The story was delivered with perfect comedic timing, butHarper noted how it subtly undermined the minister’s credibility and policy positions while appearing to be mere gossip.
“Do they even realize what he’s doing?” she said quietly, almost to herself.
Margot followed her gaze. “That’s the danger. You’re either part of the performance or you’re writing about it. Never both.”
As the evening wound down, Harper finished interviewing a startup founder near the entrance.
When she looked up, she spotted Sebastian leaving with a small group. Their eyes met briefly across the room. He gave her a slight, knowing smile—as if they shared some private joke—before disappearing through the doors.
They collected their coats and stepped into the cool evening air as the city glittered around them, the mirrored buildings reflecting back a ribbon of lights.
“So?” Margot asked as they waited for taxis. “Verdict on your first high-society press event?”
Harper considered, turning the evening over in her mind. “It’s all performance, isn’t it? Everyone playing roles.”
Margot nodded approvingly. “Now you’re getting it.”
Harper glanced back at the venue, its glass facade glowing from within. “I wonder which role is the real Sebastian Hawthorne.”
“That, darling,” Margot said, flagging down a taxi, “is the million-pound question. And from what I hear, not even he knows the answer anymore.”
The taxi pulled up, and Margot squeezed Harper’s arm before climbing in. “Good work tonight.
You’ve got the right instincts. Just remember—in this world, charm is currency and everyone’s selling something.”
As the taxi pulled away, Harper stood alone on the pavement, the cool night air clearing her head. She’d come for a story about technology and politics. She’d left with something else entirely—the first chapter in a narrative she couldn’t yet decipher.
3
Conflict of Interest
Harper had known this moment was coming from the second she’d seen the morning headlines. The walk to Craig’s office felt like a death march, she passed colleagues who either avoided her eyes or watched her with barely concealed curiosity. The newsroom buzzed with the kind of electric energy that only came with major breaking news, but Harper moved through it like she was underwater, each step heavier than the last.
The story that could have made her career was about to slip away, transformed into something she could only influence from the shadows. If she was lucky.
Craig’s door was open, but everything about his posture screamed that this was not going to be a friendly chat. He stood by the window, his usually rumpled shirt pressed and his tie properly knotted, the kind of formal dress he reserved for board meetings and editorial disasters. When he turned as she entered, he didn’t smile.
On his large, cluttered desk, laid out like evidence at a crime scene, was this morning’s paper. The front page photo showed her best friend Emilia radiant in her fiance’s arms, her engagement ring catching the camera’s flash. The headline blazed in bold type: A ROYAL ENGAGEMENT.
Harper closed the door quietly behind her, the soft click echoing in the tense silence. She walked to his desk but didn’t sit.
“So,” she said, her voice even despite the knot in her stomach. “We have a problem.”
Craig let out a slow exhale and finally met her eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “Understatement of the year,” he said. He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”
She did. He remained standing, arms crossed.
“It’s a lovely photo,” he said flatly. “Your best friend is going to be Queen. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Harper said carefully. “She’s asked me to be her Maid of Honor.”
Craig nodded slowly, processing. The silence stretched between them like a taut wire.
“And that makes you unpublishable,” he finally said.
The word landed like a slap. Unpublishable. As if her credibility could be erased by proximity, as if five years of work meant nothing next to one well-placed diamond ring.
Harper felt her carefully maintained composure cracking. “So, because I’m connected to the palace, my byline is toxic on anything remotely political,” she said, more to herself than to him. The reality was sinking in.