Chapter 7 #2
With trembling fingers, he unfolded her letter, scanning the words that revealed a story he’d never known.
My dearest Sebastian, If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t have the chance to tell you myself.
There’s so much I wanted to say to you in person, but you were too young.
I don’t know how much you’ve been told. Maybe too much.
Maybe not nearly enough. But you deserve to hear it from me, not from rumors or headlines or whatever story Hawthorne sold you over brandy and cynicism.
So. Let’s begin at the beginning. There was a boy once.
No, not a boy, a prince. Though when I met him, I didn’t know that.
He was just James, the idiot in my philosophy seminar with the tragic band T-shirts and the world’s most royal posture.
I told him he looked like a roadie for a band that broke up before he was born.
He asked me out anyway. Naturally, I said no.
Then yes. Then no again. He wore me down with charisma, wit, and the absolute confidence of someone who’d never heard the word “no” and didn’t plan to start.
It started as a joke. A dare to skip class.
Arguments and study groups that turned into something else entirely.
The kind of flirtation that shouldn’t survive a term, let alone a year.
But it did. Because for all his shine, for all the golden-prince, heir-to-something energy, he was human with me.
Brilliant, kind, occasionally infuriating, and he made me laugh.
But then he had to go; his father was dying and the crown was calling.
Suddenly, the boy who made me mixtapes and argued with me was about to be the King of Caledonia. So naturally that meant that I was a problem. A very French, very opinionated problem.
He told me he loved me. That he didn’t want to lose me. But he couldn’t walk away from the throne. I told him I understood but darling, I did not understand.
Sebastian let out a low breath. Of course this was his origin story. Mixtapes, tragic band tees, and emotionally catastrophic decisions. He didn’t stand a chance.
He turned the page.
Years passed. I moved to Paris, threw myself into work.
Convinced myself I’d been stupid, and young, and dramatic.
You’ll find this hard to believe, but I even considered dating an accountant.
Then, I ran into James again. He was older.
Tired. Married. He looked like someone who had everything except the one thing he actually wanted.
And apparently, so did I we talked but it was innocent.
The second time wasn’t innocent. It was Paris and it was raining, of course it was raining and I invited him back to my apartment.
We saw each other off and on after that.
And then, there was you. The only thing I’ve never once regretted.
Sebastian had to stop. His eyes blurred. His mother’s handwriting was elegant and confident, like her. But this wasn’t just a letter. It was her, bottled and poured onto a page— bold, stubborn, vulnerable underneath it all.
I didn’t tell him I was pregnant. I couldn’t.
He had a wife. A country. A world built on rules I was never meant to belong to.
So I made the most strategic mistake of my life.
I married someone else, Charles. He was wealthy, connected, and terrifyingly practical.
No one would question your parentage if you were his.
At first, he was charming. In the way snakes are charming to mice.
I thought I could control him. I thought I could protect you.
But you were never his to love. Only to use.
And me? I was a trophy with inconvenient opinions.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every sharp edge you had to walk because of him.
For every time he tried to carve you into something useful instead of letting you just be.
I thought I was shielding you. But I see now that silence wounds just as much as exposure.
That’s why I left this with Jér?me. Because I knew one day, you’d go looking.
Not for me, but for yourself. And you deserve to find something real.
There’s more here. I have all my old letters, photos, the ridiculous mixtape your father made when he was just James, just a boy who thought love could be louder than duty.
I don’t expect forgiveness. But I hope. I hope you remember that you were born of something real.
Messy. Flawed. Fierce. But real. And that I loved you more than you will ever know. Always, Maman
Sebastian folded the letter slowly, then pressed it to his forehead.
He didn’t cry.
But something inside him cracked, it was quiet and clean, like ice giving way underfoot.
When he finally returned to the living room, Jér?me was still awake, lounging with a cigarette, eyes on the firelight reflecting against the windowpane.
“She was brilliant. Unapologetically so,” Jér?me said, lighting a cigarette with a snap of his old silver lighter. “And messy, in all the best ways. She could talk you into believing anything, and then make you argue against yourself just for the fun of it.”
Sebastian smiled faintly. He could picture it too easily.
Jér?me exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Could’ve taken a safer route and married young, smiled pretty. That’s what our parents wanted. Instead she went off to university, and that’s where she met James. And Charles.”
He said the second name with a sneer.
Sebastian sat down across from him and leaned forward. “You knew them back then?”
Jér?me nodded, grim. “James was magnetic. Could charm the wings off an angel when he wanted. And he wanted her. From the first moment.”
“She loved James,” Jér?me said. “Loved him like an idiot. And he loved her, too, in the only way he knew how—carelessly, selfishly.”
“Then he left her,” Sebastian said, voice low.
Jér?me shook his head. “They tried. James didn’t have the political capital to survive a scandal, and he knew it.
If he had made your mother official, if he’d tried to marry her, it would have been complicated to say the least. He wasn’t willing to give up the throne for her.
You don’t have to forgive him. I’m still not sure that I have.
But you should at least try to understand him.
He’s part of you, whether you like it or not. ”
“What about Charles?”
Jér?me’s mouth twisted. “Charles was smart, charming, in a curated sort of way.”
He flicked ash into the tray, something harder in his voice now.
“I think she liked the game of it at first. All the debate, the power plays. She was never afraid of a little fire. But Charles didn’t just want to win.
He wanted obedience. And when she stopped giving him that, he made her life hell. ”
Sebastian stayed silent. The weight of it all was still pressing on him.
Jér?me leaned forward. “If you’re planning to burn it all down, Charles, the lies, the legacy, do it on your own terms. Do it for you. You’re no one’s pawn anymore.”
Sebastian stared down at the letter again, her words like a pulse in his hands.
“And if I do?” he asked. “If I burn it all?”
Jér?me smiled, it was sharp and proud and utterly Rousseau.
“Then burn it beautifully. It’s what she would’ve wanted.”
Sebastian folded the letter carefully, tucked it into his jacket pocket like armor.
* * *
Morning came slow and gray, Paris wrapped in drizzle and soft light.
Sebastian stood in the kitchen, espresso warm in his hands, the sleek machine humming quietly behind him.
The box Jér?me had given him still sat on the marble counter.
He looked inside and saw a scarf folded neatly, some rolls of film tucked beside a stack of letters. He’d have to develop those later.
Jér?me entered, barefoot but perfectly composed, dressed in a cashmere robe. He raised an eyebrow at the box, then at Sebastian.
“So.” A pause. “You’re going back already.”
Sebastian nodded. “Yes. If I’m going to take it apart, I have to be there to do it.”
Jér?me moved toward the espresso machine, tapped the panel with the ease of someone who’d never once tolerated instant coffee. “Good. It’s about time someone stood up to Charles.”
Sebastian finished his espresso, set the cup in the sink, and picked up his bag. He looked over at his uncle and gave a faint smile. “Thank you. For all of it.”
Jér?me nodded once, sharp and quiet. “Of course. Now, go make Charles miserable.”
Sebastian paused at the door and smiled. “That was always the plan.”
And then he was gone.