Sebastian looked out the window, where the sun had the audacity to make the world look golden and ordinary.
“He made my mother’s life a cage,” he said, voice flat. “Used me as his pawn and called it protection. I was a child. He taught me how to lie before I learned how to choose.”
Ethan didn’t interrupt.
Sebastian turned back, eyes cold now. “If the only way out is through the fire, then fine. Let it burn.”
Ethan let out a long breath. “When I said I needed a distraction from my breakup, I wasn’t expecting ‘mutually assured political ruin.’”
“You could still walk away,” Sebastian said.
Ethan gave a humorless laugh. “Please. This is better than therapy. Plus, I’d miss your delightful spiral into vengeance.”
Sebastian smirked. “And I’d miss the part where you pretend your hacking is noble.”
“I never said noble,” Ethan said. “I said satisfying.”
Sebastian lifted his mug. “To mutually assured destruction.”
Ethan clinked his mug against Sebastian’s. “To better outlets for rage.”
“Partnership of the century,” Ethan declared.
“Dysfunctional and petty?”
“Always.”
Sebastian drained the rest of his coffee, feeling something he hadn’t felt in months—something unexpected.
Hope.
19
In Which The Villains Schedule a Scandal
The private dining room of the Caledonian Royalist Club was a museum of influence: all mahogany panels and oil paintings of long-dead men who’d smiled politely while carving up the country. A discreet hum of conversation drifted from the main floor, but here—behind closed doors—things were quieter. Sharper.
Lord Charles Hawthorne sat at the head of the long table, fingers wrapped around a glass of thirty-year-old scotch that he had, so far, declined to drink. He didn’t like to cloud his thinking during strategy sessions. And tonight’s session was not about drinks. It was about precision.
Across from him sat Gerald Slate, media mogul and lifelong dealer of scandal, and Alaric Wynn, a political strategist who could dismantle a career in three bullet points or less.
“The boy is clean,” Hawthorne said, voice calm, almost amused. “That’s the problem.”
Gerald shrugged, exasperated. “It’s hard to manufacture scandal when he’s monogamous, articulate, and photogenic. Have you seen the engagement photos? He looks like he stepped out of a Disney monarchy. His approval ratings are—”
“Obscene,” Alaric supplied dryly. “Seventy-two percent favorability overall. Evenmymother likes him.”
“Approval,” Hawthorne said,setting his glass down without sipping, “is a currency. And like all currencies, it can be devalued.”
He opened a leather folder and pulled out a neatly organized manila envelope. He slid it across the table with the same gravity one might use for a detonator.
“Inside,” he said, “is a timeline of his university years. Friends who partied with him abroad. Some minor accounting irregularities. Nothing criminal. But if presented with the right narrative…”
Gerald opened the folder and skimmed. “So he once took a tequila shot in Portugal and someone forgot to itemize the expense?”
“Don’t be so literal Gerald.” Hawthorne retorted. “We just have to find a compelling narrative. He’s such an insufferable idealist, we just need to make it look like empty rhetoric.”
Alaric frowned. “You’re not going for corruption, then?”