Chapter 9 Come for the Scandal, Stay for the Trauma
Come for the Scandal, Stay for the Trauma
Harper stood outside Sebastian’s townhouse, already judging it.
From the street, it looked like a trust fund’s final form—sleek glass, matte-black framing, and dramatic architecture that practically shouted I host underground poker nights and own art you wouldn’t understand. The kind of place that made her feel underdressed even when she wasn’t.
She rang the bell. The door opened with a swiftness that suggested he’d been anticipating her arrival.
Sebastian leaned in the doorway, a study in calculated dishevelment. No tie, just a dark dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Barefoot, naturally, like he’d just stumbled to the door and landed in an editorial spread.
“Sinclair,” he said with a note of surprise in his voice. “You’re late. I had you pegged as more punctual.”
“And I had you pegged for someone with staff to answer doors,” she shot back, ignoring how good he looked undone. “But here we are, defying expectations.”
“Here we are indeed.” He stepped aside with a mock-gallant sweep. “Come in. Let’s see what family scandals we can uncover tonight.”
“This is a one-time thing,” Harper said as she stepped past him. “I can’t be seen coming and going from your house. We need better meeting spots.”
“Noted,” he said simply.
Harper stopped abruptly just inside the entryway, her attention captured by the monstrosity before her.
“Oh my God,” she muttered.
Just inside the entrance, looming like some deranged sentry, stood an oversized Cheshire Cat statue. Grinning. Gleaming. Judging. Possibly cursed.
She turned to him, brows raised. “Seriously?”
“He’s a conversation starter,” Sebastian replied, entirely too pleased with himself.
“Or a conversation-ender.” She gestured at the statue’s manic grin. “It looks like it’s plotting my demise.”
He chuckled. “Only if you’re boring. He has high standards.”
Sebastian led her from the foyer into the lounge.
The interior was aggressively curated with floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist furniture, abstract art that looked vaguely expensive.
And yet, tucked into the corners, books tumbling off shelves, a jacket slung over a Barcelona chair, an empty espresso cup abandoned like a clue in a mystery novel.
“You really live like this?” she asked, turning in a slow circle.
“Like what? In a house?” He raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Like you’re five minutes away from an Architectural Digest photo shoot at all times.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Some people have motivational posters and beanbag chairs. I have contemporary art and surprisingly comfortable Bauhaus furniture.”
She dropped into one of the angular chairs. It was sleek, low and definitely expensive. To her annoyance, it was also absurdly comfortable.
“It’s just very… you,” she muttered.
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment of the highest order.”
“Of course you are.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of a cork popping a moment later. When he returned, he handed her a glass of red wine that smelled far too good for a casual Tuesday conspiracy session.
She accepted it without comment. She wasn’t here to compliment his taste in wine.
They settled in across from each other. Her on the chair, legs tucked under; him on the couch, sprawled like he paid rent in charm alone and opened the files.
For the next two hours, they worked.
Sarah’s data was a labyrinth of spreadsheets, transaction logs, scanned internal memos from the Hawthorne Foundation.
Harper, at first laser-focused and all business, found herself increasingly reliant on Sebastian’s insights.
He noticed patterns she missed, caught discrepancies in phrasing, and translated the more opaque language of aristocratic backroom dealing with a fluency born of unfortunate proximity.
She hated how helpful he was.
Not that she’d admit it. Especially not now, when he was leaning forward, brow furrowed, shirt slightly rumpled, wine untouched on the side table.
“See this?” he said, tapping a highlighted transaction. “It’s the third time that consulting firm shows up under a different shell name.”
She leaned over to look, their shoulders almost touching.
“God,” she muttered. “It’s like financial Russian nesting dolls.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You say that like it’s not impressive.”
“It’s disgusting,” she shot back. “But yes. Also, unfortunately, very clever.”
Their eyes met, briefly. Too long.
Harper pulled back, refocusing on the screen.
“Let’s keep going,” she said. “I want something solid before this turns into another dead lead.”
Sebastian leaned in, his arm brushing hers as he peered at the screen. The scent of something subtle, expensive, unmistakably him, curled closer.
“Right. Yes.” His voice dropped, low and focused. He pointed to a line on the screen.
