Love & Other Royal Scandals (Royals of Caledonia #2)

Chapter 1

Limited-Edition Royal Disaster

By ten-thirty, Sebastian Hawthorne had already smiled at fourteen people he couldn’t stand, lied to six more, and very nearly had a drink thrown on him.

His townhouse was already packed. Of course it was.

By midnight, it would be the kind of mess people pretended not to remember—and absolutely couldn’t stop talking about.

Which, in his experience, was more or less the goal.

Laughter, music, the telltale clink of champagne flutes raised in honor of things that absolutely didn’t deserve a toast—to failing startups, expired relationships, and whatever profound nonsense someone had just read on LinkedIn.

His parties were an unholy blend of excess and amnesia, designed for maximum social currency and minimum personal consequence.

But tonight? Tonight, he needed it to be spectacular. Needed it loud enough, bright enough, reckless enough to drown out the voice in his head whispering that everything—his name, his life, his past—was a lie.

The room pulsed with carefully curated chaos. The lighting was flattering, the music was trending, and the champagne was flowing like someone else was paying for it—which, naturally, Sebastian was.

Abstract art hung on the walls—so aggressively avant-garde you couldn’t tell if it was genius or if someone’s intern just hung it upside down.

The guest list? A fever dream of viral fame, family money, and clinical narcissism.

Influencers with nothing to influence, models pretending not to pose, tech entrepreneurs who insisted they were building “community” but couldn’t hold a conversation without the word “disrupt.”

In one corner, a designer friend was debuting pieces from an unreleased collection.

“Debuting” in the sense that they’d told five models to “wander around and look mysterious” in floor-length silks and jackets shaped like origami.

Naturally, people were pretending not to take pictures.

Too eager and you were gauche. Too slow and you missed your chance to prove you’d been here first.

Near the fireplace, two retired footballers were taking turns doing trick shots across the room, complete with heel flicks, volleys, even headers—aiming champagne corks at Sebastian’s crystal tumblers with alarming accuracy.

Side bets were flying, someone had started keeping score on a cocktail napkin, and there was already talk of a rematch at dawn.

And in the music room, a former boy-band darling was duetting with an indie pop queen turned Oscar nominee. It was bizarre yet oddly compelling, and almost definitely on its way to becoming a TikTok trend.

Sebastian scanned the room like a director watching his production unfold. Not bad for a seventy-two-hour distraction campaign. He’d basically thrown himself a pity party, but with beautiful people and top-shelf champagne.

Sebastian moved through it all with the kind of ease that came from years of throwing these kind of parties. Every detail calculated to say effortless. An outfit that said “I just threw this on”, which was technically true if you excluded the stylist and the dry cleaner.

Hosting was easy when you thought of it like performance art. A carefully managed illusion where he played every role: the lead, the lighting designer, and—when necessary—the man with the matches.

Theatrical? Maybe. But never tacky. He had standards after all.

He always knew which version of himself to present, depending on the conversation.

The fashion blogger near the window wanted flirty, but not too flirty—just enough to keep her posting about how “unexpectedly down-to-earth” he was.

The model draped across his sofa didn’t care what he said, as long as he kept making eye contact.

And the crypto millionaire at the bar? That poor bastard just wanted someone to pretend he belonged in the room.

Easy. Predictable. Performed with muscle memory and a half-smile. The trick wasn’t being interesting. It was being exactly what everyone needed you to be and nothing more.

“Seb!” called a vaguely familiar voice. Tousled waves, radiant smile, and a dress that practically screamed hey, I’m not like the other girls. She caught his elbow like they were old friends, which they decidedly weren’t.

“You have to tell me where you found that sculpture by the entrance. It’s absolutely insane.”

Ah, the Cheshire Cat statue. It was borderline kitsch but also set the tone for the sort of unhinged genius that Sebastian was known for, so in short, it worked. Just.

“Auction house in Vienna,” he said smoothly. “Cursed, allegedly. Which honestly only made me want it more. I mean, either it makes a great story or, if it’s actually cursed, it’s the perfect gift for my enemies.”

“So true,” she laughed—because of course she did. He offered a grin, then drifted away before she could ask follow-up questions or reveal that she thought Vienna was in Switzerland.

