Chapter 19 In Which The Villains Schedule a Scandal
In Which The Villains Schedule a Scandal
The private dining room of the Caledonian Royalist Club was a museum of influence: all mahogany panels and oil paintings of long-dead men who’d smiled politely while carving up the country.
A discreet hum of conversation drifted from the main floor, but here—behind closed doors—things were quieter. Sharper.
Lord Charles Hawthorne sat at the head of the long table, fingers wrapped around a glass of thirty-year-old scotch that he had, so far, declined to drink. He didn’t like to cloud his thinking during strategy sessions. And tonight’s session was not about drinks. It was about precision.
Across from him sat Gerald Slate, media mogul and lifelong dealer of scandal, and Alaric Wynn, a political strategist who could dismantle a career in three bullet points or less.
“The boy is clean,” Hawthorne said, voice calm, almost amused. “That’s the problem.”
Gerald shrugged, exasperated. “It’s hard to manufacture scandal when he’s monogamous, articulate, and photogenic. Have you seen the engagement photos? He looks like he stepped out of a Disney monarchy. His approval ratings are—”
“Obscene,” Alaric supplied dryly. “Seventy-two percent favorability overall. Even my mother likes him.”
“Approval,” Hawthorne said, setting his glass down without sipping, “is a currency. And like all currencies, it can be devalued.”
He opened a leather folder and pulled out a neatly organized manila envelope. He slid it across the table with the same gravity one might use for a detonator.
“Inside,” he said, “is a timeline of his university years. Friends who partied with him abroad. Some minor accounting irregularities. Nothing criminal. But if presented with the right narrative…”
Gerald opened the folder and skimmed. “So he once took a tequila shot in Portugal and someone forgot to itemize the expense?”
“Don’t be so literal Gerald.” Hawthorne retorted. “We just have to find a compelling narrative. He’s such an insufferable idealist, we just need to make it look like empty rhetoric.”
Alaric frowned. “You’re not going for corruption, then?”
“No. That’s too blunt. Too easy to disprove.
” Hawthorne’s voice was steady, measured.
“We imply hypocrisy. Paint him as the modern, reforming king who preaches transparency and public accountability—while quietly using taxpayer money to fund luxury appearances. Jet setting on the public’s dime while the average family shops clearance racks. ”
“It’s a stretch,” Gerald said, though he didn’t sound opposed. “But it’ll feel true to the right people.”
Hawthorne allowed himself the barest smile. “That’s all we need. We don’t have to tear him down. Just muddy the water enough that every press release sounds like spin.”
“And the engagement buzz?” Alaric asked. “It’s fresh. Everyone’s still swooning.”
“Precisely,” Hawthorne said. “We strike now, after the photos. When the glow is brightest, even the faintest smudge shows.”
Gerald tapped the folder. “How do you want to leak it?”
“The Gilded Mirror,” Alaric said, already making a note on his phone. “They want credibility. Give them this as a concerned insider tip, and they’ll run it like it’s civic duty.”
“Include a quote,” Hawthorne added. “Something measured. Thoughtful. Concerned. Make it sound like a palace staffer who’s starting to ask questions.”
“And once it’s out?” Gerald asked. “You want us to follow up?”
“No.” Hawthorne stood, adjusting his cufflinks with precise, deliberate care. “Let them chew on it. Let the blogs chase their tails. Let every news anchor ask, ‘Does it matter?’ and every citizen wonder, ‘What else don’t we know?’”
He turned toward the curtained window, watching the city lights shimmer below like a galaxy misplaced.
“He wants to modernize. To drag the monarchy into the present. But the present is fickle. The public loves a king until he blinks wrong.”
He glanced back at them.
“I don’t need to destroy him. Just remind the country that kings are not saints.”
A long pause. The fire crackled behind him, warm and indifferent.
Gerald closed the folder with a quiet snap. “When do we start?”
“As soon as possible,” Hawthorne said. “Once we’ve decided on a story we just need a soft release. Quiet tip. The best time would be mid-week when everyone’s looking for a new story.”
He picked up his whiskey at last, raised it slightly toward the room like a toast—then drank.
“Let’s see how clean the king stays,” he said, “when the court starts bleeding ink.”