Chapter 29 Sebastian, you Bastard
Sebastian, you Bastard
The scent of expensive scotch, usually a comforting aroma of control for Charles Hawthorne, now mingled with the acrid edge of desperation in his private study.
It was a subtle shift, imperceptible to anyone but him, but it was there.
Two days since the first part of The Chronicle’s damnable exposé.
Miles entered the study with measured steps, his expression carefully neutral as he approached the mahogany desk.
“The digital forensics team has completed their analysis, sir,” Miles reported. “Ms. Sinclair and your son were thorough. No traceable communications, no recoverable documents. Even the financial records we believe she accessed—there’s no digital trail leading back to her.”
Charles set down his glass with deliberate care. “So we have nothing concrete.”
“Only implications, sir. The byline was anonymous, and Sebastian’s involvement is… probable, but there’s no hard proof.”
“Hearsay,” Charles said flatly. “Useful for whispers, useless for destruction.”
He’d underestimated her—and Sebastian. The threat to expose an affair, to paint Harper Sinclair as a compromised journalist sleeping with her source, had been a scalpel.
Effective for precision work, for targeted reputational ruin.
But with the entirety of his empire under siege from her pen, a scalpel was no longer sufficient.
He needed a bomb.
Charles sat with the practiced stillness of a man who had long ago mastered the art of patience, yet inside, cold fury warred with strategic calculation.
His crisp shirt remained immaculate despite the late hour, his cufflinks catching the lamplight as he contemplated the sealed folder before him.
The label read simply: SEBASTIAN. His contingency. His leverage. His son.
Beside it lay an old photograph—James Philip and Madeline Hawthorne, née Rousseau, captured in a moment of unguarded intimacy. Their smiles spoke of something too close, too real for the carefully choreographed world they’d inhabited. A world he had meticulously controlled.
“The journalist is pressing on,” Hawthorne said at last, his eyes never leaving the photograph.
“Her kind believes they’re untouchable once their righteous crusade begins.
” He tapped the folder. “It’s time to change the narrative entirely.
Create a storm so vast her little exposé becomes a footnote—buried by a larger, more profound scandal. ”
“The information regarding Sebastian’s parentage?” Miles confirmed.
“Precisely.” Hawthorne’s voice carried grim satisfaction.
“She thinks she’s exposing financial irregularities.
Let’s show the world a true secret, one that shakes the Crown itself.
Her connection to Sebastian will then be seen in an entirely new, more scandalous light.
Not just an ambitious reporter, but one entangled with the hidden, illegitimate son of a king. ”
He paused, considering the chess board in his mind. “They’re all getting too close. The brothers. The reformers. The journalist. Sebastian was a useful shield for a time, a way to monitor the currents. Now, he’s the weapon.”
With deliberate care, he opened the folder.
The contents spread before him: birth certificates, medical records, a draft press release.
Headline mock-ups. One proclaimed: THE SECRET SON: Palace Insider Reveals Hidden Heir.
Another screamed: ROYAL AFFAIR EXPOSED: Illegitimate Son of Late King Linked to New Administration.
Charles ran his finger along the edge of a page as if testing the sharpness of a blade.
“Sentiment is a weakness I don’t have the luxury of indulging,” he said, more to himself than to Miles.
“Let them scramble. Let the world question bloodlines, legitimacy, loyalty. The palace will panic. The crown will falter. And in the ensuing chaos, who will care about some misallocated funds when the very lineage of the monarchy is in question?”
He closed the folder with finality and handed it to Miles. “Contact The Gilded Mirror. Anonymously, of course. Frame it as a leak from a former palace aide. Something tasteful, scandalous, and impossible to ignore. Ensure it drops before Sinclair can publish her next installment.”
“And Sebastian?” Miles asked quietly.
Hawthorne paused. For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes—a ghost of regret, perhaps, or memory. Then his expression reset itself, cold and impenetrable.
“Sebastian will learn what his freedom, and his choice of alliances, truly costs.”
* * *
In the early morning quiet of the palace, fog curled against the windows like searching fingers. The press office hummed with its usual pre-dawn activity—aides shuffling papers, answering emails, preparing for another day of carefully managed information flow.
Then someone gasped.
“Pull up The Gilded Mirror,” the aide said, urgent and pale. “Now.”
