* **
In their private quarters, Alexander and Emilia shared a quiet morning ritual—breakfast, the paper spread between them, soft conversation passing like shuttles across a loom. The calm shattered with two rapid knocks at the door.
“Come in,” Alexander called.
His aide entered, tension written in every line of his body. “Sir, you need to see this immediately.”
The tablet changed hands. Alexander scrolled, then froze. The colour drained from his face.
“What?” Emilia reached for the screen. “What is it?”
Alexander turned it toward her. Her face went white.
“They’ve outed him,” she breathed.
“Charles,” Alexander said, his voice dangerously quiet. “This has his fingerprints all over it. He threatened Sebastian, and now this. He’s trying to burn everything to the ground to stop that story.” He was already standing, napkin discarded, phone in hand. “Find Sebastian. Now.”
* * *
Jérôme Rousseau was having breakfast at home in Paris when the same headline appeared on his laptop screen. He exhaled slowly, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders like an old coat. He called his assistant and had her to clear his calendar for the next few days, he had urgent family business to deal with.
He left the townhouse with the unhurried air of a man who believed the world should wait for him and headed for a waiting black sedan when the press, who had been lying in wait like patient crocodiles, finally surged forward.
The sudden eruption of flashing cameras and shouted questions wouldhave rattled a seasoned politician. It seemed to bore Jérôme.
A particularly brazen reporter fromThe Buzzdarted in front of him. “Sir, do you have a message for Charles Hawthorne?”
“First,” Jérôme said, his voice quiet but cutting through the noise with chilling precision, “I don’t use the press as a messenger service. It’s so… theatrical.”
He took another step toward his car, the reporters shuffling to keep up.
“But do you think he’s fit to run a charity?” someone else pressed.
Jérôme stopped, his lips twisting into a faint, mirthless smile. “I don’t make it a practice to think about Charles at all,” he said, his voice quiet but cutting. “I find my days are far more pleasant that way.”
The reporters, sensing an opening, pushed closer. One, a woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tone, decided to go for the jugular.
“What about your sister, Madeline?” she called out. “What was her relationship with the late King James Philip really like? Was she in love with him?”
The air of bored amusement vanished from Jérôme’s face instantly. He stopped dead and turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto the woman who had asked the question. The temperature on the pavement seemed to drop ten degrees. The faint smile was gone, replaced by a look of such cold, quiet fury that several reporters instinctively took a step back.
“I am going to give you one piece of advice,” Jérôme said, his voice barely a whisper, yet carrying more menace than a shout. “Never speak my sister’s name again. Not to me. Not in print. Not to anyone.”
He took a deliberate step toward the reporter, who paled visibly.
“Her story is not for you,” he continued, his voice lethally soft. “It is not for sale. It is not a headline for you to pick over like vultures. It is hers and hers alone. Is that understood?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He held her terrified gaze for one more beat before turning away, his composure snapping back into place like a steel trap. He resumed his walk to the car, the crowd parting before him in stunned silence.
He got into the car. As the door clicked shut, sealing him in quiet luxury,he gave a final, dismissive glance before the tinted window slid smoothly up. The sedan pulled away from the curb, leaving the media frenzy behind, utterly and completely shut down.
* * *
Morning sun pushed too brightly through the curtains of the safe house bedroom in Hampstead. Sebastian lay still, shirtless, phone face-down beside him after a restless night. The first buzz came as a gentle intrusion, then again, more insistent. The third vibration carried the urgency that only came from something truly disastrous. A text from Ethan blazed across the screen.
Ethan:DUDE. GET UP. NOW! YOU NEED TO CHECK THE GILDED MIRROR. HOLY SH*T!!
Sebastian groaned into his pillow. “It’s too early for panic unless someone’s pregnant or missing.” He grabbed the phone, scrolling sleepily. Then—stillness.