“You’re not going to tell me it’ll all be okay?” he asked, a ghost of a wry smile playing on his lips.
“God, no.” A beat. “It’s going to be a bloody war. But I’ll tell you who we’re taking down first. And we still have Parts Two and Three, Sebastian. He may have changed the battlefield, but not the outcome.”
His head lowered, just slightly. And finally—finally—he let his shoulder lean into hers. Just enough to be real.
An hour later, the sound of a car door slamming outside the Hampstead safe house cut through the morning quiet. Harper glanced out the window and saw a tall figure in an expensive suit striding toward the front door with unmistakable purpose.
“Sebastian,” she called softly. “Someone’s here.”
The doorbell rang—sharp, impatient. Then came the voice that carried through the door like a blade: “Sebastian. It’s Jérôme.”
Harper moved to answer, but Sebastian was already there, pulling the door open to reveal Jérôme Rousseau. At fifty-one, he cut an imposing figure—tall, sharp suit, sharper expression. His anger wasn’t loud; it was controlled, radiating from him in waves.
“You came,” Sebastian said, disbelief and relief warring in his voice.
“Of course I came.” Jérôme’s voice cracked for just a second, the sound raw and real. “I should’ve come sooner.”
He stepped inside, and his gaze moved to Harper, taking her in with the same intensity that marked Sebastian’s expressions, but older, harder. Though his expression did soften slightly as he spoke to her. “And you must be the journalist. Sebastian mentioned you, though he didn’t say nearly enough, it seems.” There was a hint of teasing in his voice that Harper noticed. Sebastian, for his part, looked faintly embarrassed.
“Harper Sinclair,” she offered, extending her hand.
Jérôme shook it briefly. “Always a pleasure to meet a friend of Sebastian’s.”
But as they settled into the lounge, the ease began to fade from his face. The reality of why he was here—why any of them were here—settled over him like a weight. He looked at Sebastian properly for the first time, taking in the tension around his eyes, the way he held his shoulders.
“How bad is it?” Jérôme asked quietly, his voice losing its lightness.
Sebastian sank into a chair, suddenly looking exhausted. “Have you seen the article?”
“I saw enough.” Jérôme’s jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his fury was building. “Charles really did it. That bastard actually—” He stopped.He clenched his fists and tried to regain his composure.
“God, the whole world is reading about my mother’s affair over their morning coffee,” Sebastian said, his voice raw. “About me being some dirty secret everyone’s been keeping.”
Jérôme paced the small space, “Your mother loved you more than anything in this world. She used to call you her miracle.” His voice was tight with emotion. “And now they’ve made her sound like some palace scandal. Like she was just another mistress instead of…” He stopped, breathing hard.
“Instead of what?” Sebastian asked quietly.
“Instead of someone who was in love with the wrong person. She could have taken an easier way out. But she chose you, Sebastian. Every damn day, she chose you.” Jérôme’s fury was raw, protective. “And Charles has turned that into ammunition.”
Finally, Jérôme pulled him in—a rough, too-fast embrace, hand on the back of Sebastian’s neck like he used to when Sebastian was small. Sebastian let it happen. Didn’t move. But didn’t pull away either.
When they separated, Harper spoke up quietly. “Alexander’s been calling. He wants to know how you want to handle this—whether you want to make a statement.”
Sebastian sighed. “I should talk to him. Face to face.”
“Then we go to the palace,” Jérôme said without hesitation. “All of us. You shouldn’t face this alone.”
Harper nodded. “I’ll grab my things. We should move quickly before the press figures out where you are.”
Twenty minutes later, Jérôme’s black sedan pulled up to the palace gates. The three of them sat in tense silence—Sebastian in the front passenger seat, Harper in the back, all of them knowing that walking into the palace now would be walking into the eye of the storm.
“Last chance to change your mind,” Jérôme said quietly.
Sebastian straightened his shoulders. “No. I need to talk to Alexander. Find out where we stand.”
The guards at the gate recognized Sebastian immediately, though their expressions showed they’d clearly seen the morning’s headlines. Withinminutes, they were inside, walking through corridors that buzzed with barely contained chaos. Staff members tried not to stare. Phones rang constantly.
Around the next corner, Alexander emerged from a side office, clearly looking for them. “Sebastian.” Relief flooded his face as he spotted them. “Thank goodness you’re here. We need to—” His words died as his gaze moved to Jérôme. “Mr. Rousseau.”