It was, after all, what he’d been trained to be: the perfect accessory to his father’s power. Polished, pliable, and politically photogenic.
Only now, of course, he knew the truth.
That Charles Hawthorne wasn’t actually his father.
Surprise!
“Sebastian!” a voice called. “Come settle a debate!”
Oh good. A debate.
Nothing he loved more than being summoned like an extremely handsome coin toss.
He made his way over to a knot of guests clustered around a startup founder in the middle of a full-body monologue. There were wild gestures, buzzwords flying like confetti—blockchain, AI, quantum efficiency. At one point, Sebastian was pretty sure someone said “post-truth authentication” and meant it.
These were the kinds of conversations he could coast through with half a smile and a well-placed eyebrow. And that’s exactly what he did—on autopilot. Because his mind was already somewhere else. Somewhere colder.
Like how his best friend—no, his brother, his actual royal half-brother—would eventually have to decide what to do about the country’s surprise bastard.
Alexander had taken the news with infuriating grace. No yelling, no drama. Just quiet steadiness and that maddening moral compass of his. It made everything both easier and worse. Easier because Sebastian wasn’t alone. Worse because it reminded him just how thoroughly Charles had manipulated everyone.
Sebastian had spent twenty-eight years being molded into a weapon by a man who wasn’t even biologically his father. Just a man with a plan and no conscience.
The man who had raised him for optics, for advantage, and the man who was still very much alive.
Apparently his real father was none other than King James Philip of Caledonia who had been dead for over a decade. The Golden King. Beloved by the nation. Worshipped by the press. Charismatic, radiant, and a complete enigma to his bastard son.
Sebastian would never know him. Never shake his hand. Never demand an explanation. Never scream into the silence and get an answer back.
But Charles?
Charles was still alive.
And that meant he was still within reach.
Sebastian smiled at the startup founder, who was now saying something about digital sovereignty.
“…don’t you think, Sebastian?” someone asked.
Ah. Fantastic.
He was being quizzed mid-monologue and had absolutely no idea what the monologue was about.
He smiled like he’d been paying attention. “I think anyone who claims to understand blockchain after three bottles of champagne is either lying or about to lose a lot of money.”
Laughter. Approval. He accepted it all with grace, the way one might accept an award for a play they barely remembered performing in.
“No sword fight this time?” someone called as he turned away.
He didn’t break stride. “That was a one-time event,” he said. “But if Gavin starts in on tax policy again, I might consider pistols at dawn.” More laughter. One guest raised a glass like he was proposing a toast.
And then— “Sebastian.”
That voice. Low, amused, and laced with just enough suggestion to make it feel like a secret.
He turned to find Liliana Ceretti leaning against the bar, all legs, high cheekbones, and strategically unbothered beauty. Her dress was tangerine silk. It was luxurious, effortless, and absolutely one of a kind.
“Liliana.” He smiled the smile. The one that opened doors and occasionally caused diplomatic incidents. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”