Chapter 45 The Art of Elegant Sabotage
The Art of Elegant Sabotage
The restaurant hummed with the low chatter of journalists, diplomats, and socialites, the kind of place where secrets changed hands over espresso and scandal was served alongside dessert.
Harper had always liked it here. It was neutral ground—casual enough for conversation, discreet enough for influence.
Across the table, three of the country’s most well-connected journalists leaned in over half-finished salads and wine glasses, their expressions half amusement, half anticipation.
“So, Sinclair,” one of them, Evelyn Rousseau of The Caledonian Post, said with a knowing smile, “how does it feel to be sitting on the biggest royal romance scoop of the decade and not be able to report it?”
Harper, cutting into her salmon, didn’t blink. “Oh, devastating. Just gut-wrenching.”
“Tragic, really,” added Mark Ellis from The Tribune, shaking his head. “All this time sharing an apartment with Emilia Carter, and you won’t give us so much as a hint? A noble sacrifice, truly.”
“I do what I can,” Harper said dryly, spearing a piece of asparagus.
“Come on,” Evelyn pressed, “it must be something. You’re telling me you haven’t picked up on any late-night phone calls, longing stares, clandestine rendezvous—”
“You’ve met Emilia, right?” Harper interrupted, arching a brow. “She wouldn’t be able to stay quiet about it, she’d be holding a press conference to correct our historical understanding of royal relationships by now.”
That got a laugh.
“Fine,” Mark relented. “No inside scoop on the historian. But you can’t deny things have been… interesting.”
Harper tilted her head, feigning curiosity. “Oh?”
“The gala, the dance, the stolen glances—” Evelyn ticked off on her fingers. “And of course, the fact that he and Genevieve looked about as thrilled to be near each other as two wet cats in a sack.”
“That, I will admit, was spectacularly awkward,” Harper conceded, sipping her wine.
“So?” Mark prompted.
She set down her glass, expression just thoughtful enough to be enticing. “So, tell me something. Why is everyone so obsessed with whether Alexander is in love with one woman or not in love with another—when the real story is the fact that he doesn’t even have the right to choose?”
That got their attention.
Evelyn narrowed her eyes, intrigued. “Go on.”
Harper leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against her glass.
“We’ve all seen the coverage. Every headline is about romance and speculation, but no one’s talking about the bigger issue.
Alexander is the first modern king who is expected to marry not because he wants to, but because it’s required of him.
The law hasn’t changed in centuries. It doesn’t matter who he loves or doesn’t love—he has no say in it either way. ”
A pause. Then Mark let out a low whistle. “That’s… actually a hell of a point.”
“I do have those occasionally,” Harper deadpanned.
Evelyn exchanged a look with Mark, already mentally writing the piece. “You know, no one’s really framed it like that before. The coverage has all been ‘Will He? Won’t He?’ but the fact that he even has to—it does feel… archaic.”
“And the public loves an underdog,” Mark mused. “A prince trapped by tradition. Fighting for the right to choose his own future. That’s a much stronger narrative than a love triangle.”
Harper shrugged, taking another bite of salmon.
“I’m just saying. You’re all so busy looking for the romance angle, you’re missing the bigger story.
Alexander’s dance with Emilia was a moment, sure.
His distance with Genevieve is notable. But the real issue?
The fact that a man about to be crowned king has less control over his own future than any commoner in this country.
That’s what the people should be talking about. ”
Evelyn sat back, tapping a finger against her chin. “And if we were to start framing the story that way…”
“You might find public opinion shifting,” Harper supplied innocently. “You might find that suddenly, this isn’t just about royal gossip—it’s about policy. Rights. Modernization.”
Mark let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You are dangerous, Sinclair.”
Harper smirked. “Only when necessary.”
A silence stretched over the table, the weight of a new angle, a new direction, settling between them.
Evelyn raised a brow at her. “So… if we were to pursue this angle, would we have your cooperation? Any official comments?”
Harper gave her a pleasant smile. “Oh, you know I can’t give you anything official. But hypothetically…” She took a slow sip of wine, letting the thought settle, letting them chase it on their own.
Evelyn laughed. “Hypothetically, of course.”
Mark leaned forward, already energized. “I’ll need to pull some numbers on historical precedence, maybe interview a legal scholar—”
“Get some polling data too,” Evelyn added, voice sharp with new purpose. “I want to see where the public actually stands on this.”
