“Try not to burn anything down before our next meeting,” she said, adjusting the strap on her shoulder.
“No promises,” Sebastian replied, voice soft.
She walked out with the kind of unbothered elegance people tried to bottle. Tossed a lazy wave over her shoulder.
Was she still smiling?
He sat in the glow of her exit, the city melting in the rain behind her.
Harper Sinclair had seen both sides of him the polish and the poison, and hadn’t flinched.
That should have felt like safety.
Instead, it was like standing on the edge of a rooftop, wind in his chest, waiting to see if she’d jump too.
* * *
It had been a long day.
Which was impressive, considering it had only started at eleven am.
Sebastian sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on knees, staring at the photograph on his nightstand.
Him and Madeline. His mother. Her arm slung around his shoulders, mid-laugh, eyes shining like she knew a joke the rest of the world had missed.
He was seven in that photo. Gap-toothed, sun-kissed, and blissfully unaware of what was to come.
Back when he still thought Charles might love him. Back when being a Hawthorne had seemed likesomething worth wanting.
Technically, he’d been an orphan since age eleven.
Emotionally? That bomb hadn’t gone off until years later, delayed grief with a side of shattered identity and elegant repression.
His phone buzzed.
Jérôme: You know the truth now. Come to Paris. There are things you should have had long ago.
Jérôme Rousseau. His mother’s brother. The cool uncle with impeccable style and a casual disregard for rules. The one who used to sneak him chocolates and French curse words when Madeline wasn’t looking.
The one Charles had cut out of their lives without ceremony. Without reason.
Until now, Sebastian hadn’t realized how much that loss had mattered.
He stared at the message.
“Things you should have had.”
Letters? Photos? A posthumous guilt bouquet from the dead king himself? Sorry I left everyone else to deal with my poor life decisions, best wishes, your secret dad.
Whatever it was, it was time.
He couldn’t keep circling the drain. Couldn’t keep haunting his own townhouse, waiting for dead men to speak.
He grabbed a bag. Nothing dramatic, just essentials, chargers, the vague hope that someone in Paris would offer answers instead of morequestions.
He stepped into the night.
Paris in the spring. Romantic, overpriced, and perfect for unpacking generational trauma over pastries.