But then he met the Trauma guy.
I liked Jax immediately. Mostly because he parked a muddy Jeep next to the Bentley, which was a power move, but also because he looked at my parents like they were interesting anthropological specimens he might have to dissect later.
"Maxwell has not grown a spine," Mother sniffs, adjusting her pearl necklace as if it were strangling her. "He has been... influenced. By that chaotic man. Alistair, you should neverhave fired Sterling. It emboldened them. Now Maxwell thinks he runs the hospital!"
"He does run the hospital," Father says calmly, turning a page. "Or at least, the parts that matter. He’s Alistair York’s son. Dominance is genetic. It just takes the right... catalyst to activate it."
"Catalyst?" Mother shrieks. "The man eats with his hands! He called the Mayor 'Buddy' when talking to the press about the rescue!"
"The Mayor liked it," Father notes. "He’s polling badly with the working class. Being called 'Buddy' by a rugged veteran is a PR dream."
Mother lets out a sound of frustration that is remarkably undignified. It sounds like a teakettle dying.
"And the ice!" she pivots, finding a new target. "The caterer broughtcubedice, Alistair. Cubed! For a gala! We need spheres! Spheres melt slower! Do they want the scotch to be watery? Do they want us to look like peasants?"
"I’m sure the peasants are very concerned about dilution rates," I mutter.
"Out!" Mother points a manicured finger at the door. "Both of you! I have to fire the ice man and I cannot do it with this... male energy clogging up my aura."
Father chuckles. He folds his paper. "Come along, Preston. Your mother is entering the Red Zone. Best to clear the blast radius."
We retreat to the library.
The library is the only room in the house that feels real. It smells of old paper and leather. Father goes straight to the hidden bar behind the globe.
"Scotch?" he asks.
"I’m eighteen," I remind him.
"You’re a York," he counters. "We age in dog years. Besides, it’s medicinal. It prevents you from turning into your mother."
He pours me a splash. I take it. It tastes like burning wood. I love it.
Father takes a sip of his drink. He looks at the portrait of Grandfather above the mantle—a stern man who looked like he ate gravel for breakfast.
"You like him, don't you?" Father asks, settling into his armchair. "The Cowboy."
"He’s cool," I admit, hopping onto the desk. "He taught me how to pick a lock."
Father raises an eyebrow. "When? You barely spoke two words to him at dinner."
"Yesterday," I say. "I snuck into the ICU while you were busy terrorizing the Board. He was bored. He showed me how to shim a padlock using the metal clip from a medical chart. He said lock-picking is an essential life skill. You never know when you’ll need to get into a supply closet or out of a bad date."
Father laughs. It’s a loud, booming sound that shakes the dust off the first editions.
"He’s right," Father says, wiping his eyes. "And clearly, he is a bad influence. I approve."
Father swirls his scotch, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"I visited him myself as well, you know. Yesterday afternoon, after I'd finished with the Board."
"You did?"
"Maxwell was stuck in a departmental budget meeting," Father explains. "I figured the 'patient' might be bored. And the hospital food is a crime against humanity. I wouldn't feed that gelatin to a dog, let alone a future family member."
He pauses, a look of genuine unease crossing his face.
"I ran into that head nurse—Ortiz? Terrifying woman. Sheblocked the door like a bouncer at a nightclub. I tried to use the 'I own the building' line on her."
