“No. That’s too blunt. Too easy to disprove.” Hawthorne’s voice was steady, measured. “We implyhypocrisy. Paint him as the modern, reforming king who preaches transparency and public accountability—while quietly using taxpayer money to fund luxury appearances. Jet setting on the public’s dime while the average family shops clearance racks.”
“It’s a stretch,” Gerald said, though he didn’t sound opposed. “But it’llfeeltrue to the right people.”
Hawthorne allowed himself the barest smile. “That’s all we need. We don’t have to tear him down. Just muddy the water enough that every press release sounds like spin.”
“And the engagement buzz?” Alaric asked. “It’s fresh. Everyone’s still swooning.”
“Precisely,” Hawthorne said. “We strike now,afterthe photos. When the glow is brightest, even the faintest smudge shows.”
Gerald tapped the folder. “How do you want to leak it?”
“TheGilded Mirror,” Alaric said, already making a note on his phone. “They want credibility. Give them this as a concerned insider tip, and they’ll run it like it’s civic duty.”
“Include a quote,” Hawthorne added. “Something measured. Thoughtful. Concerned. Make it sound like a palace staffer who’s starting to askquestions.”
“And once it’s out?” Gerald asked. “You want us to follow up?”
“No.” Hawthorne stood, adjusting his cufflinks with precise, deliberate care. “Let them chew on it. Let the blogs chase their tails. Let every news anchor ask, ‘Does it matter?’ and every citizen wonder, ‘What else don’t we know?’”
He turned toward the curtained window, watching the city lights shimmer below like a galaxy misplaced.
“He wants to modernize. To drag the monarchy into the present. But the present is fickle. The public loves a king until he blinks wrong.”
He glanced back at them.
“I don’t need to destroy him. Just remind the country that kings are not saints.”
A long pause. The fire crackled behind him, warm and indifferent.
Gerald closed the folder with a quiet snap. “When do we start?”
“As soon as possible,” Hawthorne said. “Once we’ve decided on a story we just need a soft release. Quiet tip. The best time would be mid-week when everyone’s looking for a new story.”
He picked up his whiskey at last, raised it slightly toward the room like a toast—then drank.
“Let’s see how clean the king stays,” he said, “when the court starts bleeding ink.”
20
Food Carts With a Side of Flirting
Harper tugged her coat tighter and tried—not for the first time—to pretend this wasn’t the weirdest meeting of her life. Or that her heart wasn’t beating a touch faster than it should.
Beside her, Sebastian Hawthorne was deep in an impassioned debate with a street vendor about the appropriate cheese-to-potato ratio in a croquette. His scarf was losing a battle with the wind, his coat hung open like he’d forgotten buttons existed, and his hair was in utter disarray—looking, of course, infuriatingly fantastic. The kind of disheveled that magazines spent hours trying to recreate.
She caught herself watching the animated way his hands moved as he spoke, the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Harper quickly looked away, studying the cobblestones with sudden fascination.
He handed over a few coins with unnecessary drama and turned to her, presenting a paper cone like it was a bouquet.
“Okay, you can’t tell me that you don’t love this,” he said. “It’s hot, salty, and has a blatant disregard for the heart.”
“Why do I feel like you’re describing yourself?” Harper asked, accepting the croquette. Her fingers brushed his in the exchange, sending an unwelcome tingle up her arm.
Sebastian laughed. “Hey, I aspire to be snackable.”
She didn’t laugh. She snorted. Which made Sebastian’s grin deepen, like itwas a private treasure he was pleased to uncover. She felt a sudden warmth building inside her that had nothing to do with the food.
“Come on,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “Too many people here. I know a better spot.”