Chapter 21 Duel Me, Maybe?
Duel Me, Maybe?
Sebastian Hawthorne’s townhouse was already buzzing.
Laughter, music, the clinking of expensive glasses—Sebastian’s parties were the kind of affairs that bordered on legend.
No one ever quite knew who had been invited, what was being celebrated, or how the night would end.
It was chaotic, indulgent, absolutely ridiculous and somehow, utterly effortless.
The room pulsed with music, glasses clinked, and laughter echoed through air thick with expensive perfume and even more expensive whiskey. Alexander, drink in hand, stood at the edge of it all, his presence noted but not central. He was always observed, but rarely did he allow himself to be seen.
Sebastian, on the other hand, had no such reservations.
Alexander turned in time to see Sebastian—relaxed, sprawled across one of the grand leather sofas—his arm draped lazily around a woman who looked both amused and entirely captivated.
She was stunning, all long limbs and effortless confidence, the kind of woman who knew exactly what she was doing when she leaned in and whispered something in Sebastian’s ear.
Whatever she said made him grin—slow and knowing—before he tilted his head toward her, his fingers idly tracing circles on her bare shoulder.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured, laughing softly.
“I prefer irresistible,” Sebastian corrected, taking a sip of his drink.
She leaned in and kissed him—just a quick press of lips, enough to make Sebastian’s grin turn downright wicked.
Alexander let out an exasperated sigh, already tired. It was always the same. Sebastian thrived on the game of it—on the thrill of seduction, the art of charming someone into a fleeting moment of worship. He was exceptionally good at it.
Sebastian caught Alexander watching and shot him a knowing look over the woman’s shoulder. Jealous? His expression seemed to say.
Alexander rolled his eyes. He wasn’t. Not even remotely.
He just felt… detached.
His entire life was a carefully orchestrated performance, and tonight was no different. Everyone here wanted something—status, influence, the temporary illusion of intimacy.
And suddenly, he needed air.
With a huff he turned and strode toward the terrace, pushing open the doors and stepping into the cool night. The music dulled behind him, the crisp evening air a welcome contrast to the suffocating warmth inside.
He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling deeply. The weight of expectation, of duty, of choices that weren’t his own—it was weighing down on him more than usual.
* * *
Emilia arrived a bit later feeling wildly out of place.
She hadn’t arrived with Alexander—obviously.
She could already imagine the headlines if they had walked in together.
No, she had come separately, slipping through the sleek doors with a carefully neutral expression, doing her best to blend into the gilded scene.
And then she saw the Cheshire Cat. A massive, grinning statue of the infamous feline sat near the entrance like some unholy gatekeeper, its wide eyes gleaming under the warm lights. Emilia stopped in her tracks.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Ah, you’ve met my doorman.”
Sebastian’s voice came from somewhere behind her, and a second later, he appeared at her side, hands in his pockets, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Emilia turned to him, narrowing her eyes. “Why do you own a monstrous Cheshire Cat statue?”
“Why does anyone own anything?” Sebastian shrugged. “It spoke to me.”
She scoffed. “What did it say? ‘Buy me, I’m hideous’?”
He grinned. “I’ll have you know, it was an auction find. One-of-a-kind. Just like me.”
Emilia gave him a long, skeptical look. “You have entirely too much money.”
Sebastian grinned. “Yes, and somehow I still remain devastatingly charming.”
She sighed. “I’m going to regret asking this, but… what else does one find in the House of Hawthorne?”
Sebastian brightened. “Ah, so you’d like a tour. Excellent decision.”
Before she could protest, he linked an arm through hers, steering her further into the party.
Sebastian’s townhouse was, unsurprisingly, huge—a sleek, ultra-modern masterpiece of steel, glass, and sharp angles, standing tall in the heart of the city.
The kind of place designed to impress, all clean lines and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows.
Abstract paintings—the kind that probably cost more than most people’s yearly salaries—adorned the walls, bold splashes of color against an otherwise minimalist palette.
Despite its architectural precision, it wasn’t soulless. Sebastian had made it his own.
The lighting was warm but not sterile, casting a golden hue that softened the space.
The furniture—expensive, yes—was inviting, arranged with an effortlessness that suggested comfort over curation.
