Mills glanced at her notes. “So what changed?”
“About six months ago, I found out Charles wasn’t my biological father. That changed everything. I started pulling on threads—things I hadn’t questioned before. Some I’d signed, others I’d dismissed as formalities. But with that revelation… I started looking harder. At first it was personal. Then it turned into something else.”
He paused.
“I had access to internal documents, flagged audit memos, board meeting notes. I began connecting names—consulting firms, shell companies, off-the-books transfers. I wasn’t sure what I was seeing until I brought in discreet forensic help to validate the patterns. But once I had context, it was impossible not to see what Charles had been doing all along.”
“And that includes the Swiss account?”
“Yes. Once we uncovered the structure behindVeridian Holdings, the connections to the Swiss account became clear. From there, it was a matter of tracing how he moved Foundation money offshore—often under theguise of charitable expansion or political strategy.”
“Why not come forward sooner?”
Sebastian didn’t flinch. “Because six months ago, I didn’t have enough to go on. And before that… let’s be honest. No one would’ve believed me.”
He met her gaze steadily.
“For most of my adult life, I was the scandal-prone Viscount. A convenient distraction, not a credible whistleblower. And Charles? He was powerful. Connected. If I’d tried to raise alarms without evidence, he would’ve shredded me. Discredited me. Just like he tried to do by leaking my parentage.”
Mills’s pen paused mid-scratch.
“I wasn’t afraid of embarrassment,” Sebastian continued. “That ship sailed long ago. I was afraid that speaking out without proof would do nothing—except make it easier for Charles to cover his tracks. So I waited. I investigated quietly. I built a case.”
He hesitated just a moment, then added, “I also shared parts of what I found—quietly—with people who could raise questions publicly, in case something happened to me before I could come forward. I needed the story to exist in more than one place.”
“Did he continue pressuring you to participate?”
“In September, he asked me to authorize a new allocation of Foundation funds. I made excuses but I realized I was running out of time. I had to act.”
Mills reached over and switched off the recorder. “Thank you, Mr. Rousseau. We may need to follow up with additional questions, but this is a strong start.”
38
Free at Last
Sunlight, unfiltered and bold, streamed into Sebastian’s townhouse living room. The heavy curtains, once perpetually half-drawn against paparazzi and the weight of secrets, were now thrown wide open, embracing the May morning. The air in the room felt different—lighter, somehow. Sebastian, dressed in a simple button down shirt and dark jeans, was attempting to assemble a surprisingly complex Lego model of the Millennium Falcon on the coffee table, a half-eaten croissant and a cooling cup of coffee beside him. He looked younger, more carefree.
Harper watched him from the armchair, a small smile playing on her lips. She was scrolling through her phone, an amused expression on her face.
“Brace yourself,” she said, without looking up. “The internet has officially lost its collective mind over you.”
Sebastian glanced up from a particularly stubborn Lego piece. “Oh no. What fresh hell have they unleashed now?”
“This one just went viral,” Harper said, reading a tweet aloud with theatrical gravity. “‘He’s a 10, but he was raised by a sociopathic aristocrat who used him as a political pawn, so he developed a devastating sense of humor and a crippling fear of emotional intimacy as a defense mechanism… so he’s a 20 and I think I can fix him.’”
Sebastian stared. “They’re psychoanalyzing me based on a ninety-second press conference? That’s terrifying. And… strangely flattering?”
“It’s the internet. All it takes is one brooding glance and a tragic backstory.”
“It gets worse,” Harper said, swiping. “The prevailing hashtag isn’t just #Rousseau. It’s #BastardPrinceEnergy. It’s being used on everything from thirst traps to videos of raccoons stealing pies from windowsills.”
“I… what?”
“They’re calling it ‘chaotic good with a hint of existential despair,’” she clarified, as if that explained anything.
Harper’s smile sharpened. “I give them two days before someone starts a petition to knight you.”
He shook his head, though a smile was firmly in place. “Ridiculous. Still, it’s a damn sight better than being ‘Viscount Disaster,’ or whatever charming tabloid nickname they usually run with.” He finally clicked the rebellious piece into place on the Lego ship. “There. One step closer to defeating the Empire.”