Chapter 16 The Part He was Born to Play
The Part He was Born to Play
Charles Hawthorne’s study was all mahogany and menace—leather-bound books untouched for decades and hunting trophies from animals that deserved better endings. Hawthorne sat behind an antique desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed documents with meticulous care.
Sebastian stood before him, maintaining careful balance—back straight enough to avoid outright disrespect, but leaning slightly against a bookshelf with practiced nonchalance he knew would irritate his so-called father.
“The palace communications strategy is being entirely overhauled,” Sebastian reported.
“And the wedding plans?”
“Moving forward. Official announcement next month, security protocols being finalized.” Sebastian drifted to the window, seeking momentary escape in Hawthorne’s pristine gardens.
“And what of that reporter that’s always nosing around—Sinclair, isn’t it? Still playing dress-up with royalty, or has she finally been contained?”
Sebastian’s casual stance faltered imperceptibly. “Didn’t you hear? She’s been reassigned to the business desk. Ethics committee flagged her—too close to the future Queen, not enough distance for a political reporter.”
He let the implication hang in the air.
Charles looked up at last, a thin smile curling like smoke. “Ethics issues. How adorably provincial.”
He chuckled—low and papery. “So now she’s chasing quarterly earnings instead of scandals? Pity. I rather liked her bite.”
“Indeed,” Sebastian replied, his expression carefully neutral.
“And the girl? Emilia?” Hawthorne’s voice sharpened. “Any weaknesses? Cracks in that self-righteous facade?”
Sebastian turned back, a flicker of hesitation slipping through. “None. She’s competent. Handles the press brilliantly, charming without seeming fake.”
“Alexander? How is our new king adjusting to the crown?”
“He’s… principled. Determined to do things his way. The cabinet ministers find him frustratingly ethical.”
Charles snorted. “He’ll learn. Power corrupts.”
“Or amplifies what’s underneath.” Sebastian’s gaze drifted back to the window.
Charles set his pen down with deliberate precision. “A theory you’ll never test, fortunately. Power requires legitimacy.”
The words hit their mark. Sebastian’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes.
“And your… friend? That American tech upstart Klein. More money than breeding.”
Sebastian kept his voice level. “Ethan’s just visiting. Needed a change after his personal drama.”
“Birds of a feather.” His tone could have etched glass. “Two tabloid darlings without substance.”
“I don’t know—he’s sold his company for over a billion. That’s substantial to most people.” The defense came a shade too quickly.
“Is that how you measure worth? How thoroughly common. Though when one lacks heritage or legitimate connection, I suppose money becomes the only available metric.”
Sebastian’s smile disappeared. “We all cling to what we have,” he said quietly.
Charles’s gaze narrowed. “Your little strops are growing tiresome, Sebastian.”
There was a pause—brief, but weighted.
Sebastian exhaled softly, dialing back whatever had slipped through. “You’re right, of course. I’m just tired. It’s been… a long few weeks.”
A calculated concession. Not quite an apology, but close enough to disarm. No use letting Charles grow suspicious—not when he was this close.
Charles studied him, the way a surgeon examines tissue for weakness.
Sebastian continued. “You needn’t worry. My loyalty hasn’t changed.”
It was a good line. Polished. Expected.
But Charles only smiled, thin and knowing. “Loyalty,” he repeated, as if trying the word on his tongue. “Is that what we’re calling it now? I’d have said ‘lack of options.’”
The silence that followed wasn’t defensive. It was hollow. Sebastian didn’t correct him. Couldn’t. Because they both knew the truth.
Sebastian’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against the bookshelf. “Anything else, sir?”
“Keep me updated on Alexander and the girl. Their meetings, their circle.” Hawthorne returned to his papers, dismissing Sebastian with practiced indifference. “And Sebastian—”
Sebastian paused at the door, one hand on the ornate handle. “Sir?”
“Remember who you are. And who you aren’t.” His eyes were clinical, dissecting. “Alexander may call you a brother, but should anything come to light about who you really are, the palace will have to distance themselves from you.”
Sebastian gave him the kind of smile meant to look respectful. It didn’t touch his eyes. “Of course.”
Only when the heavy door closed behind him did Sebastian allow himself a moment—one hand pressed briefly against the corridor wall, Hawthorne’s words settling precisely where they’d been designed to wound.
Then he straightened his tie, reset his expression, and walked down the corridor with easy confidence. Handsome, careless, untouchable.
But with every meeting, every calculated insult, Charles Hawthorne was providing the very ammunition that would eventually destroy him.