"I am making a motion," Alistair announces. "Effective immediately, Dr. Sterling is relieved of his duties as Chief of Surgery due to... let's call it 'Lack of Vision.'"
"You can't do that!" Sterling screams. "I have a contract!"
"I have lawyers," Alistair counters. "And I have the checkbook that keeps the lights on in this room."
He looks around the table.
"All in favor?"
The Board members look at Alistair. They look at the headline about Jax. They look at Sterling, who is sweating through his suit.
One by one, the hands go up.
Sterling stares at them. His face turns a blotchy purple.
"This is insane," Sterling hisses. "You’re letting them take over. The inmates are running the asylum."
"The inmates are saving lives, Anthony," Alistair says coldly. "You’re just filing paperwork."
Alistair gestures to the door with his cane.
"Get out. Leave the photos. I want to frame the one in thesnow. It’s festive. I might put it on the Christmas card just to give your mother an aneurysm, Maxwell."
Sterling looks at me. He looks at the photos. He realizes he has lost everything.
He grabs his briefcase. He storms out of the room, slamming the door so hard the glass walls rattle.
Silence descends on the boardroom.
Alistair sighs. He sits back down in the head chair—Sterling’s chair.
"Finally," Alistair says. "He breathed too loudly. It was very distracting."
He looks at me.
"Well?" Alistair raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to thank me?"
I look at my father. He didn't do this for me. He didn't do it for Jax. He did it because Sterling annoyed Catherine, and Catherine annoyed him, and firing Sterling was the most efficient way to silence the noise.
"No," I say.
Alistair smiles. A real, sharp smile.
"Good," he says. "I hate gratitude. It’s messy."
He waves a hand.
"Go back to your Cowboy, Maxwell. And tell him if he breaks those ribs again, I’m cutting his funding. I didn't pay two million dollars for a broken asset."
"He’s not an asset, Father," I say softly. "He’s my partner."
Alistair pauses. He looks at me, really looks at me, for a long second.
"Yes," Alistair says, a wicked glint in his eye that tells me he’s still thinking about the mesh tank tops. "I suppose he is."
He taps his cane on the floor, shifting gears instantly.
"Pity about the boots, though. We really must get himproper footwear. Perhaps something Italian? I assume you know a guy."
