He’d materialized at Sebastian’s side mid-conversation, drink in hand, and murmured, “Hey, you’re the viscount right? Word of advice, you need to disappear. Like now. The terrifying arms dealer over there is muttering about how he’s going to kill you. Hopefully only figuratively but quite possibly literally.”
They’d slipped out through the service corridor, dodged an irate sous chef, and ended up crouched behind a dumpster while Sebastian, tie askew and adrenaline spiking, re-evaluated every life choice that had led him to that moment.
It had been friendship at first death threat.
Since then, he had been an improbable ally, the kind of friend who showed up with top-shelf whiskey and terrible advice, both eagerly absorbed. Though Ethan was usually drowning in work, it was always worth clearing the schedule when he did resurface.
Sebastian thumbed through his contacts, hovered over Ethan’s name. It had been months since they’d properly talked.
He hit call.
Three rings. Then Ethan answered, “If you’re calling to sell me crypto, I already regret this friendship.”
Sebastian grinned. “Crypto is over, that was last year’s scam,” Sebastian drawled, leaning back in his chair, feet propped on his pristine desk. “This year, it’s all about AI-generated art. Utterly unique. Profoundly valueless.”
Ethan’s laugh was immediate and sharp. “Jesus. Where the hell have you been?”
“The usual. The palace. Running errands for Charles. You?”
“Betrayed, dumped, and possibly developing a caffeine allergy. Come visit me, I’m hiding in Monaco.”
“Monaco? Fine. But if I have to set foot on that floating testament to your questionable taste, I’m billing you for the ensuing psychological damage.”
A beat of silence, thick with unspoken amusement.
“You mean ‘Boaty McBoatface’?” Ethan’s tone was pure innocence.
“You allowed a public internet poll to name a vessel that costs more than the cost of a private Caribbean island,” Sebastian stated, his voice utterly deadpan. It wasn’t a question.
“Well, it was either that or ‘Seas the Means of Production’,” Ethan retorted, a hint of defensiveness creeping in. “Boaty felt less likely to cause some kind of international incident.”
Sebastian exhaled slowly, a sound freighted with mock despair. “You’re a menace to good taste and international maritime law.”
“No,” Ethan chirped, entirely unrepentant and far too cheerful. “I’m what they call ‘delightfully eccentric.’ You’re just jealous of my undeniable flair for the dramatic.”
“That’s not eccentric. It’s a cry for help.”
Ethan chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “Potayto, potahto. So, you’re coming, right?”
“Of course,” Sebastian conceded, a smile finally warming his tone. “Your particular brand of lunacy is far too entertaining to miss. Besides, someone needs to make sure you don’t accidentally declare war on Lichtenstein out of sheer boredom.”
The call ended a few minutes later, only for Sebastian to start browsing flights.
When he closed his laptop later that night, it was with a half-packed bag and a flight booked under one of the fake names he reserved for inconvenient getaways and strategic vanishings.
He landed in Nice just after noon and then took the short helicopter ride into Monaco where the sunlight shimmered off every glass surface. It was a place built on secrets and champagne, perfectly suited for both hiding and being seen.
Sebastian made his way to a bar that was perched high above the harbor, all soft leather booths and overpriced cocktails. He slid into a booth across from Ethan, who looked like heartbreak in a designer hoodie with three-day stubble, under eye shadows, and the kind of bored wealth that could turn self-destruction into brand strategy.
Ethan glanced up, his expression sharpening as he took in Sebastian’s appearance. “Well, well. Look what the Learjet dragged in. Still running errands for Daddy Hawthorne?”
Sebastian shrugged out of his jacket, casually elegant even after all the travel. “Charles sends his regards, and a thinly veiled threat. Or, at least he would, if he knew I was here.”
The waitress arrived, young, beautiful, with the practiced impassivity of someone who regularly served the obscenely wealthy. Sebastian ordered a whiskey, neat, with casual authority that suggested he belonged here, then turned back to Ethan with a bit more sympathy in his expression.
“So, Maya and Jordan, huh?”
Ethan’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his glass. “They’re starting a wellness startup in Bali. I give it six months. Four if they try to monetize enlightenment.”