Chapter 29 Sebastian, you Bastard #2
He blinked. Clicked. Skimmed. The words refused to change.
“Multiple anonymous palace sources confirm that Sebastian Hawthorne—Viscount Edgecliffe and political advisor to the Crown—is in fact the biological son of the late King James Philip and Madeline Hawthorne née Rousseau…”
Silence filled the room. He sat up, breath shallow, mouth dry. He read it again, as if repetition might alter reality. But the words remained stubbornly present.
“Known to the palace. Hidden from the public. Sources suggest the royal family has known for years.”
His hands shook. With sudden violence, he hurled the phone across the room. It struck the wardrobe with a crack, bounced, landed face-down. He sat frozen, jaw clenched, listening to nothing but his own breathing.
Then he laughed—once, sharp and bitter. Again. Because of course. Charles. This was his countermove. Not just against Harper’s story, but against him for his part in it.
“He waited until it would hurt the most,” he said quietly to the empty room. “He wants to discredit everyone by making me toxic.”
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Sebastian? Open the door.” Harper’s voice, muffled but urgent. She sounded like she’d run from downstairs.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move.
“You’ve seen it. I know you have. Alexander and Ethan both called me—Charles finally made his move.”
Still nothing.
Silence stretched between them. Soft footsteps indicated she hadn’t left.
The door clicked open slowly. Harper let herself in—dressed but not polished, hair hastily pinned, phone clutched in her hand, breath tight with concern and simmering anger.
The room told its own story. The wardrobe door hung half-open. His phone lay abandoned on the floor. Sebastian sat on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, hands dangling between his knees. Shirtless. Eyes blank.
“You should’ve locked it,” she said quietly.
“I thought I did.”
“Apparently not.”
She stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind her. No one else would see him like this. Just her.
“It’s all in there,” he said, speaking slowly as if his throat hurt.
“Every word they wanted to print. ‘Illegitimate.’ ‘Hidden.’ ‘Scandal.’ They even used the word ‘lovechild.’” He snorted.
“Lovechild. Makes me sound like I was conceived to a Barry White soundtrack instead of in a moment of spectacularly poor judgment.”
Harper almost smiled at that, recognizing his defense mechanism.
But she could see the pain beneath the humor.
Harper sat across from him, careful not to touch.
“Hawthorne did this. Alexander knows it. He threatened to ruin my reputation by linking us romantically. Now he’s making you the scandal to achieve the same end.
He wants to stop Parts Two and Three at any cost.”
“Good. Let Alexander be furious. Let him march around and make official statements and call for decorum.” His voice turned bitter. “Meanwhile, I’m the royal mistake in everyone’s morning coffee. The perfect distraction.”
“You are not a mistake. And you are not a distraction,” Harper stated firmly, cutting through his despair.
“I’m both.” The words came out sharp, snarling.
“That’s the point. This wasn’t just about me.
It was about wounding Alexander, yes, but it was also about silencing the story, making sure no one pays attention to any of the rest of it.
” His voice cracked—not loudly, but enough.
“He waited until I was just close enough to do the most damage. To you. To Alexander.”
Harper studied him—quiet, sharp, seeing everything. The pain, the fury, the understanding of his father’s cruel calculus.
“This doesn’t stop the truth from coming out. It just raises the stakes.”
He met her eyes finally. Disbelief warred with fury, and beneath both, something deeper and more desperate that he would never name aloud.
“You really think I can come back from this?”
“You already have.” Her voice was soft but certain. And then, because she saw him unraveling, because someone had to, she stood. She walked over and sat beside him. Not facing him—beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. “He wants us to break. To run. We’re not going to.”
“You’re not going to tell me it’ll all be okay?” he asked, a ghost of a wry smile playing on his lips.
“God, no.” A beat. “It’s going to be a bloody war. But I’ll tell you who we’re taking down first. And we still have Parts Two and Three, Sebastian. He may have changed the battlefield, but not the outcome.”
His head lowered, just slightly. And finally—finally—he let his shoulder lean into hers. Just enough to be real.
An hour later, the sound of a car door slamming outside the Hampstead safe house cut through the morning quiet. Harper glanced out the window and saw a tall figure in an expensive suit striding toward the front door with unmistakable purpose.
“Sebastian,” she called softly. “Someone’s here.”
The doorbell rang—sharp, impatient. Then came the voice that carried through the door like a blade: “Sebastian. It’s Jér?me.”
Harper moved to answer, but Sebastian was already there, pulling the door open to reveal Jér?me Rousseau. At fifty-one, he cut an imposing figure—tall, sharp suit, sharper expression. His anger wasn’t loud; it was controlled, radiating from him in waves.
“You came,” Sebastian said, disbelief and relief warring in his voice.
“Of course I came.” Jér?me’s voice cracked for just a second, the sound raw and real. “I should’ve come sooner.”
He stepped inside, and his gaze moved to Harper, taking her in with the same intensity that marked Sebastian’s expressions, but older, harder.
Though his expression did soften slightly as he spoke to her.
“And you must be the journalist. Sebastian mentioned you, though he didn’t say nearly enough, it seems.” There was a hint of teasing in his voice that Harper noticed.
Sebastian, for his part, looked faintly embarrassed.
“Harper Sinclair,” she offered, extending her hand.
Jér?me shook it briefly. “Always a pleasure to meet a friend of Sebastian’s.”
But as they settled into the lounge, the ease began to fade from his face. The reality of why he was here—why any of them were here—settled over him like a weight. He looked at Sebastian properly for the first time, taking in the tension around his eyes, the way he held his shoulders.
