“Thank you. That means a lot.”
Margot clinked her glass against Harper’s. “The first rule of these things is look like you belong, even when you’re screaming internally.” She took a slow sip of her champagne, surveying the room with practiced ease. “Come on, I’ll give you the unofficial tour. The canapés are mediocre, but the gossip is top-shelf.”
Harper fell into step beside her, grateful for the guidance. As they circulated, Margot provided a running commentary that wouldn’t have been out of place in a wildlife documentary. “That’s Finance Minister Hartford by the bar, avoiding questions about the budget amendment. Keeps checking his watch because his mistress is already waiting for him.” Next she pointed to a serious looking woman across the room, “That’s Anne Liu, CEO of NexTech. Rebranding after that privacy scandal last quarter. Notice how she’s wearing sensible heels now instead of Louboutins.It’s all part of a carefully crafted ‘serious tech leader’ image.”
“That cluster by the sculpture? Political journalists from The Observer. They’re just here for the free champagne.”
Harper absorbed it all, mentally taking notes. In journalism school, they’d taught research methods and interview techniques. No one had mentioned this—the intricate social ecosystem where the real power circulated beneath pleasantries and performative handshakes.
She was about to ask Margot about approaching one of the tech executives when a burst of laughter drew her attention to the opposite side of the room. A small crowd had gathered around someone she couldn’t quite see, their body language radiating that particular energy that surrounds the genuinely charismatic.
The crowd shifted, and suddenly she caught a glimpse of him.
He was tall, with the kind of face that ancient sculptors would have appreciated, handsome but with just enough mischief in his expression to make it interesting. His suit was impeccably tailored, dark blue against a crisp white shirt, but he wore it with a deliberate carelessness—tie ever-so-slightly loosened, sleeves pushed up just enough to suggest he found the formal attire constraining. His golden brown hair fell in artful waves that looked effortless but probably required expert styling.
He was mid-story, hands gesturing theatrically, his eyes bright with something that looked like genuine amusement. Whatever he was saying had his audience captivated—two models in cutting-edge dresses, an older man Harper recognized as an MP, and a woman with a press badge who was laughing too hard to maintain any journalistic distance.
“Who’s that?” Harper asked.
Margot followed her gaze, an amused expression spreading across her face. “Oh, that’s Sebastian Hawthorne. Viscount Edgecliffe. Son of Charles Hawthorne, Earl of Avondale and Caledonia’s most photogenic tragedy.”
Harper watched as he finished his story with a perfectly timed punchline, sending his audience into another round of laughter. Even from across the room, his charisma was palpable, like a physical force field that drew people in.
“He seems… popular,” Harper observed, aiming for professional detachment.
Margot’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Yes, he’s certainly made a lot of friends since he’s come on the scene. Journalists, socialites, even that very married MP’s aide who’s currently hanging on his every word.” She nodded toward a blonde woman in her thirties who was looking at Sebastian like he’d invented charisma. “He’s charming, beautiful, and absolutely emotionally unavailable.”
Harper tore her gaze away, forcing herself to appear only professionally curious. “Why ‘photogenic tragedy’?”
Margot guided them toward a quieter corner, leaning against a pillar. “His mother died when he was eleven—people say it was suicide. Illness, officially. His father the Earl is…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Complicated. Cold. Politically ruthless. Sebastian was shipped off to boarding schools, then university abroad. Now he’s the perfect society darling—champagne, parties, scandals just provocative enough to be interesting without being truly damaging.”
Harper took a sip of her champagne, absorbing this information. “Sounds like a stereotype.”
“Doesn’t it just?” Margot agreed. “His father runs half the government from the shadows. For the last couple years Sebastian runs the other half from various bars and charity galas. He’s smarter than he lets on, and definitely trouble. The society pages call him ‘devastatingly charming.’ The political pages call him ‘a convenient distraction.’”
Harper frowned. “From what?”
Margot’s smile widened. “Exactly. He charms his father’s critics, makes sure the Hawthornes are seen giving to all the right causes and provides just enough distraction that most people forget to look too closely at what his father is actually doing these days.”
Harper studied Sebastian more carefully now, professional interest mingling with the undeniable pull of attraction. He’d moved to another group, head bent slightly to listen to someone speaking, his expression feigning attention. But she noticed his eyes—they moved constantly, tracking conversations happening elsewhere, cataloging entrances and exits.
“So he’s just a pretty diversion?” Harper asked.
Margot shrugged, but her expression was more complex than her casual tone suggested. “Maybe, or maybe he’s exactly what he seems—rich, privileged, and completely directionless. Eitherway, he’s catnip for new reporters. Most either want to sleep with him or be the one to actually take him and his father down. Some managed the first, none managed the second.”
Before Harper could process that particular revelation, Margot straightened, smoothing her dress.
“Come on. Let’s introduce you to Anne. Her PR team is desperate to get positive coverage after the data breach fiasco. She’ll talk to anyone with a press badge tonight.”
They made their way across the room, Harper listening attentively as Margot outlined the best angle for approaching the tech CEO. They were nearing the bar when a figure stepped into their path, reaching past Harper for a drink.
The movement brought him directly into her space—a subtle whiff of expensive cologne, the brush of tailored wool against her arm.
“Margot Hayes,” Sebastian Hawthorne said, voice rich with amusement. “Still pretending these events have journalistic merit?”
“Sebastian Hawthorne,” Margot countered without missing a beat. “Still pretending to be nothing but a pretty face?”
Their exchange had the comfortable rhythm of adversaries who secretly enjoyed the sparring.