“It’s indeterminate fluid, Father,” I say, staying by the door. “What is this? An intervention?”
“A celebration,” Alistair corrects. He stands up and pours a second drink. “To the long con! I have to admit, I didn't think you had the stamina for it. But you committed to the bit, Preston. You really committed.”
I blink, confused. “The bit?”
Max walks behind his desk and sits down, clasping his hands. He looks… proud. But not the way he looks when I stitch a wound. He looks proud like he just watched me checkmate an opponent.
“We know why you did it, Pres,” Max says gently. “The residency. The medical degree. All of it.”
“You do?”
“Of course,” Max smiles. “It was the breakfast. Three years ago. The Hamptons. I told you that you lacked the ‘grit’ to handle the day to day business of being in medicine. And you took that personally.”
“So you went out,” Alistair interrupts, beaming, “and you got yourself the hardest, grittiest, most miserable job in the building just to prove him wrong. Spite, Preston! It is the purest York emotion. It’s how I know without a doubt you’re mine! I respect the hustle.”
I stare at them.
They think this is a prank. They think my sleepless nights, my anxiety, the lives I’ve helped save… they think it’s all just elaborate performance art to win an argument.
I open my mouth to say:No. I did it because I wanted to be useful. I did it because I wanted to feel real.
But Alistair steps forward. He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“But here is the irony, son,” Alistair says, his voice dropping to a serious rumble. “You proved your point. But you proved something else at that Gala.”
He gestures with his glass.
“You weaponized the Church and the Russian internet in under twenty minutes,” Alistair says, shaking his head in wonder. “You destroyed Harrison Vane without landing a punch. That isn't medicine, Preston. That isgovernance.”
Max nods, leaning forward.
“Father is right. I can replace a valve, Preston. I can fix a heart. But I cannot fix the endowment. I cannot bully a billionaire into compliance. You have a killer instinct for people that I simply do not possess.”
Max slides a thick expensive looking folder across the desk. It is embossed with gold.
“Vane’s resignation leaves a seat open,” Max says. “And we don't just want you there to end the joke. We want you there because you are the only one who can actually do the job.”
He taps the folder.
“Think about it, Pres. You want to help people? Fine. But look at yourself. You’re exhausted. You’re fluffing pillows. Down there, you can help one patient at a time.”
Max points to the folder.
“Up here? You can fix the clinic budget. You can securethe funding for the new wing. You can protect the staff from people like Vane. You can do more good with a signature in five minutes than you can with a stethoscope in five years.”
I look at the folder.
Triple salary. No night shifts. And—most seductive of all—being told I amgoodat something. Being told I am not just the Spare, but the Saviour.
“And the residency?” I ask.
“Resign,” Alistair says, waving his hand. “You’ve had your fun. You played doctor. You slummed it with the commoners. Now put on a suit and come help us run the empire. You were built for this, Preston.”
It sounds so easy. It sounds so logical.
And right now, standing here in dirty scrubs, feeling like an imposter who just got lucky, the validation feels like a drug.
“I… I need to think about it,” I say.
