“I’m going to get a place in New York,” Max said. “A pied-á-terre.” He glanced at his father, who was sipping a digestif of kirsch. He didn’t react at all to the news, surprisingly.

“That’s a good idea,” his mother said absently as she picked at her torte—Max and Seb had decided Max should wait until dessert to make his big pronouncement, even though that meant Father would be deep in his cups. “What is that? An hour or two to New Haven?”

New Haven, Connecticut. Where Yale was.

Where Lavinia was.

Amusingly, his parents had bought their act at Marie’s wedding, which meant Max was in their good graces in a way he hadn’t been for years. Perhaps ever.

He could have jetted off to New York and they’d have been none the wiser. For now. But that would require pretending that everything was the same, that his confrontation with his mother the night of the wedding hadn’t meant anything. And everything his brother had said about not hiding, about freedom and happiness, was still rattling around inside him.

It was truth time. He huffed a quick, fortifying sigh. “There’s nothing between Lavinia and me. We were merely pretending to be enamored of each other so we could enjoy ourselves at the wedding free from your oversight. I’m getting a place in New York to be closer to Daniela Martinez.” If she’ll have me. But one thing at a time. And he was moving regardless.

“I forbid it,” Father said tersely.

All right, then. Max hadn’t really thought he would get away with simply stating his intention. Part of him didn’t want to. Time for a paternal reckoning. He turned to Mother. “Did you manage to get Father out of the wedding without my help—and without embarrassing the family name?”

“Max!” his mother exclaimed while his father rumbled with anger.

Ignoring her, he turned to his father. “I know how much you care about how everyone in this family behaves. The ironic part is that you’re the embarrassment. And I’m not just talking about your drunken scenes. You are a monster. You’ve spent my entire life hurting me. You’ve spent our entire lives”—he gestured to Seb—“Hurting us.”

“You will never see another cent from me, boy.” Father spoke quietly, which was a bit surprising, but his eyes were bulging and his face was red.

“I assumed. I’ve been helping Sebastien with a mining reclamation project. It’s an immersive museum of sorts, and the design firm we’ve employed has offices in New York. I’m going to do some consulting work for them.” He left unspoken the implication: I don’t need your money.