Page 73 of Throne Off Course

“What a coincidence,” Sebastian said smoothly. “I was just about to suggest the same thing. There’s a wonderful little bistro not far from here—the chef trained in Lyon. Your mother would appreciate it.”

Josephine brightened immediately. “You know this place?”

“I would never recommend a restaurant I haven’t personally vetted,” Sebastian assured her. “And Chef Michel maintains the highest standards.”

Before Emilia could object, her mother was already linking arms with Sebastian, peppering him with questions about Parisian neighborhoods and French cuisine.

Richard fell into step beside his daughter, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Your mother has found a kindred spirit, it seems.”

“She’s being charmed by a professional,” Emilia muttered.

Her father chuckled. “Perhaps. But genuine cultural connection is difficult to fake.” He watched Sebastian gesturing animatedly as he described a particular Parisianbakery to Josephine. “It seems your royal project has surrounded you with interesting people, Emilia.”

Ahead of them, Sebastian glanced back, catching Emilia’s eye with a triumphant smirk. She narrowed her eyes in response, but couldn’t help a reluctant smile. Sebastian, of course, considered this a victory.

By the time they reached the restaurant, he had completely won over Josephine with tales of Paris and promised to send Richard a first-edition philosophy text from his family’s library. Emilia realized, with a sinking feeling, that her carefully controlled narrative about palace life had just been completely derailed by Sebastian’s effortless charm—and that her mother would now have even more questions about her work at the palace.

34

Nothing Says ‘Legacy’ Like Hush Money

Sebastian hadn’t forgotten his promise to uncover whatever leverage his father held over the king; it was just that the right moment simply hadn’t presented itself—until now. When his father left for the weekend, Sebastian waited exactly fifty-seven minutes—long enough for the security detail to disperse, the house to settle into its usual quiet, and his father’s ironclad control to wane—before making his move.

Hidden somewhere in this house was whatever his father had on King James Philip, and Sebastian Hawthorne fully intended to find it.

His father was shrewd, controlling, and, of course, paranoid. That’s why Sebastian was sure that any incriminating evidence would be in his father’s office where he could keep a close eye on it. His father was a man who kept meticulous order, but Sebastian had grown up watching him. Studying him. He knew when something was arranged to look untouched. His father was hiding something, and he had a very good idea where to start.

He walked into his father’s office and ran his hands over the desk. The bottom drawer was locked, of course. Sebastian knelt, tracing his fingers along the edge, until he found the small groove—a mechanism disguised as part of the woodwork. It took him less than two minutes to bypass it. Considering he had been grounded for an entire summer at sixteen for attempting the same thing, the success was deeplysatisfying.

Inside, there were files—organized, labeled, precise. Sebastian flipped through them quickly, looking for anything tied to the former king. Then he saw it: a folder marked only with a date—one that predated the king’s death by months.

Sebastian unfolded the letter tucked inside. At first glance, it looked like a standard financial record—lists of transactions, figures, transfers between private accounts. But then he noticed the sender—King James Philip—and the recipient—his father. Sebastian’s brow furrowed. He scanned further. Not one payment. Not two. A series. Years of them. His father had been receiving money from the king. Regular, consistent payments and then—after the king’s death—they stopped.

Sebastian let out a slow breath, gripping the letter a little too tightly. So this was why his father had always acted like he held something over the monarchy. And now? Sebastian needed to find out why.

Sebastian was about to put the letter back when something else slipped from the folder—a small, folded note, different from the rest. Not financial records. Not formal. Personal. The handwriting was distinctly not his father’s. Sebastian hesitated, then carefully unfolded the note. One sentence: “I can’t keep pretending in public when every moment away from you feels unbearable.” No name. No signature. Sebastian’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t just blackmail. This was a secret affair, and his father had known all along.

Sebastian folded the note carefully, slipping it into his jacket alongside the financial records. He had seen enough. Consistent payments from King James Philip to his father, money stopping right before the King’s death, and now—a note. One that was painfully intimate, unsigned, but clear in its meaning. Sebastian wasn’t one for dramatics—well, not when it didn’t serve him—but this felt big.

He wasn’t about to sit alone in his father’s study, overthinking whatever mess he’d just unearthed. He needed a second opinion. And unfortunately, Alexander and Emilia were the closest thing to reasonable people he knew.

Sebastian arrived at the archives half an hour later, sweeping through the doors like a man who had just acquired the juiciest piece of gossip in royal history. Alexander and Emilia were seated in their usual spots, surrounded by stacks of old documents—deep in research mode. Emilia looked up first, raising an eyebrow at his dramatic entrance.

“Please tell me you’re here for an actual reason,” she said wearily. “Or are you just bored and looking to be a menace?”

Sebastian grinned, slipping into the chair across from them. “Oh, Emilia. Can’t a man simply visit his dear friends?”

Alexander didn’t even look up from the document he was reading. “No.”

Sebastian smirked. “Fair enough. Lucky for you, I actually do have something worthwhile this time.”

That got Alexander’s attention. He glanced up, studying Sebastian’s expression, which—for once—lacked its usual lazy amusement.

“What did you find?”

Sebastian pulled the folded papers from his jacket, setting them on the table. “Financial records. My father was getting regular payments from your father. And then—right before your father died—” he tapped the page, “they stopped.”

Emilia’s brows furrowed as she leaned in, scanning the figures. “These aren’t small sums. This isn’t a casual favor. This is… something significant.”