A flurry of clicks followed. A page loaded. And there it was:
brEAKING: Illegitimate Son of Late King James Philip Identified as Palace Insider. Sebastian Hawthorne linked to royal bloodline in decades-old affair scandal. Sources say the palace has known for years.
The room fell into absolute silence. No one breathed. Then, as if a spell had been broken, phones began to ring—fast, relentless, unstoppable.
The storm had begun.
* * *
In their private quarters, Alexander and Emilia shared a quiet morning ritual—breakfast, the paper spread between them, soft conversation passing like shuttles across a loom. The calm shattered with two rapid knocks at the door.
“Come in,” Alexander called.
His aide entered, tension written in every line of his body. “Sir, you need to see this immediately.”
The tablet changed hands. Alexander scrolled, then froze. The colour drained from his face.
“What?” Emilia reached for the screen. “What is it?”
Alexander turned it toward her. Her face went white.
“They’ve outed him,” she breathed.
“Charles,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously quiet. “This has his fingerprints all over it. He threatened Sebastian, and now this. He’s trying to burn everything to the ground to stop that story.” He was already standing, napkin discarded, phone in hand. “Find Sebastian. Now.”
* * *
Jér?me Rousseau was having breakfast at home in Paris when the same headline appeared on his laptop screen.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders like an old coat.
He called his assistant and had her to clear his calendar for the next few days, he had urgent family business to deal with.
He left the townhouse with the unhurried air of a man who believed the world should wait for him and headed for a waiting black sedan when the press, who had been lying in wait like patient crocodiles, finally surged forward.
The sudden eruption of flashing cameras and shouted questions would have rattled a seasoned politician. It seemed to bore Jér?me.
A particularly brazen reporter from The Buzz darted in front of him. “Sir, do you have a message for Charles Hawthorne?”
“First,” Jér?me said, his voice quiet but cutting through the noise with chilling precision, “I don’t use the press as a messenger service. It’s so… theatrical.”
He took another step toward his car, the reporters shuffling to keep up.
“But do you think he’s fit to run a charity?” someone else pressed.
Jér?me stopped, his lips twisting into a faint, mirthless smile. “I don’t make it a practice to think about Charles at all,” he said, his voice quiet but cutting. “I find my days are far more pleasant that way.”
The reporters, sensing an opening, pushed closer. One, a woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tone, decided to go for the jugular.
“What about your sister, Madeline?” she called out. “What was her relationship with the late King James Philip really like? Was she in love with him?”
The air of bored amusement vanished from Jér?me’s face instantly.
He stopped dead and turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto the woman who had asked the question.
The temperature on the pavement seemed to drop ten degrees.
The faint smile was gone, replaced by a look of such cold, quiet fury that several reporters instinctively took a step back.
“I am going to give you one piece of advice,” Jér?me said, his voice barely a whisper, yet carrying more menace than a shout. “Never speak my sister’s name again. Not to me. Not in print. Not to anyone.”
He took a deliberate step toward the reporter, who paled visibly.
“Her story is not for you,” he continued, his voice lethally soft. “It is not for sale. It is not a headline for you to pick over like vultures. It is hers and hers alone. Is that understood?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He held her terrified gaze for one more beat before turning away, his composure snapping back into place like a steel trap. He resumed his walk to the car, the crowd parting before him in stunned silence.
He got into the car. As the door clicked shut, sealing him in quiet luxury, he gave a final, dismissive glance before the tinted window slid smoothly up. The sedan pulled away from the curb, leaving the media frenzy behind, utterly and completely shut down.
* * *
Morning sun pushed too brightly through the curtains of the safe house bedroom in Hampstead.
Sebastian lay still, shirtless, phone face-down beside him after a restless night.
The first buzz came as a gentle intrusion, then again, more insistent.
The third vibration carried the urgency that only came from something truly disastrous.
A text from Ethan blazed across the screen.
Ethan: DUDE. GET UP. NOW! YOU NEED TO CHECK THE GILDED MIRROR. HOLY SH*T!!
Sebastian groaned into his pillow. “It’s too early for panic unless someone’s pregnant or missing.” He grabbed the phone, scrolling sleepily. Then—stillness.
brEAKING: Illegitimate Son of Late King James Philip Identified.