Page 90 of Throne Off Course

His father actually laughed at that—a short, crisp sound devoid of warmth. “Do you really think so little of my intelligence? No, Sebastian. I married Madeline because she was carrying the King’s child.” He raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Your existence was valuable long before you drew your first breath.”

Sebastian’s blood went cold. “Valuable,” he repeated, the word hollow.

“Having the King’s son under my roof? Under my name and influence?” Lord Hawthorne took a measured sip of his whiskey. “The leverage that provided was… substantial.”

Sebastian felt something inside him fracture. “So I was what—a bargaining chip? A hostage?”

“An investment,” his father corrected, tone maddeningly reasonable. “One that has paid dividends far beyond my initial calculations.”

Sebastian barked out a laugh. “How fortunate for you.”

“For both of us,” Lord Hawthorne countered. “What do you think would have happened to a royal bastard without my protection? Without my name? You would have been relegated to the shadows—a shameful secret, trotted out only when useful, then hidden away again.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened. “As opposed to what you did—keeping me close so you could extract maximum benefit from my existence?”

Lord Hawthorne waved a dismissive hand. “Initially, yes. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise.” His gaze sharpened. “But plans evolve, Sebastian. You were supposed to be merely leverage—a means to an end. I hadn’tanticipated…”

He trailed off, studying Sebastian with a clinical detachment that somehow felt worse than anger. “I hadn’t anticipated that you would be quite so… capable.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “Capable.”

“Sharp. Quick-witted. Politically astute.” Lord Hawthorne set his glass down, leaning forward. “By the time you were ten, I knew you were more valuable as a protégé than as a mere pawn.”

“How generous of you to recognize my potential,” Sebastian bit out.

His father ignored the barb. “You think I kept you purely for leverage? Some cold calculation?” His lips curved, just slightly. “That was only the beginning. Once I saw what you could become—the political mind you were developing, your instinctive grasp of power dynamics—it would have been criminal not to cultivate that talent.”

Sebastian stiffened; his father’s smirk widened.

“You have your mother’s wit,” Lord Hawthorne mused. “And the King’s charm, undoubtedly.” His gaze darkened. “But your ability to control a room? To pull strings? To manipulate perception?” He gestured toward Sebastian with his glass. “That you got from me.”

Sebastian felt something settle in his stomach—heavy, poisonous.

Because for all his years of resisting, of trying to be something different, the truth was as sharp as a blade to the ribs.

Every skill he had learned, every game he had played, every move he had ever made in politics—it had all been shaped by the man in front of him.

His ability to predict the press cycle? His instinct for knowing exactly what not to say in order to make someone desperate to hear more? The way he had shut down stories with a few well-placed whispers, redirecting conversations entirely?

It wasn’t ruthlessness. It was control. And God help him, but he had mastered it.

Lord Hawthorne studied him, satisfied. “You always did take after me in all the ways that matter.”

Sebastian swallowed, his throat dry. “That should concern you.”

His father chuckled. “Why? It makes you powerful.” He leaned back, swirling his whiskey. “No, you’re not my son by blood. But you are my creation—my protégé. And that, Sebastian, is a far more valuable connection than mere genetics.”

Sebastian stared at him, chest tight. Because the worst part? The absolute worst part? It was true.

He had learned exactly what his father wanted him to. And he had spent years thinking he was playing his own game, when in reality, he had been running his father’s strategy all along.

The realization burned like acid.

“Since you’re so desperate for truth,” Lord Hawthorne said, his voice taking on a deliberate edge, “here’s another piece you won’t find in those files. Your mother met the King at university. They were together for years, and she truly loved him.” A flicker of disdain crossed his face. “But she wasn’t naive. When she became pregnant, she purposely sought me out—married me because she knew I could protect her and her royal child. She was pragmatic in that way.”

His lips thinned into a cold smile. “We had an arrangement that served us both. But when the King died…” He paused, studying Sebastian’s face with clinical interest, “she couldn’t bear it. Not even you—her child, her supposed reason for all these calculated moves—was enough to keep her tethered to this world.”

The words were delivered with precision, each one selected specifically to cut deep. Lord Hawthorne watched Sebastian’s reaction with the calm assessment of a man testing a weapon’s effectiveness. This wasn’t mere cruelty—it was strategy. Sebastian had challenged his authority, had dared to confront him as an equal, and now Lord Hawthorne was systematically dismantling his defenses, striking at the foundation of his identity.