She recognized the look in his eyes—it was the same one she saw in the mirror whenever she was close to breaking a story that mattered. But then his expression shifted, grew distant. He was staring past her now, at the weathered stone walls of the courtyard, and she could see something working behind his eyes.
“Sebastian?”
He blinked back to her, but the usual mask felt thinner now. “Sorry, I just—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m just playing another one of his games, you know? Even when I think I’m fighting him.”
Harper leaned forward, her voice quiet but firm. “You don’t have to be what Hawthorne made you.”
Sebastian didn’t answer right away. He let his gaze drift past her again, to where winter light caught the fountain’s spray, perfect and cold.
He remembered the first time he learned exactly what Hawthorne wanted him to be. The careful lessons in manipulation. The way Charles had smiledwhen Sebastian first used someone’s vulnerability against them, like a father watching his son take his first steps.
Harper was still watching him, her frown deepening, like she could see the memories crawling just beneath his skin.
“The thing is,” Sebastian said finally, his voice quieter than she’d ever heard it, “I’m good at being his weapon. Maybe too good.” He looked at her directly now. “What if that’s all I really know how to be?”
“I don’t believe that,” Harper said without hesitation.
“Why not?”
“Because his weapon wouldn’t be sitting here questioning whether he’s doing the right thing.” She gestured to the file. “Charles’s perfect creation would have found a way to leverage this for power, not hand it over.”
Sebastian felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly. “You really think that?”
“I know it.” Her voice was steady, certain. “You’re not what he made you, Sebastian. You’re what you chose to become despite him.”
He stared at her, this woman who saw through every carefully constructed layer, who challenged him to be better than his worst instincts. The evening light caught in her hair, and he had the dangerous thought that maybe, just maybe, she was right.
Sebastian forced his usual air of effortlessness, the armor he knew too well. But this time it felt different. Lighter. He stood, adjusting his jacket with casual grace.
“When do we run it?” he asked, breaking the tension.
Harper took a deep breath. “It’ll take at least another month to finish verifying everything independently, track down some additional sources for context. Then we go to print.” She tucked the file securely into her bag and looked up at him suddenly aware of how little space remained between them on the small bench.
Sebastian reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face with deliberate slowness. “And when this is over,” he said, his voice low, “when Charles is facing what he’s done… what then?”
The question wrapped around her, awakeningnew possibilities that were unexpected and tempting. Harper knew the professional answer, the safe answer. But sitting here with him, the city quiet around them and anticipation humming through her veins, she found herself unwilling to give it.
“I guess we’ll find out,” she replied, allowing herself to lean into his touch just slightly.
Sebastian’s eyes darkened, and for a heart-stopping moment, Harper thought he might close the remaining distance between them. Instead, he stood, offering her his hand.
“We will,” he said.
She took his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Their hands remained linked a moment longer than necessary.
“I won’t be long now,” she said, reluctantly withdrawing her hand and buttoning her coat. “Don’t do anything reckless until then.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, his eyes telling a different story entirely.
Harper turned to leave but paused, looking back at him. “Sebastian?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For trusting me with this.”
Something vulnerable flashed across his face before his customary smirk returned. “Don’t thank me yet, Sinclair. The hard part’s still coming.”
She smiled, a genuine one this time. “I’m not scared.”