Harper hid her satisfaction behind her wine glass.
It wasn’t her story to tell. But she had made sure it would be told. And that was all that mattered.
Within twenty-four hours, subtle but powerful headlines began to circulate:
“Prince Alexander: A Future King Without a Voice?”
“Duty or Choice? The Debate Over the Crown Prince’s Right to Love”
“Has the Queen’s Grip on the Throne Become Too Tight?”
“A Monarchy for the Modern Age: Should Alexander Choose His Own Path?”
Social media exploded with engagement. Celebrities, activists, even politicians began weighing in, some carefully skirting the line of criticizing the monarchy, others outright demanding that Alexander be allowed the same freedoms as any other man in his country.
Meanwhile, whispers from inside the palace suggested tensions were running high. An unnamed royal aide resigned abruptly. A government official dodged a pointed question in an interview, his non-answer making headlines of its own.
The more the conversation developed, the more it exposed the transactional nature of it all—the alliances, the power plays, the sheer lack of personal agency.
The public started asking questions. It was all substantial enough that the palace couldn’t issue a direct response without making things worse, but resonant enough that it couldn’t be ignored.
And Harper? She was just getting started.
* * *
If there was one thing Sebastian Hawthorne excelled at, it was getting people to talk.
Not just talk—whisper, speculate, doubt. And tonight, that was exactly what he intended to do.
The engine of the vintage Porsche still ticked with heat as he handed off the keys with a knowing grin, strolling into Lord Ashford’s estate with the kind of easy, effortless grace that masked precise calculation.
Not his car, of course, but one of Lord Hawthorne’s prized possessions. He had no particular attachment to it—just the satisfaction of knowing his father would be furious when he noticed. Though he couldn’t deny how much he enjoyed pushing the car to its limits on the drive over.
If Lord Hawthorne could upend his life on a whim, then Sebastian figured he might as well enjoy the benefits of being a Hawthorne while he still could.
This particular gathering—an invitation-only salon for aristocrats and high-ranking politicians—was the kind of place where real power wasn’t displayed, but negotiated.
And tonight, Sebastian wasn’t here to play games. He was here to win them.
He drifted through the gilded halls, whiskey swirling in his glass, seamlessly inserting himself into conversation like a man who belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Lord Montclair, an older statesman with close ties to the Queen, was already lamenting the “modern distractions” plaguing the monarchy.
“Back in my day, royals didn’t parade about in duels and draw this kind of attention,” Montclair mused, shaking his head.
Sebastian took a slow sip of whiskey, his smile edged with something sharper.
“Ah, yes. Because boring monarchs inspire such loyalty.”
Montclair turned, frowning. “What exactly are you implying, Hawthorne?”
Sebastian let the silence stretch, just enough to make them lean in.
“That maybe it’s time we start thinking about the monarchy as it is, rather than as it was in your day.” He lowered his voice slightly, a trick he’d learned long ago—people listened more carefully when voices dropped to near whispers.
“Public sentiment is shifting. People are asking questions.” His gaze flicked over the gathered men, reading them like a well-worn novel. “And do you know what happens when people start questioning an institution?”
He let the pause settle, let them fill in the blanks themselves.
“They start wondering if it’s necessary at all.”
A murmur of unease rippled through the group. Doubt.
Sebastian watched it take root in their eyes.
Those who looked the most troubled? They were his next targets. For every aristocrat who wavered, three more would follow. Dominoes, all lined up and ready to fall.
Scanning the room, Sebastian spotted Lavinia and Allegra by the champagne fountain, heads bent in hushed conversation. He excused himself from Montclair’s circle and made his way toward them, a slow, calculated smile already forming.
“Ladies,” he greeted, kissing each on the cheek. “Holding court as always, I see.”
Lavinia, resplendent in deep sapphire silk, arched a brow. “Sebastian. We were just discussing your prince’s latest… indiscretions.”
Allegra sipped her champagne, eyes gleaming with interest. “So tragic, really. All that romantic tension. And yet…”
Sebastian exhaled a quiet laugh. “And yet, so little to report?”
Lavinia’s lips curved. “No point in stirring up trouble for the potential future queen, now is there?”
He let the words settle, his expression darkening with amusement. “How very pragmatic of you.”
“We like to stay ahead of the curve,” Allegra remarked smoothly.
“A rare quality in this city,” Sebastian murmured, swirling his whiskey.