Chapter 1 #2
Her fingers grazed the lapel of his jacket—light, casual, practiced. “I was thinking we might find some new ways to entertain ourselves.”
And for a moment, he almost considered it. Liliana was gorgeous, clever, the sort of distraction that would keep him from thinking about things he shouldn’t be thinking about. About someone with assessing grey-blue eyes and an infuriating tendency to call him on his bullshit.
Someone who wasn’t here. Someone who probably wouldn’t approve of any of this.
“You’re gorgeous as always,” Sebastian said, his voice warm but definitive. “But I think I’m going to be terrible company tonight.”
Liliana’s smile didn’t waver, but something shifted in her eyes. She was too smart not to recognize a polite dismissal. “Shame. Though I have to say, being turned down by Sebastian Hawthorne is almost as intriguing as not being turned down.”
“Almost?”
She leaned up and kissed his cheek, light and friendly. “Yes, and when you decide to stop being mysterious and boring, you know where to find me.”
She drifted away with the same easy confidence she’d arrived with, already scanning the room for more promising prospects. Sebastian watched her go and tried not to think about why the idea of easy, uncomplicated fun suddenly felt exhausting.
Oh god. He really was turning into Charles—cynical, closed off, allergic to anything that didn’t serve a purpose.
The terrace was a retreat. Distance, air, quiet. A break from the scent of expensive perfume and even more expensive lies.
The night was crisp, the city stretched out below him—glittering, distant, and utterly indifferent. A postcard view of ambition and denial.
Twenty-eight years he’d played his part. Sebastian Hawthorne, heir to the impeccable Hawthorne name. The charming rogue with a headline-ready smile. A scandal or two to keep things interesting, but always barely tame enough to stay in bounds.
But the real joke was that he wasn’t even Charles’s to begin with. No blood tie. No birthright. Just a project. A polished little pawn carved into something useful. Now he was something else entirely.
Sebastian Hawthorne, secret prince. Bastard son of a dead monarch. Caledonia’s most inconvenient truth.
Somewhere in a locked drawer, Charles probably had drafts ready in a case of a leak.
Something statesmanlike. Dignified. A vague statement about ‘family complexities’ and ‘historical context’—his two favorite euphemisms for lies.
Because Charles didn’t just want a son. He wanted leverage against the crown.
An insurance policy that gave him freedom to act as he pleased. A weapon dressed in bespoke tailoring.
Mission accomplished.
Sebastian took a long sip of his drink, letting the burn settle in his chest.
Well, Charles wanted a weapon and now he had one, but the safety was off.
* * *
The next morning found Sebastian in the kitchen, locked in a silent standoff with the espresso machine. The thing pulsed like a dying star.
Great, no coffee.
He poured himself a lukewarm cup from the backup pot like a man defeated in battle. No crema. No joy. Just bitterness and betrayal in a porcelain cup.
Sleep had been a joke lately. Not just because of last night’s festivities-slash-identity crisis. No, this had been a slow-motion breakdown. One late-night Google search at a time.
Searches like: “Bastard royal scandals Europe”, “Vintage champagne sabres” (Apparently a 3 a.m. drunk purchase that would now be coming back to haunt him on Tuesday.), “What to do when your life is a lie”, “Can you sue a dead king for emotional damage?”
That one had turned up some very creative Reddit threads. And then there was the documentary.
The Life and Legacy of King James Philip.
Archival footage. Soft-focus interviews. Voiceover like a lullaby for the tragically abandoned. And then, there he was.
His real father. The king. Shaking hands. Flashing that infuriatingly photogenic smile. Looking every inch the man history had decided to forgive in advance.
A national treasure. A symbol of sacrifice. A walking PR campaign.
Sebastian had wanted to throw something at the screen. Not because it was wrong, but because it wasn’t.
James Philip had been exactly what they said. Charismatic. Magnetic. Unstoppable.
And apparently, he’d also been the kind of man who could father a child and then carry on with life as usual.
Except, apparently James had wanted to tell him. Had written letters. Asked to meet. But Maddy, his mother, had said no.
She was scared, she’d told him. Scared of what Charles might do. Scared it would ruin them both. Scared he couldn’t handle it.