“How bad is it?” Jér?me asked quietly, his voice losing its lightness.
Sebastian sank into a chair, suddenly looking exhausted. “Have you seen the article?”
“I saw enough.” Jér?me’s jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his fury was building. “Charles really did it. That bastard actually—” He stopped. He clenched his fists and tried to regain his composure.
“God, the whole world is reading about my mother’s affair over their morning coffee,” Sebastian said, his voice raw. “About me being some dirty secret everyone’s been keeping.”
Jér?me paced the small space, “Your mother loved you more than anything in this world. She used to call you her miracle.” His voice was tight with emotion. “And now they’ve made her sound like some palace scandal. Like she was just another mistress instead of…” He stopped, breathing hard.
“Instead of what?” Sebastian asked quietly.
“Instead of someone who was in love with the wrong person. She could have taken an easier way out. But she chose you, Sebastian. Every damn day, she chose you.” Jér?me’s fury was raw, protective. “And Charles has turned that into ammunition.”
Finally, Jér?me pulled him in—a rough, too-fast embrace, hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck like he used to when Sebastian was small. Sebastian let it happen. Didn’t move. But didn’t pull away either.
When they separated, Harper spoke up quietly. “Alexander’s been calling. He wants to know how you want to handle this—whether you want to make a statement.”
Sebastian sighed. “I should talk to him. Face to face.”
“Then we go to the palace,” Jér?me said without hesitation. “All of us. You shouldn’t face this alone.”
Harper nodded. “I’ll grab my things. We should move quickly before the press figures out where you are.”
Twenty minutes later, Jér?me’s black sedan pulled up to the palace gates. The three of them sat in tense silence—Sebastian in the front passenger seat, Harper in the back, all of them knowing that walking into the palace now would be walking into the eye of the storm.
“Last chance to change your mind,” Jér?me said quietly.
Sebastian straightened his shoulders. “No. I need to talk to Alexander. Find out where we stand.”
The guards at the gate recognized Sebastian immediately, though their expressions showed they’d clearly seen the morning’s headlines. Within minutes, they were inside, walking through corridors that buzzed with barely contained chaos. Staff members tried not to stare. Phones rang constantly.
Around the next corner, Alexander emerged from a side office, clearly looking for them. “Sebastian.” Relief flooded his face as he spotted them. “Thank goodness you’re here. We need to—” His words died as his gaze moved to Jér?me. “Mr. Rousseau.”
“Your Majesty,” Jér?me replied with a slight nod that managed to be both respectful and challenging.
“We should talk,” Alexander said to Sebastian. “All of us. But perhaps…” He glanced at Jér?me.
“He stays,” Sebastian said firmly. “He’s also family.”
Alexander nodded. “Then let’s find somewhere private.”
* * *
A formal receiving room in the palace glowed with afternoon light filtering through tall windows. Everything spoke of ceremony and tradition—walls lined with oil portraits, reminders of history in every gilded frame. Alexander closed the door behind them, the click echoing in the sudden quiet.
“First,” Alexander said, turning to Sebastian, “are you all right?”
Sebastian managed a bitter smile. “Define ‘all right.’”
“Fair point.” Alexander’s expression was grim. “We need to decide how to handle this. The press office is in chaos. They’re asking if you want to make a statement, if the palace needs to confirm or deny—”
“There’s nothing to deny,” Sebastian said quietly. “It’s all true.”
“I know that. But the question is how we respond and when.” Alexander looked between Sebastian and Jér?me. “This is clearly Charles’s doing. He’s trying to create such a massive scandal that Harper’s investigation gets buried in the noise.”
Jér?me studied Alexander carefully. He saw it clearly—the unmistakable echo of James Philip. “Christ, you look like him,” Jér?me said quietly, almost to himself, the observation laced with old bitterness.
Alexander stiffened. “Everyone says that.”
“They’re not wrong. You’ve got his jaw. His smile.” A pause, heavy with unspoken history. “But the hair’s your mother’s. Queen Eleanor’s.” He said it without malice, but with the weight of tangled history. “It’s like someone resurrected James and gave him just enough difference to twist the knife.”
The room fell silent. Harper watched the exchange, understanding she was witnessing the collision of decades of pain and secrets.
Sebastian stepped forward trying to redirect the conversation before it spiraled further. “We need to focus on what comes next. Charles wants us to get distracted instead of fighting him.”
“Sebastian’s right,” Harper said quietly. “Every minute we hesitate is a minute Charles gets to shore up his defenses.”
“Fine so we take back the narrative,” Alexander said without hesitation. “I can make a statement that will put out the fire.”
“Good,” Harper said, checking her phone. “Because I just got word that The Chronicle wants to fast-track Parts Two and Three. We publish tomorrow.”
Sebastian didn’t speak at first. He stared at his brother, chest rising and falling like he’d just surfaced from deep water.
Then, quietly, he said, “You know this doesn’t just cost you political capital. It costs you the narrative. The image. Clean lines. Fairy tale unity.”
Alexander stepped closer. “I don’t care about the fairy tale.”
“You used to.”
“I grew up.”
Sebastian nodded once, his voice rough. “Well then I guess we need a new narrative.”
Harper moved to stand beside him. “And we’ll give it to them.”
Jér?me’s voice was softer now, filled with something that sounded almost like hope. “Let’s make sure your mother’s story—your story—gets told on your terms. Not Charles’s.”
For a long moment, none of them moved. Outside, camera shutters clicked somewhere far off. The world was still watching, still waiting to tear them apart.
But in this room, there was only resolve.
Sebastian finally exhaled. “All right. Let’s show them what a bastard really looks like.”