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“Absurd. When your father and I bought the penthouse, it was barely – well. Different era, I suppose.” She waves a hand. “The point is, you shouldn’t be saving. Yorks do not save. Yorks acquire. Why else would your father and I have given you your trust fund?”

“Mother–”

“But that is not what I came to discuss.” She folds her hands. Her rings catch the light – the new ones, the ones from the Frederick settlement, which are noticeably larger than the ones from the Alistair era. “I came to discuss grandchildren.”

The word detonates. Quietly. Mama Ortiz campaigns with Tupperware and calendar invitations and sticky notes bearing fertility specialists’ names. My mother has been thinking about legacy for longer than anyone realised, and has arrived at the conclusion that legacy requires heirs, and heirs require action, and action requires her involvement.

“Mother, we’ve discussed this–”

“We have not discussed this. You have deflected this. Deflection is not discussion, Preston. Deflection is what your father does. I am not your father. I do not deflect. I address.”

Luke brings her a coffee. She takes it without looking at him, which is, in my mother’s vocabulary, acceptance. She sips.

“This is good,” she says. “The machine is adequate.”

“The machine is the best thing in this apartment,” Luke says.

“Then the machine has better judgment than your landlord.” She sets the cup down. “I want grandchildren, Preston. I want them soon. I want them healthy, and I want them raised with standards. I am prepared to fund the entire enterprise.”

“It’s not an enterprise, Mother. It’s a family.”

“All families are enterprises. Some are simply better capitalised than others.” She opens her handbag – a structured leather thing that could contain state secrets or a small weapon or both – and produces a chequebook. Not a card. A chequebook. Leather-bound, monogrammed, with Catherine York, née Kensington embossed in gold.

“I am prepared,” she says, uncapping a pen, “to pay whatever is necessary to secure a surrogate, fund the medical procedures, and establish a trust for the children’s education, healthcare, and – should they show aptitude – equestrian training.”

“Equestrian training?”

“Every York learns to ride, Preston. It builds character. Don’t you remember your lessons? I recall you used to love them!”

“Max is afraid of horses, and I hated every second of it.”

“Maxwell overcame his fear. He rides adequately now. He sits a saddle like a mathematician – stiffly, but with determination.”

The door opens. Nobody knocked.

Mama Ortiz walks in. She’s carrying a Tupperware – off-schedule, unannounced, which means she heard something through the hospital grapevine or she has a sixth sense for grandchild-adjacent conversations – and she stops when she sees Catherine. Catherine stops when she sees Rosa. The apartment, which is already too small for the people currently in it, contracts further. The air gets denser. The dog, under the cushion, whimpers.

“Ms. Ortiz,” my mother says.

“Catherine,” Rosa says.

They look at each other. They have a history that stretches back through the entirety of the wedding planning for Max and Jax.

Rosa sets the Tupperware on the counter. She looks at the chequebook. She looks at Catherine.

“You’re here about the babies,” Rosa says.

“I am here about grandchildren, yes.”

“Good.” Rosa pulls out a chair. She sits. “Me too.”

My mother and Rosa look at each other across the table. The chequebook is between them. The Tupperware is between them. Two mothers. Two methods. One objective.

“Well,” my mother says, with careful composure, like she’s just discovered an unexpected ally in enemy territory. “It seems we agree on something.”

“We agree on one thing,” Rosa corrects. She opens the Tupperware. Tostones. She pushes it to the centre of the table. “Eat. Then we talk.”

My mother looks at the tostones. She looks at Rosa. She picks one up with two fingers, examines it, and takes a small, precise bite.