The entire house had an air of controlled chaos, like a place where people were meant to have too much champagne, lose track of time, and wake up the next morning wondering how they’d ended up in a different wing of the house entirely.
Sebastian steered her past a grand staircase, pausing dramatically at a room filled with books and an outrageously expensive bar. “Library or liquor? Pick your poison.”
Emilia gave him a look. “Knowing you? The selection of drinks will be better than the books.”
He laughed. “True.”
She didn’t know what to get, so Sebastian just gave her a glass of his apparently famous party punch and led her through the main entertaining space, introducing her to people with the ease of someone who had never felt out of place in his life.
He knew everyone, and everyone knew him.
A mixture of aristocrats, politicians, celebrities—people who belonged to the world of old money and new influence, all intertwined in ways that would never make sense to anyone outside of it.
Emilia found herself eased into conversations with surprising grace, sipping champagne, exchanging pleasantries, and realizing—against her better judgment—that she was actually enjoying herself.
And then, someone pulled her onto the dance floor.
It was lighthearted, playful; people moved freely, laughing, spinning, letting the music dictate their steps.
Sebastian watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes alight with amusement as she danced.
“Well, well. Look at you.”
Emilia, slightly breathless, arched a brow. “What?”
“Enjoying yourself at one of my parties.”
She scoffed. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Sebastian grinned, excessively pleased with himself. “Too late.”
Before Emilia could fire back, a sultry voice interrupted, dripping with amusement.
“Sebastian, darling, if you’re done making smug observations, you owe me a dance.”
A woman—tall, dark-haired, effortlessly striking—had appeared at his side, one manicured hand trailing up his sleeve in a slow, knowing gesture. She arched a brow, expectant.
Sebastian glanced down at her hand, then back up, flashing an easy smirk. “Well, since ‘charming but insufferable’ seems to be working for me tonight, I’d hate to break the streak.”
The woman laughed, delighted, tugging him toward the dance floor. Sebastian barely resisted, turning back just long enough to shoot Emilia a parting wink before disappearing into the crowd.
Emilia let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she watched him go. Typical.
The warmth of the room suddenly felt stifling, the noise overwhelming. She needed a moment of quiet.
Without another glance toward the dance floor, she made her way through the crowd, slipping past glittering gowns and raised glasses until she found the terrace doors. A cool breeze brushed against her skin as she stepped outside, the air crisp against the remnants of champagne and laughter.
Sebastian’s townhouse boasted an incredible view of the city, sprawling out before her like a glittering sea of movement and light. The music from inside still hummed in the background, a low pulse beneath the quiet of the night.
She hadn’t planned on staying out here long—just long enough to clear her head—when she saw him. Alexander stood by the railing, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze fixed on the skyline like it might give him answers to questions he hadn’t asked yet.
For a second, she considered turning back.
But something about the loneliness that seemed to create an invisible barrier around him, even amidst a party full of people, pulled her forward.
“You really do hate these things, don’t you?” she mused, leaning against the sleek glass railing beside him.
Alexander exhaled a quiet laugh, barely turning his head. “I don’t hate them. I just fail to see the appeal of loud music and endless small talk.”
Emilia smirked. “So, in short—you hate them.”
Alexander tilted his head slightly, conceding the point.
For a moment, they just stood there, the city stretching out before them, the air between them charged in a way Emilia was trying very, very hard to ignore.
“So what do you do at all the diplomatic functions and balls that you have to go to?” Emilia asked, her voice light.
Alexander didn’t even hesitate. “Pray for death.”
Emilia laughed, caught off guard by the sheer dryness of his tone. “Charming.”
He gave her a sly smile. “It comes with the title.”
The wind whispered against the glass railing, carrying the sounds of the party—laughter, music, the distant hum of conversation—but out here, it felt like another world. For once, they weren’t buried in research, discussing history. For once, it was just them.
The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable but something else. Something unspoken, fragile, dangerous.
Emilia glanced sideways at him. “And yet, you’re still here at the party.”
Alexander finally looked at her. “So are you.”
Her fingers curled lightly around the stem of her glass. “Hey, speak for yourself. I actually don’t mind parties.”
“No?”