It's lunchtime on the yacht by nature.

Champagne problems are flowing.

The Mediterranean sparkles as we prepared to dock in Santa Pei.

And Jenny Milton is discovering that no matter how many oysters you're served,

there is no demure way to swallow a secret twin.

So, your 60th birthday wish list was oysters, foie gras, and detonating your daughter's core identity during the cheese course?

Trey subtle, papa.

I wanted to tell you.

I just didn't want to upset you. So instead, you took the succession approach, Logan Roying me with a casual surprise air over lunch on a friggin' yacht.

What was the plan, Daddy? Did you think I'd be too sun drunk to process this?

To be fair, I offered to write an email, but Harry thought this would feel more celebratory.

What a charming little bombshell to sprinkle over lunch. Most men wait until their

funeral to admit they had a spare child. Excuse me. I need to freshen up before we dock and change

into my lubutons. I would like to be comfortable in my soakates while rage shopping. Happy birthday, Harry, you old bastard.

You're about to be single-handedly responsible for a massive economic boom in the Cote d'UZER.

Hello! One crisis at a time, father!

I think springing a secret sibling, nay, springing a secret twin on me,

trumps whatever beating your amics is about to endure.

Okay, you're feeling some type of way, as Margo puts it, and I know where it comes from.

I don't know if you recall. You were only 12 when your mother passed.

What do you mean if I recall?

I got my first period the day my mom died. I couldn't forget that day if I tried.

...