At the bar, the usual chaos. A beauty influencer delivering an absolutely unwanted monologue about collagen to a man who’d invested eight figures into failure, and a socialite who was visibly regretting her RSVP. Well, that wouldn’t do.

Sebastian slid between them like oil into water.

“Mia,” he said to the socialite, “this is Theo… he once spent three million on a meditation app and still hasn’t found inner peace. Theo, meet someone who might actually teach you grace.”

Laughter. Gratitude. Relief. The invisible weight lifted from the conversation like magic.

The collagen obsessed influencer then pivoted to Sebastian and said, “You know, I can’t decide if this party is effortless or just terrifyingly well-orchestrated.”

“Why not both?” he said, casually. Then, after a beat, “Though a complete disregard for reasonable spending limits also helps.”

He didn’t flirt. Instead he curated interest like a luxury brand. He was exclusive, deliberate, and always slightly out of reach.

She laughed, delighted, exactly as planned. And Sebastian felt it: that small, sharp rush that came from being precisely what someone needed. A mirror, a mirage, a brand in human form.

He was excellent at it. Had been for years.

It was, after all, what he’d been trained to be: the perfect accessory to his father’s power. Polished, pliable, and politically photogenic.

Only now, of course, he knew the truth.

That Charles Hawthorne wasn’t actually his father.

Surprise!

“Sebastian!” a voice called. “Come settle a debate!”

Oh good. A debate.

Nothing he loved more than being summoned like an extremely handsome coin toss.

He made his way over to a knot of guests clustered around a startup founder in the middle of a full-body monologue.

There were wild gestures, buzzwords flying like confetti—blockchain, AI, quantum efficiency.

At one point, Sebastian was pretty sure someone said “post-truth authentication” and meant it.

These were the kinds of conversations he could coast through with half a smile and a well-placed eyebrow. And that’s exactly what he did—on autopilot. Because his mind was already somewhere else. Somewhere colder.

Like how his best friend—no, his brother, his actual royal half-brother—would eventually have to decide what to do about the country’s surprise bastard.

Alexander had taken the news with infuriating grace.

No yelling, no drama. Just quiet steadiness and that maddening moral compass of his.

It made everything both easier and worse.

Easier because Sebastian wasn’t alone. Worse because it reminded him just how thoroughly Charles had manipulated everyone.

Sebastian had spent twenty-eight years being molded into a weapon by a man who wasn’t even biologically his father. Just a man with a plan and no conscience.

The man who had raised him for optics, for advantage, and the man who was still very much alive.

Apparently his real father was none other than King James Philip of Caledonia who had been dead for over a decade. The Golden King. Beloved by the nation. Worshipped by the press. Charismatic, radiant, and a complete enigma to his bastard son.

Sebastian would never know him. Never shake his hand. Never demand an explanation. Never scream into the silence and get an answer back.

But Charles?

Charles was still alive.

And that meant he was still within reach.

Sebastian smiled at the startup founder, who was now saying something about digital sovereignty.

“…don’t you think, Sebastian?” someone asked.

Ah. Fantastic.

He was being quizzed mid-monologue and had absolutely no idea what the monologue was about.

He smiled like he’d been paying attention. “I think anyone who claims to understand blockchain after three bottles of champagne is either lying or about to lose a lot of money.”

Laughter. Approval. He accepted it all with grace, the way one might accept an award for a play they barely remembered performing in.

“No sword fight this time?” someone called as he turned away.

He didn’t break stride. “That was a one-time event,” he said. “But if Gavin starts in on tax policy again, I might consider pistols at dawn.” More laughter. One guest raised a glass like he was proposing a toast.

And then— “Sebastian.”

That voice. Low, amused, and laced with just enough suggestion to make it feel like a secret.

He turned to find Liliana Ceretti leaning against the bar, all legs, high cheekbones, and strategically unbothered beauty. Her dress was tangerine silk. It was luxurious, effortless, and absolutely one of a kind.

“Liliana.” He smiled the smile. The one that opened doors and occasionally caused diplomatic incidents. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”

“I almost didn’t.” She stepped closer, perfume curling around her like an invitation. “But then I remembered how much fun we had at your last party.”

Ah yes. That night. All champagne and bedsheets and expertly managed detachment.

“We did, didn’t we,” he said, meaning it completely—and hating that it felt like ancient history.