He turned to the window, fog swallowing the city below. “Miles,” he said, voice smooth as ice. “Every message. Every move. If Sebastian so much as breathes near someone, I want their name.”
Miles nodded, fingers hesitating over the tablet. “Yes, sir.”
“And start a narrative. Slow. Personal. Let him remember who he is when the lights go out.”
Miles swallowed. “You want to ruin him?”
Charles’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “I want him to come home.”
He turned back toward the window, watching the fog settle like a curtain on the city below.
So, Sebastian wanted his independence? Then he could pay for it.
And Charles Hawthorne always collected what he was owed.
25
Whiskey, Warnings, and the Worst Case Scenario
Sebastian’s townhouse was a perfect mess.
Not a disaster—nothing so undignified—but the kind of chaos that came from panicking after you told an evil sociopath you were done playing their games. There were documents scattered around the room, several espresso cups, an empty bottle of something French and regretful on the kitchen counter, and in the middle of it all: Sebastian Hawthorne, barefoot, brooding, and wrapped in a bathrobe like a man whose kingdom had fallen.
Ethan Klein, meanwhile, was already making more coffee. He’d let himself in because he always did, and because Sebastian had texted at 3:04 AM:
“Code red. Possibly dying. Bring pastries.”
No pastries had been acquired. Ethan thought it best to find Sebastian first and assess the actual threat level.
“You look like you regret all your life choices,” Ethan said, handing him a mug.
Sebastian took it with a grunt. “I told my evil fake-father to go to hell.”
Ethan blinked. “And you’re still alive?”
“The story exposing his corruption goes live tomorrow,” Sebastian said. “Monaco transfers, Cayman accounts, shell companies—the works. Harper’s sources came through with everything.”
“That’s… good news, right?” Ethan asked cautiously.
“It would be, except that my father is going to come at me with nuclear retaliation.” Sebastian flopped onto the velvet couch with the elegance of someone spiraling in style.
Ethan sat beside him. “Okay. What is he going to leak, the Canning Street paperwork?”
“I wish. That’s just the appetizer. It’s not just one thing. It’s the mosaic. The illusion of chaos. You know how he is, he doesn’t have to invent a scandal. He just has to curate one.”
Ethan was quiet for a beat. Then: “You think he’ll go after Harper?”
That landed like a punch.
Sebastian didn’t answer right away.
He sipped his coffee. Avoided eye contact. Finally: “The story is supposed to be anonymous, he shouldn’t even know that she is involved. But if he figures it out…”
“He wouldn’t dare, there’s no proof,” Ethan said.
Sebastian gave him a look.
Ethan winced. “Right. Of course he would. He’s a sociopath with a subscription to Tatler.”