Chapter 2
Repeat After Me: I Do Not Miss the Rogue Viscount
Harper Sinclair had simple rules when it came to men: Never trust anyone with a family crest, Don’t date anyone with a tabloid nickname, If he lies like it’s a love language, run.
Unfortunately, her latest source, Sebastian Hawthorne broke all three rules entirely. He was an actual aristocrat, Viscount Edgecliffe officially. He was also a public menace, probable Narcissus reincarnate and only occasionally reliable.
Not that she trusted him. Obviously.
She was just strategically tolerating him. You know, for journalism, for justice, for the takedown of Lord Charles Hawthorne, who made most corrupt politicians look like underachievers.
She sipped her tea, scrolled through encrypted messages, and reminded herself that she had once been shortlisted for a media prize. Now she was managing a rogue viscount with espionage fantasies and a flair for drama.
Life comes at you fast.
He was gone, off to Paris. Off to reconnect with his mysterious French uncle and whatever emotional wreckage he had inherited along with his royal paternity.
Harper had told herself she was glad.
No more sabotage-by-text. No more watching him flirt with information like it was a sport. No more half-smiles and deflections when she tried to get a straight answer out of him.
She’d be able to focus.
Sebastian: Going to Paris. Try not to die of boredom while I’m gone.
Smug bastard.
She could practically hear the smirk through the screen. He was probably wearing some ridiculous coat and dramatic scarf, leaning against a taxi like he was auditioning for a noir film titled The Viscount’s Escape.
Her reply had been perfectly appropriate.
Sinclair: Good. Fewer headlines to bury. Tell your uncle thanks for the trauma dump in advance.
Punchy. Professional. Borderline affectionate, if you squinted.
She hated how long she’d hesitated before hitting send.
Not because she was worried, though she was. Sebastian had that infuriating habit of throwing himself into danger with the same enthusiasm other people reserved for happy hour.
No. She hesitated because he was right, she would miss him if he disappeared.
Harper was used to people leaving. That was fine, expected. She’d built walls around the idea of permanence and called it self-awareness.
Men didn’t exactly line up to date women who were 5’10”, always had an opinion, and wielded sarcasm like a second language. In school, they’d called her Harpy, a name that stuck around longer than any ex ever had. Most of the men she’d dated wanted her to be quieter, softer, shorter.
More girlfriend, less gladiator.
She didn’t know how to be any of those things. Didn’t want to. But she’d learned to treat romance like national politics, with skepticism, contingencies, and no illusions about loyalty.
And yet, Sebastian. Okay, yes, she found him attractive. So what? That didn’t mean anything.
No, what bothered her more was the way she was starting to like him. She liked arguing with Sebastian. Liked that he always kept up with her. He was a good listener and easy to get along with if you let your guard down, and that was what made him dangerous.
She shoved her phone under a stack of documents like it had personally betrayed her.
This was not who she was.
Harper Sinclair didn’t pine.
She didn’t yearn.
She didn’t sit alone in a hoodie from university, typing and deleting “you good?” like a character in a bad breakup montage.
Harper cracked her neck, opened her laptop, and began typing with the kind of focused rage that powered most of her best work.
The article was shaping up nicely. It was elegant, scathing, a quietly damning indictment of the Hawthorne Foundation’s so-called charitable endeavors.
She’d traced some of the donation patterns, shell corporations, and board appointments that all pointed to one thing.
The Hawthorne Foundation was political leverage disguised as philanthropy.
What she hadn’t added yet were the parts that only Sebastian could decipher, Charles Hawthorne’s full influence network, Swiss accounts and other nearly untraceable companies.
Because, if she was being honest, she didn’t want to be the one to force him to talk about all the ways in which he’d been used, betrayed. Not after she’d seen him, just once, late at night, standing outside her building, vulnerable, like he wasn’t sure whether to knock or disappear.
She hadn’t invited him in. But part of her had wanted to.
And the other part of her still hated that she had.
She stared at her draft. Read the last line. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it again.
She needed more. More evidence. More context. More courage, maybe.
And she needed him to come back in one piece.
