“I know,” he said softly. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”
Harper walked away, feeling his eyes on her back, the weight of the file in her bag, and the promise of the story to come. They were going to take down Charles Hawthorne. Maybe just a month until everything changed.
Including, perhaps, whatever this was between them.
Sebastian watched her go, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth but he still wondered if he could finally break with the past.
21
Growing Up Hawthorne - 16 Years Ago
The black town car rolled through wet countryside, tires humming over the slick road. Sebastian sat stiffly in the back seat, hands clenched in his lap, blazer too crisp, shoes pinching. Rain needled the windows. Every mile away from Paris felt like another door closing.
He hadn’t cried at the funeral. Not when they lowered her casket. Not when Jérôme hugged him goodbye at the train—not even when his uncle had whispered desperately that there were other options, that Sebastian didn’t have to go to Hawthorne, that Jérôme could find a way to keep him in Paris. But now, with the fog-drenched silhouette of Hawthorne Manor looming ahead, his throat ached like he might.
He hadn’t been here in years. He remembered towering halls, a voice like ice, a man who spoke to his mother like she was a threat and a prize. Back then, she’d called him “Charles.” For everyone else, it wasLord Hawthorne.
Sebastian wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel.
The car pulled up to the front steps. Before the driver could open the door, Sebastian stepped out himself, suitcase in hand.
At the top of the stone steps stood Charles Hawthorne. Impeccably dressed, expression unreadable. The mist curled behind him like stage fog.
“Welcome home,” Hawthorne said, voice dry as dust.
Sebastian’s grip tightened on the handle of his bag. “Thank you, Father,”he said, careful, polite, the French accent still curling the words.
Hawthorne’s eyes narrowed—calculating. “Still clinging to your mother’s vowels, I see.”
Sebastian straightened instinctively. “I can adapt.”
A long pause.
“We’ll see,” Hawthorne replied, then turned on his heel and entered the house without waiting.
Sebastian followed. The entrance hall swallowed him in marble and silence. He remembered flashes from before—portraits like judges, fireplaces that burned cold. The place smelled like polish and absence.
In a side room, a fire sputtered in the grate, struggling against the chill.
“You’ll dine with the adults,” Hawthorne said, glancing over his shoulder. “This isn’t Paris. You’re not here to be coddled.”
“I understand.”
“Prove it.”
Sebastian stood in the center of what was to be his room, alone. The quarters were spacious but austere—no trace of childhood softness. A four-poster bed. A writing desk. Shelves of leather-bound books that looked untouched. The rain drummed against the windowpanes, turning the manicured gardens outside into a blur of grays and greens.
A sharp knock, and a maid entered with pressed shirts. “Lord Hawthorne says you’ll need these for dinner, young master.”
She hung them in the wardrobe with efficiency, then paused, her voice dropping. “There’s fresh lemon cake in the kitchen, if you’d like some before—”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Morrison.”
Hawthorne stood in the doorway, eyes flicking from the maid to Sebastian. “My son won’t be sneaking food like a common servant’s child.”
She nodded and hurried out.
“Lesson one,” Hawthorne said, closing the door. “Staff will try to coddle you. They’ll offer you sweets, tell you stories about your mother, claim they’re ‘just looking after you.’ Refuse them. You are not to be pitied.”