He sways dangerously. His skin is clammy. He looks like he’s about to explode.
"Max," I say, standing up, my surgeon brain kicking in. "He’s hypoglycemic. Look at the tremor. The diaphoresis. He’s crashing hard."
"Dad!" Max shouts, rushing toward the stage.
But Alistair keeps talking, his eyes wide and unfocused, pouring his soul out to the horrified elite of Manhattan.
"I have a life!" Alistair cries, tears mixing with the sweat. "I have colour! I have joy! And I invited him! I finally invited him!"
"Invited who?" Catherine whispers, horrified. "Helmut?"
Suddenly, the double doors at the back of the ballroom—the ones guarded by security—burst open with a bang that shakes the walls.
A man enters.
He is not a York. He is not a Kensington.
He is a glorious, chaotic explosion of colour. He is wearing a sequined blazer that makes Alistair’s cummerbund look subtle. He is wearing tight white pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. He is holding a large ostrich feather fan.
He is unmistakably, unapologetically flamboyant.
He spots Alistairon the stage.
"ALISTAIR!" the man screams, his voice carrying over the stunned silence. "DON'T WORRY, BABY! I’M COMING!"
Alistair looks up. A look of pure, delirious relief washes over his sweating face.
"Miguel!" Alistair gasps.
And then, the Chairman of the York Foundation’s eyes roll back in his head, and he collapses face-first into the tower of orchids.
"DAD!" Preston screams.
"MEDICAL EMERGENCY!" I shout, sprinting for the stage.
"Holy shit," Luke whispers. "The secret isMiguel."
The room erupts into chaos. Catherine faints dead away. Aunt Meredith is live-streaming.
And Miguel sprints toward the stage in his loafers, fanning himself frantically, ready to claim his man.
Chapter 14
Miguel
Jax
"Clear the area!" I shout, sliding across the polished floor on my knees like a rock star, but with more medical intent.
I reach Alistair. He is sprawled face-down in a bed of crushed orchids. He is clammy, pale, and shaking like a leaf.
"He’s hypoglycemic!" I yell. "I need glucose! Now!"
"Sugar!" Preston screams at a waiter. "Bring sugar! Or a soda! Or a very sweet grape!"
"Use the cake!" Luke yells, grabbing a handful of the five-tier chocolate masterpiece. He sprints over and drops a fistful of ganache into my hand.
"Sorry, Alistair," I mutter, turning him over. I smear the frosting onto his gums. "This is going to be messy."
