Chapter 42
Not the Son You Wanted, but the Headache You Deserve
Sebastian hadn’t slept.
How could he, after a revelation like that?
The world as he knew it had been cracked open, everything he’d ever believed about himself reduced to a carefully constructed lie. The walls of his childhood, the name he carried, the man he had spent his life trying to impress—it was all built on something rotten.
He had spent hours pacing his rooms, trying to stitch together the fragments of his past in light of this truth. What had been real? Had anything been real?
By dawn, he had his answer.
It didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered now was the confrontation that had always been inevitable.
He had always known this day would come. Maybe not the specifics—the precise words, the exact moment—but in the back of his mind, he’d always known there would be a reckoning. A day when he’d stand in front of his father—or at least the man he’d always assumed was his father—and demand answers.
He just hadn’t expected the question to be about who he actually was.
And so, as the morning sun cast long shadows through the corridors of Hawthorne House, Sebastian made his way to his father’s study.
His hands were steady. His steps did not falter.
But there was something cold and sharp settling in his chest, a certainty that whatever happened in that room, he would not walk out of it unchanged.
Lord Hawthorne barely glanced up when Sebastian entered, too absorbed in reviewing state correspondence. As if his son—his heir—wasn’t standing before him, jaw tight, fingers curling into fists at his sides.
“I see you’ve been drinking the expensive stuff recently,” Sebastian noted, eyeing the liquor cabinet, voice sharp as he shut the door behind him. “Should I take that as a sign that you’ve been expecting me?”
His father exhaled through his nose, finally setting the glass down. “I knew you were coming the moment I realized the files were missing. You were never as subtle as you thought.”
Sebastian’s laugh was hollow. “The files that revealed I’m not your biological son? That my entire life has been a lie?”
Lord Hawthorne leaned back in his chair, surveying him like a chessboard he already knew how to win. “And what would you like me to say?” he asked, voice steady.
Sebastian stepped closer, hands bracing against the desk. “I’d like you to say when, exactly, you knew.”
His father met his gaze, unflinching. “Since before I married your mother.”
The answer hit Sebastian like a physical blow.
“You knew?” he repeated, the words scraping his throat. “You knew she was pregnant with another man’s child—with the King’s child—and you married her anyway?”
Lord Hawthorne’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Of course I did.”
Sebastian staggered back slightly, processing. “Why? Some misguided sense of nobility? Love?”
His father actually laughed at that—a short, crisp sound devoid of warmth.
“Do you really think so little of my intelligence? No, Sebastian. I married Madeline because she was carrying the King’s child.
” He raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Your existence was valuable long before you drew your first breath.”
Sebastian’s blood went cold. “Valuable,” he repeated, the word hollow.
“Having the King’s son under my roof? Under my name and influence?” Lord Hawthorne took a measured sip of his whiskey. “The leverage that provided was… substantial.”
Sebastian felt something inside him fracture. “So I was what—a bargaining chip? A hostage?”
“An investment,” his father corrected, tone maddeningly reasonable. “One that has paid dividends far beyond my initial calculations.”
Sebastian barked out a laugh. “How fortunate for you.”
“For both of us,” Lord Hawthorne countered. “What do you think would have happened to a royal bastard without my protection? Without my name? You would have been relegated to the shadows—a shameful secret, trotted out only when useful, then hidden away again.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “As opposed to what you did—keeping me close so you could extract maximum benefit from my existence?”
Lord Hawthorne waved a dismissive hand. “Initially, yes. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise.” His gaze sharpened. “But plans evolve, Sebastian. You were supposed to be merely leverage—a means to an end. I hadn’t anticipated…”
He trailed off, studying Sebastian with a clinical detachment that somehow felt worse than anger. “I hadn’t anticipated that you would be quite so… capable.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Capable.”
“Sharp. Quick-witted. Politically astute.” Lord Hawthorne set his glass down, leaning forward. “By the time you were ten, I knew you were more valuable as a protégé than as a mere pawn.”
“How generous of you to recognize my potential,” Sebastian bit out.
His father ignored the barb. “You think I kept you purely for leverage? Some cold calculation?” His lips curved, just slightly.
“That was only the beginning. Once I saw what you could become—the political mind you were developing, your instinctive grasp of power dynamics—it would have been criminal not to cultivate that talent.”
Sebastian stiffened; his father’s smirk widened.
