Chapter 2 #2
He was mid-story, hands gesturing theatrically, his eyes bright with something that looked like genuine amusement.
Whatever he was saying had his audience captivated—two models in cutting-edge dresses, an older man Harper recognized as an MP, and a woman with a press badge who was laughing too hard to maintain any journalistic distance.
“Who’s that?” Harper asked.
Margot followed her gaze, an amused expression spreading across her face. “Oh, that’s Sebastian Hawthorne. Viscount Edgecliffe. Son of Charles Hawthorne, Earl of Avondale and Caledonia’s most photogenic tragedy.”
Harper watched as he finished his story with a perfectly timed punchline, sending his audience into another round of laughter. Even from across the room, his charisma was palpable, like a physical force field that drew people in.
“He seems… popular,” Harper observed, aiming for professional detachment.
Margot’s lips curved into a knowing smile.
“Yes, he’s certainly made a lot of friends since he’s come on the scene.
Journalists, socialites, even that very married MP’s aide who’s currently hanging on his every word.
” She nodded toward a blonde woman in her thirties who was looking at Sebastian like he’d invented charisma.
“He’s charming, beautiful, and absolutely emotionally unavailable. ”
Harper tore her gaze away, forcing herself to appear only professionally curious. “Why ‘photogenic tragedy’?”
Margot guided them toward a quieter corner, leaning against a pillar.
“His mother died when he was eleven—people say it was suicide. Illness, officially. His father the Earl is…” She paused, searching for the right word.
“Complicated. Cold. Politically ruthless. Sebastian was shipped off to boarding schools, then university abroad. Now he’s the perfect society darling—champagne, parties, scandals just provocative enough to be interesting without being truly damaging. ”
Harper took a sip of her champagne, absorbing this information. “Sounds like a stereotype.”
“Doesn’t it just?” Margot agreed. “His father runs half the government from the shadows. For the last couple years Sebastian runs the other half from various bars and charity galas. He’s smarter than he lets on, and definitely trouble.
The society pages call him ‘devastatingly charming.’ The political pages call him ‘a convenient distraction.’”
Harper frowned. “From what?”
Margot’s smile widened. “Exactly. He charms his father’s critics, makes sure the Hawthornes are seen giving to all the right causes and provides just enough distraction that most people forget to look too closely at what his father is actually doing these days.”
Harper studied Sebastian more carefully now, professional interest mingling with the undeniable pull of attraction.
He’d moved to another group, head bent slightly to listen to someone speaking, his expression feigning attention.
But she noticed his eyes—they moved constantly, tracking conversations happening elsewhere, cataloging entrances and exits.
“So he’s just a pretty diversion?” Harper asked.
Margot shrugged, but her expression was more complex than her casual tone suggested.
“Maybe, or maybe he’s exactly what he seems—rich, privileged, and completely directionless.
Either way, he’s catnip for new reporters.
Most either want to sleep with him or be the one to actually take him and his father down.
Some managed the first, none managed the second. ”
Before Harper could process that particular revelation, Margot straightened, smoothing her dress.
“Come on. Let’s introduce you to Anne. Her PR team is desperate to get positive coverage after the data breach fiasco. She’ll talk to anyone with a press badge tonight.”
They made their way across the room, Harper listening attentively as Margot outlined the best angle for approaching the tech CEO. They were nearing the bar when a figure stepped into their path, reaching past Harper for a drink.
The movement brought him directly into her space—a subtle whiff of expensive cologne, the brush of tailored wool against her arm.
“Margot Hayes,” Sebastian Hawthorne said, voice rich with amusement. “Still pretending these events have journalistic merit?”
“Sebastian Hawthorne,” Margot countered without missing a beat. “Still pretending to be nothing but a pretty face?”
Their exchange had the comfortable rhythm of adversaries who secretly enjoyed the sparring.
Harper found herself fascinated by the shift in Margot’s demeanor—sharper now, more alert, as if Sebastian required a higher level of strategic engagement than most people.
Sebastian’s eyes moved to Harper, taking her in with a quick but comprehensive glance that somehow felt both flattering and slightly invasive. His gaze held none of the dismissal she’d faced from other elite circles—instead, there was a flash of genuine curiosity.
“And you’ve brought fresh blood,” he said, nodding toward Harper. “How terribly unfair of you.”
Margot rolled her eyes. “Sebastian, this is Harper Sinclair from The Chronicle. Harper, this is Sebastian Hawthorne, Caledonia’s most eligible cliché.”
Sebastian’s mouth curved into a smile that transformed his face from merely handsome to something more dangerous. “Charmed,” he said, extending a hand.
Harper shook it, determined not to be just another starstruck newcomer dazzled by aristocratic charm and good bone structure.