And maybe she was right. Maybe back then, he couldn’t have.
But now? Now he couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d never get to ask.
But what hit hardest wasn’t the omission. It was the echo. A gesture. A half-laugh. A turn of the head that felt painfully familiar.
Sebastian had seen it before. In the mirror.
He took a long sip of the coffee. It was awful. Burnt, acidic, defiant but he drank it anyway, hoping one bitterness might cancel out the other. Sadly, it didn’t.
His phone buzzed.
Sinclair: If you leak one more quote to the press without running it by me, I will stab you. With a spork. And make sure it’s on camera.
Ah. Warmth and affection from Harper Sinclair. Must be Monday. He smiled despite himself.
Harper was a political journalist, general overachiever, and his part-time nemesis. Ironically, she was also his only co-conspirator in the long con to ruin Charles’s life.
She’d mostly accepted his apology for killing one of her stories years ago. Well. Enough to use him for her own purposes. The rest was usually still simmering beneath her glare like a barely-suppressed war crime.
He texted back.
Sebastian: How else am I supposed to speak truth to power if not through anonymous tips and light treason?
Sinclair: Meet me. Usual place. And try arriving without your usual drama.
He downed the dregs of his sad coffee, the mug was still warm against his palms but offered no comfort. He grimaced, tossed on a coat, and headed out. His shoulders hunched against the drizzle as he walked towards the cafe.
She was already there, of course. He spotted her through the café’s rain-slicked window. Typing like the keyboard owed her money.
Harper Sinclair, in her natural habitat: surrounded by chaos, fueled by caffeine, terrifying men twice her size with a single look. Empty coffee cups, paper carnage, and a croissant she’d definitely forgotten existed.
The café buzzed with the sounds of milk being frothed, spoons clinking, ordinary lives unfolding. Sebastian envied them, wondered what it would be like to have normal problems. Harper looked up as he approached.
Oh good. She was already making stabby eyes at him. He slid into the seat across from her and tried to look casual. “You look smug.”
“I am smug.” She didn’t look up, but her mouth curled in that way that made him suspicious of both her joy and his safety.
“I just traced another two shell companies tied to the Hawthorne Foundation.” She glanced up.
“You, on the other hand, are late. Let me guess, you got distracted by your own reflection in a shop window?”
Sebastian was still genuinely surprised by how much Harper seemed to hate him. Personally, he preferred mutual contempt with a side of unresolved tension.
“No, actually. I was busy with this,” Sebastian replied. He pulled out his phone and tapped on an analytics dashboard. Notifications lit up like a Christmas tree. “I was tracking which journalists got which version of the Foundation leaks.”
Her fingers froze. He could practically hear the gears in her brain shifting into kill mode. “What do you mean?”
Sebastian leaned forward, suddenly all business. “Look, there are three outlets,” he said. “All received the same documents. Slightly altered versions. He’s watching to see what leaks back. It’s a canary trap. Classic Charles.”
She leaned in, just enough for him to catch her scent. Clean, cold, efficient.
“And?”
His voice took on a harder edge. “And I’m feeding him exactly what he wants,” he said. “While digging up the story he really doesn’t want told.”
“You’re playing him,” she said, voice quiet.
Harper leaned back, studying him in that way that always made him feel like a particularly slippery puzzle piece she hadn’t quite placed yet.
“What’s the endgame, then? Leaks, counter-leaks? That’s fine, but what’s the story you’re digging for?”
He hesitated. Just a beat. Not because he didn’t know, but because saying it out loud made it real. “Money laundering. Influence peddling. Bribes in the form of art donations. The Foundation’s a front.”
Harper froze for a moment, considering the implications. “That’s not just corruption,” she said quietly. “That’s enough to take down half the Cabinet.”
“Exactly,” he replied.
She exhaled, folded her arms. “I mean, I knew it was bad but you need to be careful, Sebastian. If you go too far—”
“Please.” His tone turned glacial. “I’m just playing the game he taught me. And I’m better at it than he thinks.”
The silence between them tightened. Harper didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Sebastian rarely showed this side of himself, the one Charles built. The one he kept hidden under charm and banter. Her stare didn’t flinch. He hated how much that mattered.
