She gestures vaguely to a terrified personal assistant standing by the gate desk. The bride stares at Mother for one second longer, then grabs her hoop earrings back from Tina.
"Okay, you’re not a bitch," the bride decides, nodding respectfully. "You’re a boss. I respect that. Call me if you need anyone beat up."
She snaps her fingers at her squad. "Move it, girls! We’re goin' to the Ritz!"
They sprint toward the assistant like a herd of glittery gazelles.
"Incredible," Preston murmurs, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and scribbling furiously. "She weaponized generosity to silence dissent. She literallyboughttheir outrage. The efficiency is..." He pauses. His pen stops moving. "...I was about to sayerotic, and I need everyone to understand that I am aware of exactly how that sounds, and I am choosing to blame Freud entirely."
"It’s terrifying," Luke says flatly, standing beside Preston with his arms crossed. He doesn't look scared; he looks tired. "It’s high-functioning sociopathy with an unlimited budget."
Mother turns back to us, ignoring the entire interaction as if it never happened. Her eyes scan our disheveled appearance—Jax’s blood-stained designer jeans, my unbuttoned collar, the sheer exhaustion radiating off us like heat waves.
"You look terrible," she observes. "Heroism is messy.”
"We are not doing it, Catherine," Jax says. His voice is low, dangerous. It’s the voice he uses when he has to tell a family that their loved one isn't coming back. "We are not doing Notre Dame. We are not doing the horses. And if you try to put me on a boat, I will vomit on your shoes. That is a promise, not a threat. I get seasick in a bathtub."
"I second the motion," I add, stepping up beside him to present a united front. "The logistical complexity of a European wedding is functionally impossible given our surgical rotation. If you want this merger to happen, it happens on domestic soil. Or it doesn't happen. We will go to City Hall in jeans before we get on another plane."
Mother stares at us. For a long, terrifying moment, the silence stretches. I calculate the odds of her buying the airport just to spite us.
"Fine," she says finally.
I blink. The data does not compute. "Fine?"
"Domestic," she concedes, waving a hand. "The French are difficult anyway. Emmanuel refused to let me install a temporary helipad on the Seine. It was very short-sighted of him. And the Vatican was being incredibly petty about the playlist."
"So... we’re doing City Hall?" Jax asks, hope blooming in his chest.
Mother laughs. It is a cold, tinkling sound.
"Don't be absurd, Jackson. We are compromising. You want local? We will do local. But it will beYorklocal."
She pulls a slim, leather-bound notebook from her purse.
"I have arranged a perimeter check for three potential venues within the five boroughs," she announces. "We start tomorrow at 0800 hours. If you agree to the tours, I will unlock the fuel reserves for the ambulance fleet, which I also briefly acquired during your flight."
"You bought the ambulances?" Luke asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Mother of God. Do you know how much paperwork that’s going to generate? I have to sign off on the fleet manifests as part of my admin duties.”
"She operates in a gray area between 'legal' and 'so rich laws are merely suggestions'," Preston explains to Luke, patting his arm.
"I needed leverage," Mother says with a shrug. "Do we have a deal?"
I look at Jax. He looks exhausted. He looks like he wants to fight, but he also looks like he knows that fighting Mother is like fighting a hurricane with a tennis racket.
"Venue tours," Jax says, rubbing his face. "In the city. No passports. No horses."
"No horses," Mother agrees. "I have pivoted to structural grandeur."
"She didn't pivot," Preston whispers to me. "She just changed the cage. Be careful, Maxwell. The rat is still in the maze."
"Fine," I say aloud. "We will tour the venues. But I retain vetopower on any location that lacks ADA compliant exits or has a decibel rating over eighty."
"See?" Mother smiles, and it is the smile of a predator who has just successfully herded its prey. "I knew you’d see reason. The car is waiting. Preston, your Porsche has already been returned to the Penthouse. Go home. Shower. You smell like heroism and gin."
She turns on her heel and glides away toward the exit, the sea of travelers parting before her as if she is Moses in a pantsuit.
Jax watches her go. He leans his head on my shoulder.
