Chapter 28 Hawthorne’s Countermove
Hawthorne’s Countermove
The morning light in Charles Hawthorne’s Mayfair office carried the cheerful promise of a warm and sunny day, but the man behind the mahogany desk felt only the chill of fury.
The Chronicle lay open before him, its headline screaming accusations that should have been impossible to print.
Two days since publication, and the reverberations were already threatening the carefully constructed empire he’d spent decades building.
“Foundation Finances Under Fire: Hawthorne Charity Accused of Misappropriating Millions”
The article was surgical—precise, devastating. Someone had gotten access to internal documents—financial records that should have been buried so deep they’d never see daylight. But here they were, laid out in black and white, threatening everything.
What made it worse—what made his hands shake with barely contained rage—was the byline. Or rather, the lack of one. Anonymous. Professional. Untouchable.
But Charles Hawthorne hadn’t built his power by accepting the untouchable.
He reached for his phone, scrolling through his contacts until he found the name that had been a source of both pride and disappointment for twenty-eight years. His finger hovered over Sebastian’s number for just a moment before he pressed call.
* * *
Sebastian had been pacing for the better part of an hour, watching the media tear his father’s reputation apart from the comfort of his own home.
Part of him felt vindicated—finally, someone had found the courage to publish what everyone in political circles had whispered about for years.
Another part felt the familiar knot of dread that came with knowing Charles Hawthorne cornered was Charles Hawthorne at his most dangerous.
His phone buzzed against the marble countertop. The name on the screen made his blood run cold.
“What do you want, Charles?”
“Sebastian.” The voice that had shaped his childhood—cultured, controlled, but carrying an undercurrent that made Sebastian’s skin crawl. “I trust you’ve seen the rather unflattering piece in The Chronicle this morning?”
Sebastian kept his voice steady, though his grip tightened on the phone. “I’ve seen it.”
“Anonymous sources, no byline. How very… modern.” There was that particular brand of amusement in Hawthorne’s tone, the kind that had always preceded Sebastian’s worst childhood punishments.
“Professional work, really. Surgical. The kind of journalism that requires access to very specific information.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Oh, but I think you would.” The amusement faded, replaced by something colder. “If you think this little stunt will save you from the reckoning we both know is coming, my boy, you have badly miscalculated. I may have taught you well, Sebastian, but clearly not well enough to cover your tracks.”
Sebastian felt ice form in his stomach. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“The Chronicle,” Charles continued, his voice taking on that deceptively thoughtful tone Sebastian remembered from childhood interrogations. “Now, who do I know at The Chronicle who’s capable of this sort of reporting…”
The pause stretched like a trap, and Sebastian could practically hear his father’s mind working, digging through years of conversations and half-remembered details.
“Right,” Charles mused, almost to himself.
“That troublesome journalist who was asking questions about the foundation’s operations.
Harper… Harper Sinclair. Yes.” The realization hit like a thunderclap.
“The one who supposedly moved to the business desk. The same one who you convinced me to let you handle personally instead of destroying her career outright three years ago.” The last words dripped with dawning fury.
“Tell me, Sebastian, exactly how did you handle Ms. Sinclair?”
Sebastian’s throat went dry. “I convinced her to drop the story. That’s all.”
“Oh, but how exactly did you manage that?” Charles’s voice turned silky with menace. “A story that damaging doesn’t simply disappear because you asked nicely. What did you offer her, Sebastian? What… personal incentives? You always have been quite charming when you want to be.”
“No personal incentives were needed. I got in her head just long enough to make her doubt herself, until I got the sources to pull back. With them gone, the story collapsed—there was nothing left to report.”
“But now she’s back, isn’t she? With whatever you’ve been whispering in her ear, while she pretends to write about IPOs. She must really be taken with you, to work with you after you already stabbed her in the back. How delicious.”
Sebastian felt something snap inside him—twenty-eight years of careful control, of measured responses, of swallowing his father’s poison with a smile. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. She has integrity. Something you wouldn’t recognize.”
Charles laughed, a sound like breaking glass.
“Oh, my dear boy. You still don’t understand how this works, do you?
I don’t need to prove anything. I simply need to let the world know that Harper Sinclair’s anonymous sources include my own son—that every story she’s ever written about our family came from pillow talk.
Her credibility, her career, her precious integrity—all gone with one well-placed suggestion about her…
very special relationship with her primary source. ”
Sebastian knew that Harper’s real primary source was Sarah but he wasn’t about to reveal that to Charles, who apparently had no idea. Interesting.
The silence that followed was deafening. When Charles spoke again, his voice was dead calm, which Sebastian knew from experience was infinitely worse than shouting.
“If you so much as breathe one word about her, I’ll destroy you myself,” Sebastian said, surprising himself with the steel in his voice.
