But intelligence is useless without real-time data.
I pick up my phone. I hesitate. Contacting the inside man is risky, but necessary.
To: Preston (The Spare)
Requesting immediate situational report. What is the current threat level at the Estate?
Code Red. Repeat: Code Red. Mother just fired the florist because she felt the poinsettias looked "aggressive." She is currently stress-eating caviar in the kitchen and threatening to sue the weather for snowing.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
I am bringing a guest. A strategic asset. Is she in a state to receive visitors?
She’s wearing the Battle Pearls, Max. She’s not looking for visitors; she’s looking for victims. Also, Father has retreated to the wine cellar. He claims he is "inventorying the Merlot," but I’m 90% sure he’s down there watching TikToks on his iPad.
Do not let her intimidate you. Maintain your position.
Too late. I told her I’m considering dropping out of prep school to become a DJ named "Trust Fund Baby." She hasn't spoken to me in four hours. It’s bliss. Good luck with your human shield. You're going to need it.
I lock the phone.
Battle Pearls. Aggressive poinsettias.
I look at the binder on my desk. I look at the section titledConflict Resolution Strategies.
I pick up a red pen. I cross outDiplomacy. I writeSurvival.
I grab my coat. I need a drink before I meet Jax. Or perhaps a priest.
I'm currently sitting in a booth atThe Rusty Anchor, a dive bar that smells of stale beer and regret, holding a three-ring binder.
"You brought a binder," Jax observes.
He is sitting across from me, nursing a beer. He looks entirely at home here. The dim lighting suits him. The scratching of pool cues in the background is his soundtrack.
I, on the other hand, am wearing a cashmere scarf and trying not to touch the sticky table surface.
"This," I say, tapping the binder, "is the Dossier. If you are going to survive dinner with my parents, you need intel."
Jax laughs. He reaches for the binder. "Intel. Okay, 007. Let’s see what you’ve got."
He flips it open.
"Tab One: Catherine York," he reads. "Likes: Gin martinis (dry), silence, the operaTosca. Dislikes: Tardiness, polyester, laughter." He looks up. "Laughter? She dislikes joy?"
"She considers it 'frivolous,'" I explain. "If you must laugh, do so quietly. A chuckle is acceptable. A guffaw is fatal."
"Noted," Jax says, flipping the page. "Tab Two: Alistair York. Likes: Scotch (single malt), war history, tax evasion."
"Taxoptimization," I correct. "Do not use the word evasion. He considers himself a patriot who simply disagrees with the IRS."
"Got it. Patriot. Tab Three: Forbidden Conversation Topics. 'The price of gasoline,' 'Denim as a fabric,' 'People who own ferrets,' and... 'Joy'?"
"My mother finds public displays of happiness suspicious. She believes if you are smiling, you are either simple-minded or plotting a hostile takeover."
"And 'Acceptable Topics' is just... 'Orchids' and 'The decline of the Gold Standard'?"
"Stick to the orchids, Jax. The Gold Standard debate usually ends with my father throwing a brandy snifter."