“Your father’s infrastructure bill seems to be struggling in committee,” she said, deliberately choosing substance over small talk.
“Any insights on whether the environmental amendments will survive?”
Something flickered across Sebastian’s face—surprise, followed by a more genuine interest. His
hand lingered on hers a moment longer than strictly necessary before he released it.
“Bold opening,” he said, approval warming his voice. “Most people lead with questions about my latest tabloid appearance.”
“I assumed you’d be bored of those,” Harper replied, meeting his gaze directly.
Sebastian’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Perceptive.” He glanced around the room before leaning just a touch closer, as if sharing a confidence.
“The environmental amendments are window dressing. They’ll sacrifice them to push through the development zones in clause seventeen—that’s where the real money is. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
The casual delivery of insider information caught her off guard. Before she could respond, Sebastian continued: “Well, Ms. Sinclair, welcome to the circus. Word of advice—the canapés are for show, the quotes are all pre-approved, and everyone’s lying about something.”
Harper tilted her head slightly. “Including you?”
Sebastian’s smile deepened, reaching his eyes for the first time. It transformed him from polished socialite to something warmer, more genuine. “Especially me.”
Harper felt that familiar flutter of attraction to someone she absolutely shouldn’t want—the kind of man who would make her feel brilliant and interesting right up until he reminded her she was neither.
Before she could say anything, someone across the room called his name—impatient, older, sharp-suited. The kind of man used to being obeyed.
Sebastian sighed dramatically. “Duty calls. The exhausting business of having no official purpose.” He stepped back, his gaze lingering on Harper. “I have a feeling we’ll meet again, Harper Sinclair.”
He gave Margot a mock salute and disappeared into the crowd, leaving a strange electricity in his wake.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Margot gave Harper a knowing look. “I saw that.”
“Saw what?” Harper asked.
“That spark. It happens to everyone.” Margot’s tone was gentle but warning. “Just remember, Sebastian Hawthorne is professionally charming. He makes everyone feel like they’re the most interesting person he’s ever met.”
“I’m not interested in him,” Harper said, too quickly. Even as she said it, she knew it was a lie.
“Good, because he’s definitely the type to smile to your face while he stabs you in the back.” She lowered her voice, eyes tracking Sebastian across the room.
Harper frowned. “You sound like you know from experience.”
“Let’s just say I’ve watched enough people get too close to the Hawthornes. It rarely ends well.”
Margot drained her champagne glass. “They collect weaknesses like others collect art—beautiful pieces to be leveraged at the perfect moment.” She shook her head. “Anyway. Sebastian’s a story, not a prospect. Now, let’s go earn our keep.”
Harper did her job—interviewed two executives, gathered quotes about the initiative, networked with other journalists. But her eyes kept returning to Sebastian, observing how he operated within the social ecosystem.
She noticed the careful way he positioned himself near important conversations without
appearing to listen. How people naturally opened up to him. How information seemed to flow toward him like water flowing downhill.
At one point, she overheard him sharing what seemed like a harmless anecdote about a cabinet minister: “…I mean, he wasn’t drunk exactly, just uninhibited enough to suggest privatizing the entire healthcare system over dessert. The Norwegian ambassador nearly choked on her sorbet…”
The story was delivered with perfect comedic timing, but Harper noted how it subtly undermined the minister’s credibility and policy positions while appearing to be mere gossip.
“Do they even realize what he’s doing?” she said quietly, almost to herself.
Margot followed her gaze. “That’s the danger. You’re either part of the performance or you’re writing about it. Never both.”
As the evening wound down, Harper finished interviewing a startup founder near the entrance.
When she looked up, she spotted Sebastian leaving with a small group. Their eyes met briefly across the room. He gave her a slight, knowing smile—as if they shared some private joke—before disappearing through the doors.
They collected their coats and stepped into the cool evening air as the city glittered around them, the mirrored buildings reflecting back a ribbon of lights.
“So?” Margot asked as they waited for taxis. “Verdict on your first high-society press event?”
Harper considered, turning the evening over in her mind. “It’s all performance, isn’t it? Everyone playing roles.”
Margot nodded approvingly. “Now you’re getting it.”
Harper glanced back at the venue, its glass facade glowing from within. “I wonder which role is the real Sebastian Hawthorne.”
“That, darling,” Margot said, flagging down a taxi, “is the million-pound question. And from what I hear, not even he knows the answer anymore.”
The taxi pulled up, and Margot squeezed Harper’s arm before climbing in. “Good work tonight.
You’ve got the right instincts. Just remember—in this world, charm is currency and everyone’s selling something.”
As the taxi pulled away, Harper stood alone on the pavement, the cool night air clearing her head. She’d come for a story about technology and politics. She’d left with something else entirely—the first chapter in a narrative she couldn’t yet decipher.