I look up at the coffered ceiling, then around at the walls lined with first editions.
"It’s a nice room, sir," I say, shrugging. "But I’ve slept in palaces that had been turned into mortar pits, and I’ve slept in ditches that felt like the Ritz because nobody was shooting at me. A room is just a room. It’s hard to heat, though, I bet."
Alistair pauses. A slow, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"The heating bill is offensive," he admits. "But Catherine insists on the aesthetic."
He takes a drink, his gaze dropping to my hands.
"So," Alistair says. "Afghanistan? Maxwell mentioned you did two tours."
"Helmand Province. Forward Surgical Team."
"Messy business," Alistair muses. "I imagine doing a thoracotomy in a tent requires a specific kind of temperament. You can't rely on the monitors. You have to rely on instinct."
"Monitors lie," I say. "Blood loss doesn't. You learn to listen to the body, not the machine."
"Precisely." Alistair nods, looking pleased. "That’s the Neurosurgeon in me talking. The machine can tell you the pressure, but only your hands can tell you the texture. Maxwell... he loves his machines. He trusts them more than he trusts people."
Alistair walks over to the fireplace. He looks up at the portrait of a severe-looking ancestor.
"My son is brilliant, technically," Alistair says, his voice taking on a critical edge. "But he shakes if the temperature in the OR varies by a degree. He needs the world to be perfect to function. He’s... delicate."
I set my glass down on a coaster. The sound is sharp in the quiet room.
"With respect, sir," I say, keeping my voice level but firm. "You're wrong."
Alistair turns slowly. He raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Maxwell isn't delicate," I say. "He's precise. There's a difference. I’ve seen him stitch a beating heart while standing in a pool of blood during a mass casualty event. The room was chaos. The patient was crashing. And Maxwell didn't shake. He didn't even blink."
I step forward, meeting the older man's gaze.
"I work in the mud so he can work in the clouds, Dr. York. That doesn't make him weak. It makes him specialized. You built a hospital wing; he fills it with patients who actuallywalk out alive. He is the most lethal, effective surgeon I have ever worked with."
Alistair stares at me. For a second, I think I’ve pushed too far. I think he’s going to call security or throw the scotch in my face.
Then, he laughs.
It’s a dry, rusty sound, but there’s approval in it.
"Loyal," Alistair says, nodding. "I like that. Most people spend their time in this room trying to agree with me to get a donation. You’re the first one to tell me I’m wrong about my own son."
He walks back to the desk and tops off my drink.
"He needs that," Alistair says quietly. "He needs someone who isn't afraid of the dirt. Catherine... she polished him until he was so shiny he couldn't grip anything. It’s good to see him getting his hands dirty."
Alistair raises his glass.
"To the mud," Alistair toasts.
"To the clouds," I counter.
We clink glasses.
Alistair drains his scotch in one smooth, practiced swallow. He sets the heavy crystal down on a coaster with a decisive click, checking his Patek Philippe watch.
"We should proceed," Alistair says, though he makes no move to leave the comfort of his desk. "Catherine views punctuality as a moral baseline. To keep her waiting is to hand her the first weapon before the opening bell."
