But it wasn’t cold. Not exactly. There were little signs that someone lived here. The open book on the arm of the sofa, a scarf draped carelessly over a chair, the faint smell of bergamot and smoke.
Sebastian dropped into the nearest armchair without asking, his movements instinctive. He’d lived here once, briefly, after his mother died and before Hawthorne decided that boarding school was a better way to stamp out any inconvenient sentimentality.
That arrangement had ended quickly. Charles replaced Paris with rigid English boarding schools, using Jérôme’s “unsettled bachelor lifestyle” and “questionable companions” as the official reasons to keep Sebastian under his own austere supervision. Unofficially, it was because Charles couldn’t stand the idea of Sebastian feeling like he belonged anywhere else.
He was still staring out the window when his uncle had finally appeared.
Jérôme had aged like a leading man. His salt-and-pepper hair, tailored navy suit, slight five o’clock shadow lending him an air of calculated dishevelment. His tie was undone, but it somehow looked intentional rather than careless because everything about Jérôme Rousseau was deliberate, even his apparent casualness.
“Sébastien,” his uncle said, studying him with an arched brow. “You look terrible.”
“You always say that,” Sebastian replied, unbothered.
“Perhaps because it’s always true,” Jérôme countered. Then he added, “I don’t think being around Charles agrees with you.”
“I don’t think being around Charles agrees with anyone,” Sebastian retorted.
Jérôme laughed as he crossed to the bar, pouring two drinks with the kind of flair that suggested it was both performance and habit. “So, is the royal engagement circus as insufferable as it appears?”
“I haven’t faked my own death yet, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sebastian muttered. The banter was easy now, worn in. Not the tentative awkwardness of their first reunion years ago, when Sebastian had shown up on Jerome’s doorstep, trying to reconnect with the only blood family he’d ever trusted.
“Hm. Maybe wait until after the wedding. I want to see you in tails.” Jérôme’s eyes crinkled with amusement as he gestured toward a low, modern leather couch.
Sebastian took a sip, let the burn settle. “Thank you for the car.”
“And for rescuing you from whatever gilded prison they were keeping you in? You’re welcome.”
Sebastian exhaled slowly. He hesitated, watching the amber swirl in his glass. “I needed to think. And I needed to talk to you. There are things happening, and I can’t say most of it in writing. Charles might be monitoring my messages.”
“Of course he is,” Jérôme said, his voice clipped. “He’s a snake.”
“The truth is, I’m working with someone,” Sebastian said slowly. “An investigative journalist.”
Jérôme’s brows lifted. “That’s new.”
“The goal is to expose Charles. Financial misconduct, illegal contracts, manipulation of public funds. It’s not published yet, but it’s close. We’re being careful.”
“And this journalist,” Jérôme said, narrowing his eyes. “Are they trustworthy?”
“Yes.” Sebastian’s tone left no room for debate. “Meticulous, principled, relentless. She triple-checks everything, every source, every document. The work will hold.”
There was something in his voice that was too steady, too sure and Jérôme, of course, caught it.
“Aha,” his uncle said lightly. “She, is it?”
Sebastian gave him a look. “Don’t.”
“I’m just observing. You’re usually more skeptical. It’s delightful.”
“It’s strategic,” Sebastian snapped. Then, after a slight pause, “And… maybe it’s something else. But that’s irrelevant right now.”
“Mm.” Jérôme sipped his drink, eyes gleaming. “Let me guess. She’s beautiful, stubborn, terrifying when cornered in an argument?”
Sebastian didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Jérôme exhaled a soft laugh. It was quiet, satisfied, like he’d just solved a particularly elegant equation.
Sebastian gave him a look. “Since we’re suddenly so invested in personal lives, should I finally ask what happened with Dominique?”