"Miguel..." Alistair moans, his eyes fluttering. He licks his lips. "Chocolate? Is that you, Miguel?"
"It’s Jax," I say, checking his pulse. "Stay with me, Alistair. Eat the frosting."
Miguel drops to his knees beside me. Up close, he smells likecoconut oil and expensive rum. He is young—barely thirty—and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.
"Don't die,Papi!" Miguel cries, fanning Alistair with the ostrich feathers. "We have tickets to Ibiza! I bought the speedo!"
"I’m... okay," Alistair wheezes, the sugar hitting his bloodstream. He blinks, his colour returning from 'corpse gray' to 'mildly flushed'. He struggles to a sitting position, chocolate smeared across his cheek.
The room is silent. The band has stopped playing. Three hundred guests are holding their breath.
Catherine York is standing ten feet away. She has recovered from her faint, helped up by Aunt Meredith, who is still livestreaming. Catherine looks at her husband. She looks at Miguel. She looks at the chocolate on Alistair’s face.
"Alistair," Catherine says. Her voice is calm. Terrifyingly calm.
Alistair looks at her. He takes a deep breath, grabbing Miguel’s hand for support.
"Catherine," Alistair says, his voice steady now. "I meant what I said. Before the crash. I don't love you. I respect you. I fear you. But I don't love you."
He looks at Miguel, and his face softens into something gooey and adorable.
"I love the chaos," Alistair admits. "I love the colour. I want to live in Costa Rica and wear linen pants that are entirely too tight. I want a divorce, Catherine. I want to be free."
Max and Preston step forward, flanking their mother like bodyguards.
"Father," Max says. “This is a conversation for a lawyer, not a ballroom."
"No," Catherine interrupts.
She reaches into her beaded clutch.
"I have been carrying this," Catherine announces, "since 2006."
She pulls out a folded document. It is thick. It is legal. It is yellowed slightly at the edges.
"What is that?" Preston asks, squinting.
"A Separation Agreement," Catherine says, unfolding it. "Equitable distribution. Fifty-fifty split of all assets, including the Hamptons estate, the art collection, and the pure-bred greyhounds. I had legal draw it up twenty years ago. I’ve carried it to every gala, every board meeting, and every family dinner, waiting for the moment you finally grew a spine."
She pulls a Montblanc pen from her purse and clicks it.
"I have been just as miserable as you, Alistair," Catherine says, her voice trembling slightly. "I was tired of the gray too. I just didn't have a Miguel. Sign it."
She slams the paper down on the edge of the stage.
Alistair stares at it. He stares at her.
"You... you prepared?" Alistair gasps.
"I am a York," Catherine says. "I am always prepared. Sign the paper, Alistair. Give me my life back."
Alistair scrambles up. He grabs the pen. He signs the document with a flourish that nearly tears the paper.
"Done!" Alistair shouts, throwing the pen into the crowd. "I’m free! Miguel! I’m free!"
"Oh,Papi!" Miguel squeals, jumping into Alistair’s arms. Alistair catches him, spins him around, and kisses him passionately.
Suddenly, Uncle Frederick steps out of the crowd.
