He walks up to Catherine, who is holding the signed divorce papers like a winning lottery ticket. Frederick has been divorced for five years, and the rumor in the family was that he never remarried because he was waiting for Catherine to become available.
"So," Frederick says, a shark-like grin spreading across his face. "Finally single?"
Catherine looks at her brother-in-law. She looks at his tailored suit and the predatory glint in his eye.
"Technically," Catherine says.
"Good," Frederick says. "I’ve been waiting for Alistair to implode for decades. You have a ruthless streak, Catherine. I likeit. I have an island. Private. No extradition treaty. And excellent Wi-Fi."
He holds out an arm.
"Come with me," Frederick proposes. "We can drink scotch and judge poor people."
Catherine looks at Alistair, who is currently letting Miguel adjust his bowtie. She looks at Frederick.
"I do need a vacation," Catherine decides. "And frankly, Frederick, you were always the brother I actually wanted."
"Excellent," Frederick grins. "The jet is fueled."
Catherine takes his arm. She looks at Max and Preston.
"Boys," she says. "I am going to the island. Do not call me unless the Foundation is on fire. And even then... let it burn."
And just like that, Catherine York walks out of her son’s wedding on the arm of her brother-in-law, looking happier than I have ever seen her.
The room is still reeling. Alistair is sitting on the edge of the stage, eating cake, with Miguel doting on him.
"So," Preston says, approaching the happy couple with the wariness of someone approaching a biological weapon. "This is... Miguel."
"Hola!" Miguel beams, waving the feather fan. "You must be the sons! The Ice King and The Spare! Alistair talks about you all the time! He says you are stiff, but he loves you!"
"Charmed," Preston says dryly. He looks at Alistair. "Father. A question. The audit."
"Yes?" Alistair asks, mouth full of cake.
"The diverted funds," Preston presses. "The monthly transfers to Costa Rica. We assumed you were embezzling. Or being blackmailed."
"Oh, no!" Miguel laughs. "That was for the renovations! Weare building a sanctuary for retired parrots! It is very expensive to import organic birdseed!"
"You were funding a parrot sanctuary?" Max asks, blinking.
"And the villa!" Alistair adds. "Miguel found us a lovely spot in Papagayo. We met in St. Barths ten years ago. I was wearing Speedos. He was wearing sequins. It was kismet."
AuntMeredith stomps forward. She is holding her phone, still recording.
"This is disgusting!" Meredith shrieks. "Alistair, look at him! He is a child! He is barely thirty! He is a gold digger! He is siphoning the York fortune to buy... birdseed!"
She points a manicured finger at Miguel.
"How much is he paying you?" Meredith sneers. "You rent boy! You gigolo! You are picking the carcass of this family clean!"
Miguel stops fanning. He hands the fan to Alistair. He stands up. He is taller than Meredith. He smooths his sequined blazer.
"Excuse me,Cacatúa," Miguel says with a dazzling smile.
"What did you call me?" Meredith demands.
"It is a term of endearment," Miguel lies smoothly. "It means 'Beautiful Songbird'. But I do not need Alistair’s money."