“Charles used this one for ‘consulting fees’ to certain influential friends in Parliament. Cross-reference the payment dates with key committee votes, you’ll see it.
” He tapped another entry. “And this one. It’s newer.
I suspect he’s been channeling funds there for more speculative offshore ventures, the kind that wouldn’t look great on the Foundation’s official books. ”
Harper exhaled, rubbing her temples. Her bun, valiantly hanging on since noon, finally gave up.
A few strands slipping loose like even her hair was done with this day.
With a frustrated sigh, she pulled out the pins and let her hair fall past her shoulders in a loose, golden wave.
She shook it out once, then started to gather it back up.
When she glanced up, Sebastian was staring.
Something unguarded, almost surprised flickered across his face before he caught himself.
“What?” she asked, hands stilled mid-motion.
He shrugged. “Nothing. I just realized I’ve only ever seen your hair up.”
A pause. Then, with that same infuriating, offhand directness, “You should wear it down more often.”
Heat rose to her cheeks before she could stop it. She looked away, fingers resuming their work. The new bun wasn’t as tight, not as severe. Not that she was going to analyze that.
“I like to keep it up. It’s more practical for work,” she said briskly.
“Right. Of course.” But his eyes lingered for a beat too long before he forced them back to the screen.
They fell into silence again, but it was no longer the easy, productive rhythm of before. Something had shifted, softened around the edges.
Still, Sebastian pressed on. His mind worked quickly and Harper had t admit that he was sharp, sometimes scarily so. He made the tangle of Charles Hawthorne’s crimes feel almost legible.
Almost.
And Harper, despite herself, was starting to see him differently.
Harper rubbed her eyes and muttered, “This is giving me a headache.”
“Yeah, it’s relentless,” Sebastian said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stay there.”
Before she could ask why, he vanished into the kitchen. She heard the faint sound of a cabinet opening, then the clink of glass.
He returned a moment later with a glass of water in one hand and a small plate of shortbread on the other. “Basic field triage,” he said, setting both on the coffee table. “Hydration and sugar.”
She blinked at him.
“The biscuits are stolen from Alexander’s stash, so they’re technically royal contraband. Use wisely.”
Harper took the glass of water. “Okay, I didn’t have ‘Viscount of Scandal plays charming host’ on my bingo card tonight.”
“I’m just full of surprises.” He flopped back onto the couch, tossing a cushion behind his head. “Besides, we could both use a break before we go cross-eyed staring at spreadsheets.”
She eyed the shortbread, then him. “What is this, your idea of seduction?”
Sebastian smirked. “Please. If I were seducing you, you’d know it.”
Harper raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. Instead, she took a bite of the shortbread and made a small sound of approval. “Okay, that’s annoyingly good.”
“Told you. Alexander might be a monarch, but the man has excellent taste in biscuits.”
Harper leaned back, the wine glass cool against her palm. “I’m going to check the news, see what fresh hell the world’s serving up today.”
“Feel free,” Sebastian stretching his legs out. “Though fair warning, it’s probably all depressing.”
Harper pulled up her usual news aggregator, scrolling through headlines. “Oh look, another politician caught with his hand in the cookie jar… climate change update that’ll make us all want to move to Mars, and—” She paused, smirking. “Celebrity gossip. Always a reliable palate cleanser.”
“Don’t tell me you actually read that drivel,” Sebastian said, though there was amusement in his voice.
“Research,” Harper said primly. “I need to know what passes for journalism these days.” She clicked on an entertainment site. “Besides, sometimes the gossip columns are more honest than the political coverage.”
She scrolled through photos of various celebrities looking either radiant or terrible, depending on the angle and lighting. Sebastian got up and moved closer to peer over her shoulder. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne again.
“Oh, this is rich,” Harper said, pointing to a headline. “‘Beauty Influencer Chloe Porter Spotted Getting Cozy with a Certain Viscount—Could This Be Love?’” Below it was a grainy paparazzi photo of a man who might have been Sebastian if you squinted and had terrible eyesight.
Sebastian burst out laughing, a genuine, delighted sound. “That’s not even me.”
“Wait, so you don’t even know her?” Harper asked a little too pleased.
