“I almost didn’t.” She stepped closer, perfume curling around her like an invitation. “But then I remembered how much fun we had at your last party.”
Ah yes. That night. All champagne and bedsheets and expertly managed detachment.
“We did, didn’t we,” he said, meaning it completely—and hating that it felt like ancient history.
Her fingers grazed the lapel of his jacket—light, casual, practiced. “I was thinking we might find some new ways to entertain ourselves.”
And for a moment, he almost considered it. Liliana was gorgeous, clever, the sort of distraction that would keep him from thinking about things he shouldn’t be thinking about. About someone with assessing grey-blue eyes and an infuriating tendency to call him on his bullshit.
Someone who wasn’t here. Someone who probably wouldn’t approve of any of this.
“You’re gorgeous as always,” Sebastian said, his voice warm but definitive. “But I think I’m going to be terrible company tonight.”
Liliana’s smile didn’t waver, but something shifted in her eyes. She was too smart not to recognize a polite dismissal. “Shame. Though I have to say, being turned down by Sebastian Hawthorne is almost as intriguing as not being turned down.”
“Almost?”
She leaned up and kissed his cheek, light and friendly. “Yes, and when you decide to stop being mysterious and boring, you know where to find me.”
She drifted away with the same easy confidence she’d arrived with, already scanning the room for more promising prospects. Sebastian watched her go and tried not to think about why the idea of easy, uncomplicated fun suddenly felt exhausting.
Oh god. He really was turning into Charles—cynical, closed off, allergic to anything that didn’t serve a purpose.
The terrace was a retreat. Distance, air, quiet. A break from the scent of expensive perfume and even more expensive lies.
The night was crisp, the city stretched out below him—glittering, distant, and utterly indifferent. A postcard view of ambition and denial.
Twenty-eight years he’d played his part. Sebastian Hawthorne, heir to the impeccable Hawthorne name. The charming rogue with a headline-ready smile. A scandal or two to keep things interesting, but always barely tame enough to stay in bounds.
But the real joke was that he wasn’t even Charles’s to begin with. No blood tie. No birthright. Just a project. A polished little pawn carved into something useful. Now he was something else entirely.
Sebastian Hawthorne, secret prince. Bastard son of a dead monarch. Caledonia’s most inconvenient truth.
Somewhere in a locked drawer, Charles probably had drafts ready in a case of a leak. Something statesmanlike. Dignified. A vague statementabout ‘family complexities’ and ‘historical context’—his two favorite euphemisms for lies. Because Charles didn’t just want a son. He wanted leverage against the crown. An insurance policy that gave him freedom to act as he pleased. A weapon dressed in bespoke tailoring.
Mission accomplished.
Sebastian took a long sip of his drink, letting the burn settle in his chest.
Well, Charles wanted a weapon and now he had one, but the safety was off.
* * *
The next morning found Sebastian in the kitchen, locked in a silent standoff with the espresso machine. The thing pulsed like a dying star.
Great, no coffee.
He poured himself a lukewarm cup from the backup pot like a man defeated in battle. No crema. No joy. Just bitterness and betrayal in a porcelain cup.
Sleep had been a joke lately. Not just because of last night’s festivities-slash-identity crisis. No, this had been a slow-motion breakdown. One late-night Google search at a time.
Searches like: “Bastard royal scandals Europe”, “Vintage champagne sabres” (Apparently a 3 a.m. drunk purchase that would now be coming back to haunt him on Tuesday.), “What to do when your life is a lie”, “Can you sue a dead king for emotional damage?”
That one had turned up some very creative Reddit threads. And then there was the documentary.
The Life and Legacy of King James Philip.
Archival footage. Soft-focus interviews. Voiceover like a lullaby for the tragicallyabandoned. And then, there he was.