Harper rubbed her eyes. The glow of her laptop was the only light in her flat, casting long shadows across her desk. It was past midnight, and she was still thinking about Sebastian Hawthorne.
Had she learned nothing in five years?
Five years.
It felt impossible that it had been that long since she first saw him across a glittering room, surrounded by power players and pretending not to enjoy the attention. Holding court like he was born to it.
Which, of course, he was.
She leaned back in her chair and let the memory surface. It was uninvited and unwelcome, but stubbornly vivid nonetheless.
* * *
Five Years Earlier
Harper Sinclair smoothed down her blazer for the fourth time in as many minutes, trying to ignore the traitorous hammering of her heart.
The price tag had induced actual nausea when she’d purchased it, but standing in the gleaming atrium of the Lumière Gallery, surrounded by people whose watches cost more than her education, she was grateful for the armor.
The Caledonian Tech Initiative launch was her first serious assignment since joining The Chronicle three months ago.
Until now, she’d been relegated to community interest pieces and the occasional lifestyle supplement.
This was different. Cabinet ministers mingled with tech executives beneath installation art that looked like exploded chandeliers.
Waiters glided between conversations carrying trays of champagne flutes and canapés arranged to resemble abstract sculptures.
Harper clutched her press credentials in one hand, voice recorder in the other, knuckles white with determination. I belong here. I belong here. I absolutely, definitely belong here.
“First time?”
The voice came from behind her, amused but not unkind. Harper turned to find a woman in her mid-thirties regarding her with wry understanding. She wore a perfectly tailored dress in deep burgundy, her dark hair cut in a sharp bob that accentuated clever eyes.
“Is it that obvious?” Harper asked, wincing.
“Only to another woman who started exactly where you are.” The woman plucked two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed one to Harper. “Margot Hayes. Political correspondent, The Times.”
Harper recognized the name immediately. Everyone in journalism knew Margot Hayes, the reporter who’d broken the Defense Minister scandal last year and whose political analysis was required reading throughout Caledonia.
“Harper Sinclair,” she managed. “The Chronicle.”
“I know,” Margot said, surprising her. “Read your piece on the housing development protest in Southwark. Good work; you got the community voices right without the usual poverty tourism.”
Margot Hayes knew who she was?
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
Margot clinked her glass against Harper’s.
“The first rule of these things is look like you belong, even when you’re screaming internally.
” She took a slow sip of her champagne, surveying the room with practiced ease.
“Come on, I’ll give you the unofficial tour.
The canapés are mediocre, but the gossip is top-shelf. ”
Harper fell into step beside her, grateful for the guidance.
As they circulated, Margot provided a running commentary that wouldn’t have been out of place in a wildlife documentary.
“That’s Finance Minister Hartford by the bar, avoiding questions about the budget amendment.
Keeps checking his watch because his mistress is already waiting for him.
” Next she pointed to a serious looking woman across the room, “That’s Anne Liu, CEO of NexTech.
Rebranding after that privacy scandal last quarter.
Notice how she’s wearing sensible heels now instead of Louboutins.
It’s all part of a carefully crafted ‘serious tech leader’ image. ”
“That cluster by the sculpture? Political journalists from The Observer. They’re just here for the free champagne.”
Harper absorbed it all, mentally taking notes. In journalism school, they’d taught research methods and interview techniques. No one had mentioned this—the intricate social ecosystem where the real power circulated beneath pleasantries and performative handshakes.
She was about to ask Margot about approaching one of the tech executives when a burst of laughter drew her attention to the opposite side of the room.
A small crowd had gathered around someone she couldn’t quite see, their body language radiating that particular energy that surrounds the genuinely charismatic.
The crowd shifted, and suddenly she caught a glimpse of him.
He was tall, with the kind of face that ancient sculptors would have appreciated, handsome but with just enough mischief in his expression to make it interesting.
His suit was impeccably tailored, dark blue against a crisp white shirt, but he wore it with a deliberate carelessness—tie ever-so-slightly loosened, sleeves pushed up just enough to suggest he found the formal attire constraining.
His golden brown hair fell in artful waves that looked effortless but probably required expert styling.