“You have your mother’s wit,” Lord Hawthorne mused. “And the King’s charm, undoubtedly.” His gaze darkened. “But your ability to control a room? To pull strings? To manipulate perception?” He gestured toward Sebastian with his glass. “That you got from me.”
Sebastian felt something settle in his stomach—heavy, poisonous.
Because for all his years of resisting, of trying to be something different, the truth was as sharp as a blade to the ribs.
Every skill he had learned, every game he had played, every move he had ever made in politics—it had all been shaped by the man in front of him.
His ability to predict the press cycle? His instinct for knowing exactly what not to say in order to make someone desperate to hear more? The way he had shut down stories with a few well-placed whispers, redirecting conversations entirely?
It wasn’t ruthlessness. It was control. And God help him, but he had mastered it.
Lord Hawthorne studied him, satisfied. “You always did take after me in all the ways that matter.”
Sebastian swallowed, his throat dry. “That should concern you.”
His father chuckled. “Why? It makes you powerful.” He leaned back, swirling his whiskey. “No, you’re not my son by blood. But you are my creation—my protégé. And that, Sebastian, is a far more valuable connection than mere genetics.”
Sebastian stared at him, chest tight. Because the worst part? The absolute worst part? It was true.
He had learned exactly what his father wanted him to. And he had spent years thinking he was playing his own game, when in reality, he had been running his father’s strategy all along.
The realization burned like acid.
“Since you’re so desperate for truth,” Lord Hawthorne said, his voice taking on a deliberate edge, “here’s another piece you won’t find in those files.
Your mother met the King at university. They were together for years, and she truly loved him.
” A flicker of disdain crossed his face.
“But she wasn’t naive. When she became pregnant, she purposely sought me out—married me because she knew I could protect her and her royal child. She was pragmatic in that way.”
His lips thinned into a cold smile. “We had an arrangement that served us both. But when the King died…” He paused, studying Sebastian’s face with clinical interest, “she couldn’t bear it.
Not even you—her child, her supposed reason for all these calculated moves—was enough to keep her tethered to this world. ”
The words were delivered with precision, each one selected specifically to cut deep.
Lord Hawthorne watched Sebastian’s reaction with the calm assessment of a man testing a weapon’s effectiveness.
This wasn’t mere cruelty—it was strategy.
Sebastian had challenged his authority, had dared to confront him as an equal, and now Lord Hawthorne was systematically dismantling his defenses, striking at the foundation of his identity.
For a moment, Sebastian glimpsed something calculated in his father’s eyes—the cold satisfaction of a man who knew exactly which vulnerability to exploit.
Sebastian’s abandonment fears had always been his weakness, and Lord Hawthorne was twisting the knife, reminding him that he wasn’t enough then, and implying he wasn’t enough now.
A perfectly targeted strike to regain control of a situation—and a son—slipping from his grasp.
Sebastian felt as if he’d been struck.
He hesitated for a second, trying to regain his composure. “Well,” he said finally, forcing lightness into his tone. “That was sufficiently horrifying. Glad we had this chat.”
He turned toward the door, ready to leave, but just as he reached for the handle, his father’s voice—calm, composed, utterly dismissive—cut through the air.
“We’ll talk again once you’re finished with this little tantrum.”
Sebastian froze.
“You always were prone to these emotional displays,” Lord Hawthorne continued, sipping his drink with an ease that made Sebastian’s skin crawl. “I suppose it’s something you got from your biological father—certainly not from me. But you’ll come around. You always do.”
Sebastian swallowed, his grip tightening on the door handle.
“You’re angry now,” his father mused, as if discussing the weather. “But anger fades. And when it does? You’ll remember who you are. What you are.” He let the words settle, then added, almost amused, “And you’ll realize that, in the end, you don’t actually have anywhere else to go.”
Sebastian’s pulse pounded.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet his father’s gaze over his shoulder.
And there it was—that cold, calculated certainty. The unshakable belief that Sebastian was, and always would be, exactly what his father had made him.
Sebastian forced a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You really think that?”
Lord Hawthorne tilted his head, considering. “I know it.”
Sebastian didn’t know what to say to that, so without another word, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the hall.
He didn’t slam it. Didn’t let his father see how deep the words had landed.
But as he walked away, his father’s voice still echoed in his mind.
You don’t actually have anywhere else to go.
Sebastian clenched his jaw.
Watch me.