“Relax, Sinclair,” he said, reverting back to his usual practiced indifference. “I’m still on your side.”
“I know,” she said dryly. “You just sound like you’re auditioning for a Bond villain.”
“Really? A Bond villain. I was going for more of a morally grey antihero.” Sebastian leaned back, his arms folded, carefully watching to see what she’d do next.
She snapped her laptop shut like it had insulted her ancestors. Heads turned. Harper had the good grace to at least look apologetic.
And just like that, they were back to their regularly scheduled mutual loathing.
He pressed a hand to his chest. “You don’t trust me?”
“Sebastian,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes. “I trust you about as far as I can throw you. Which isn’t far, given that you’re six-foot something and carry the dead weight of aristocratic entitlement.”
He laughed and he was surprised when he realized it was genuine. “Come on, admit it,” he said, chin in hand. “You’d miss me if I vanished.”
“Not really. I’d get more work done. And sleep better.” Her response was too fast. Too dry. Like even she didn’t fully buy it.
“But who would you threaten with sporks and righteous indignation?” Sebastian asked as he leaned back in his chair.
“I’m sure I could find someone,” she replied.
“You know,” he said, elbow on the table now, watching her closely, “I think this is your version of flirting.”
“This?” She gestured vaguely between them. “This is tolerating your existence out of civic responsibility.”
“Technically, you’re the one who invited me,” Sebastian pointed out. “I was just sitting at home, being scandalous in peace.”
“You don’t do anything in peace,” Harper replied, rising from her chair and collecting her bag. “You stir the pot, light the match, and then act surprised when something catches fire.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
She stood, meeting his gaze evenly. She was tall, taller than most women he knew, almost eye-level with him in those boots, but that never seemed to bother either of them.
If anything, he liked it. She met his gaze.
That’s what he liked. She never backed down, never let him get away with his usual nonsense.
For a second, he thought she might offer something, an apology, a truth, a warning. Instead, she just studied him. Cool, unreadable.
“Try not to burn anything down before our next meeting,” she said, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.
“No promises,” Sebastian replied, voice soft.
She walked out with the kind of unbothered elegance people tried to bottle. Tossed a lazy wave over her shoulder.
Was she still smiling?
He sat in the glow of her exit, the city melting in the rain behind her.
Harper Sinclair had seen both sides of him the polish and the poison, and hadn’t flinched.
That should have felt like safety.
Instead, it was like standing on the edge of a rooftop, wind in his chest, waiting to see if she’d jump too.
* * *
It had been a long day.
Which was impressive, considering it had only started at eleven am.
Sebastian sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the photograph on his nightstand.
Him and Madeline. His mother. Her arm slung around his shoulders, mid-laugh, eyes shining like she knew a joke the rest of the world had missed.
He was seven in that photo. Gap-toothed, sun-kissed, and blissfully unaware of what was to come.
Back when he still thought Charles might love him. Back when being a Hawthorne had seemed like something worth wanting.
Technically, he’d been an orphan since age eleven.
Emotionally? That bomb hadn’t gone off until years later, delayed grief with a side of shattered identity and elegant repression.
His phone buzzed.
Jér?me: You know the truth now. Come to Paris. There are things you should have had long ago.
Jér?me Rousseau. His mother’s brother. The cool uncle with impeccable style and a casual disregard for rules. The one who used to sneak him chocolates and French curse words when Madeline wasn’t looking.
The one Charles had cut out of their lives without ceremony. Without reason.
Until now, Sebastian hadn’t realized how much that loss had mattered.
He stared at the message.
“Things you should have had.”
Letters? Photos? A posthumous guilt bouquet from the dead king himself? Sorry I left everyone else to deal with my poor life decisions, best wishes, your secret dad.
Whatever it was, it was time.
He couldn’t keep circling the drain. Couldn’t keep haunting his own townhouse, waiting for dead men to speak.
He grabbed a bag. Nothing dramatic, just essentials, chargers, the vague hope that someone in Paris would offer answers instead of more questions.
He stepped into the night.
Paris in the spring. Romantic, overpriced, and perfect for unpacking generational trauma over pastries.