Sebastian’s sly smile suggested he’d caught that hint of relief.
“I know of her. We were at the same charity auction. But according to the tabloids, this week alone I’ve supposedly dated a pop star, a Danish architect, and a pro tennis player.
” He leaned back with mock exhaustion. “I’m apparently very busy. ”
“Yes, that’s ambitious even for you,” she replied drily.
“What can I say, I’m an overachiever.”
Harper laughed, then turned to look at him. “So, do you always read your own press?”
“Better to know what rumors are going around about me,” he said with a shrug. “Information is power, right? Even when it’s completely fabricated.”
“How much of it is actually true?”
“Maybe ten percent. Twenty on a good day.” His expression grew more serious. “The real scandals never make print. They’re either too boring or too complicated. But let them have a slow week and suddenly I’m either breaking hearts or hiding from society, depending on their mood.”
Harper continued scrolling, shaking her head at increasingly ridiculous headlines. “I guess it must be weird. Being a public figure. Having your life dissected by strangers.”
Sebastian shrugged. “I’m barely a C-list celebrity. For me it’s mostly entertainment.” His expression softened slightly. “Alexander gets the real circus. The man can’t sneeze without them diagnosing a constitutional crisis.”
Sebastian looked over at Harper. “How about you? If they decided to report on Harper Sinclair, what would they say?”
“Anyone reporting on me would die of boredom. ‘Local journalist orders same coffee every day, owns excessive number of cardigans,’ thrilling stuff.” She paused, then added with a wry smile, “Though these days I suppose we’d share a headline: ‘Journalist’s Secret Meetings With Scandalous Viscount’ or something equally ridiculous. ”
Her expression grew more thoughtful. “I suppose that’s one advantage of being a nobody most of the time. No one usually cares what you do.”
“You’re not a nobody, Harper.”
Something in his tone made her look up from the screen. The usual amusement was gone, replaced by something quieter, more serious.
She snorted, trying to deflect. “Right. Just your friendly neighborhood journalist, risking her career for the uncomfortable truth no one wants to talk about.”
The words hung there, heavier than she intended. Not bitter, just true. She regretted the crack in her armor, but didn’t take it back.
Sebastian didn’t flinch. “Exactly,” he said. “You’re a pain in the ass. Stubborn. Pushy. But you keep showing up.” He held her gaze. “Even when the people you’re going after could crush you for trying.”
That stopped her. Just for a second.
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “It’s kind of admirable. In a masochistic way.”
She let out a soft laugh, trying to defuse the tension. “Wow. I’ll treasure that backhanded compliment forever.”
But her smile lingered a beat too long.
So did his gaze.
The silence that settled between them wasn’t awkward. It was something else. Something charged.
Harper felt the pull, sharp and undeniable, and for a second, she almost let herself fall into it. Instead, she stood. Slowly. Carefully. “I should probably go,” she said, but it came out softer than she intended, less sure.
Sebastian rose too, his expression unreadable now. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “We can call it a night.”
Not because the work was finished, because they both knew if she stayed, they were about to make a different kind of mess.
Harper began gathering her things, fingers moving quickly, too quickly. A tell, if he’d been watching.
He walked her to the door in silence. The earlier banter was gone, replaced by something more careful. Something that felt like a decision waiting to be made.
“Thank you for your help, Sebastian,” she said, aiming for neutral. Her voice mostly made it. Her eyes didn’t.
“Anytime, Sinclair.” His fingers brushed hers as he reached for the door handle and maybe it was an accident. Maybe not, but either way, it landed like a spark. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Sebastian,” she replied.
Their eyes held for one more heartbeat before she stepped out into the cool evening.
The door closed with a soft click, but not before she noticed the Cheshire Cat’s grin catching the streetlight, as if daring her to admit she’d felt something.
She shook her head, muttering, “Not a chance.” The night air was sharp, grounding, pulling her back to the weight of the files in her bag.
This was a problem. A big, complicated, Sebastian-shaped problem. The kind of distraction she couldn’t afford. Not now. Not with Sarah’s files in her bag and Charles Hawthorne’s secrets still unraveling.
By the time she reached her car, she was shaking her head—like motion alone could clear him from her mind.
She had to stay focused.