavor! Love is the spice!"
He leans into the microphone, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that blasts through the speakers.
"I remember love," Alistair giggles. "I remember being young. Europe. The 80s. The synthesizers. The leather."
"Oh god," Preston whispers. "Here we go."
"I remember Helmut," Alistair announces dreamily, staring at a chandelier. "The Spicy Helmut! Best ski instructor in Gstaad. Terrible sense of direction, but my god, the man could plow! He had thighs like tree trunks and a heart like a fondue pot! Melty! Delicious!"
The room goes dead silent. Aunt Meredith starts recording.
"And Hans!" Alistair shouts, oblivious to the shockwaves he is sending through the York dynasty. "Hans in Berlin! The architect! He designed bridges, but he built a wall around my heart! We danced to techno for three days straight! I wore mesh! I looked fantastic in mesh!"
"Father," Max stands up, alarmed. "Dad, sit down."
"I can't sit down, Max!" Alistair roars, sweating profusely now. "I’m dancing! I’m dancing with Fritz in Vienna! The baker! Oh, the strudel wasn't the only thing that was warm in that bakery, let me tell you! The yeast was rising!"
"Jesus Christ," Luke whispers.
"And Felix!" Alistair sighs, leaning heavily on the podium as his knees buckle slightly. "Rio. Carnival. The feathers. The glitter. Felix taught me how to move my hips. Catherine never liked how I moved my hips. She said it was 'unbecoming of a Chairman'. But Felix? Felix said it was...caliente."
He stops. He looks at Catherine.
The smile slides off his face. The jovial, manic mask dissolves into something raw and terrified.
He stares at her. She is frozen, her hand over hermouth.
"Catherine," Alistair says. His voice is flat. "That was a nice speech. Very... beige. Very... calibrated."
"Alistair?" she whispers.
"I can't do the beige anymore, Cathy," Alistair whispers. The microphone picks it up. "I can't do the gray cakes. I can't do the navy suits. I want the mesh. I want the strudel."
He grips the podium. He is shaking violently now.
"Alistair!" Frederick shouts from the back. "Sit down! You’re drunk!"
"I’m not drunk!" Alistair roars, though he stumbles, clutching the mic stand for support as the room spins. "I am awake! Finally! I have a secret, Catherine! A big, beautiful, ten-year secret!"