“Well that little threat tells me all I need to know, doesn’t it. You’ve just made a very serious mistake, Sebastian. Both of you.”
The threat hung in the air like a blade, and Sebastian realized with crystalline clarity that his father had just outlined Harper’s complete destruction—and it didn’t matter that the implications were false.
“Enjoy your last few days together,” Charles continued conversationally. “I suggest you make them count.”
The line went dead, leaving Sebastian staring at his phone, knowing that the war had officially begun.
He started by sending encrypted messages to contacts he hadn’t used in years. If Charles wanted to play by his own rules, then Sebastian would have to remember how to play the same game.
He called Ethan first.
“I’m in trouble,” Sebastian said without preamble when his friend answered.
“Jesus, Sebastian, what’s happened?”
“Charles knows. About Harper, about the article, about me working with her. He doesn’t have any proof but he’s going to try to destroy her by suggesting we have some kind of inappropriate relationship. She’s gonna need somewhere secure while she finishes the rest of the series.”
There was a pause while Ethan processed this. “I’ve got a place in Hampstead. Bought it under an LLC—figured I might need somewhere off the books eventually. Charles’s people won’t find it quickly.”
“Can you sweep it? Make sure it’s clean?”
“Already done. Full security system, encrypted internet, the works.”
Sebastian felt the first breath of relief he’d had all day. “I owe you.”
“You generally do. I’ll text you the address.”
Sebastian’s next call was harder. Harper answered on the first ring.
“Sebastian? You’re supposed to be lying low.”
“Change of plans. We need to talk, but not at your flat. Charles knows everything—he just called me.” Sebastian kept his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “He suspects that you wrote the article, and he’s already vowing revenge.”
He could hear Harper’s sharp intake of breath. “How?”
“He dug back through his memory. Anonymous article, me convincing him three years ago to let me ‘handle’ the Harper Sinclair problem instead of destroying you outright. He’s put it together that you’re probably the journalist behind the article and that I’ve been your source.
” Sebastian was already hailing a taxi. “His plan is to destroy your credibility by suggesting we have some kind of inappropriate relationship—that your story came from intimate access.”
“Bastard.” Harper’s voice was tight with controlled fury. “Where do you want to meet?”
“Nowhere public. Ethan’s got a place that’s secure—I’ll text you the address. Can you get there without being followed?”
“I’ve dodged photographers before. I know how to lose a tail.”
“Bring everything for the next two articles. Your laptops, your notes, your files. We’re going to need to work fast and stay hidden while you finish this.”
“Sebastian,” Harper’s voice carried a sharp edge. “I know what I’m doing. I don’t need you to save me. I’ve been handling threats like this long before you decided to grow a conscience.”
Sebastian was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, you’re right.
I respect you as a professional, Harper—you’re one of the best investigative journalists I know.
But I dragged you into this mess, and now Charles is coming after you because of me.
I can’t undo what I did, but I can at least help you finish what we started. ”
“Okay,” Harper’s voice softened slightly. Sebastian settled into the taxi, watching the city blur past the windows. “Our only option now is to make sure your story gets out before he can destroy your credibility completely.”
“Then I guess we’d better make the next two articles the best damn journalism of my career.”
After they hung up, Sebastian stared out at the landscape rushing past him. Somewhere in the city, Charles was already setting his countermoves in motion. But for the first time in his life, Sebastian was ready to fight his father with the old man’s own weapons.
The game had changed. Now it was about survival.
* * *
Three hours later, Harper stood in the doorway of a nondescript townhouse in Hampstead, her equipment bags slung over her shoulders and a baseball cap pulled low over her face.
She’d taken three different tube lines, doubled back twice, and was reasonably certain she’d lost the photographer who’d been stationed outside her building.
Ethan answered the door before she could knock, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by grim efficiency.
“Harper. Good, you made it clean. Sebastian should be here soon.” He gestured her inside, already moving to secure the door behind her. “The study upstairs has everything you’ll need—encrypted internet, secure phone line, and enough coffee to fuel a small army.”
“Ethan,” Harper caught his arm as he headed for the door. “Thank you. I know this puts you at risk too.”
Ethan’s smile was sharp and entirely without humor. “Charles Hawthorne isn’t the only one with resources. He’s about to learn just how much Sebastian really learned from him.”
As Harper climbed the stairs to the study, she felt the weight of the next forty-eight hours settling on her shoulders. Two more articles to write, a lifetime of Charles’s corruption to expose, and now a personal war that could destroy everything she’d worked for.
For a moment, she just stood there, listening to the hush of the townhouse, wondering if this was the point of no return.
Then she opened her laptop and saw the encrypted files containing months of meticulous investigation, Harper felt something she hadn’t expected: clarity. This was what good journalism was supposed to be—risky, necessary, and worth fighting for.
Charles Hawthorne wanted a war? He was about to get one.