Because Gideon, at twenty-three, had been the perfect blend of Blackwell ruthlessness and Hawthorne control.
He’d spent his life preparing for the crown, only to watch it fall uncontested into the hands of a boy who hadn’t even reached for it.
That had always been Gideon’s trick, hadn’t it?
To be chosen without trying.
To want nothing and still walk away with everything.
He took what Sebastian wanted most without even trying.
And now?
Now, he was doing it again.
Sebastian’s eyes flicked to Arden.
She didn’t even realize she was stepping into a war.
Because this wasn’t only about her.
This was about him and Gideon. About history repeating itself.
About Gideon taking something that should have belonged to Sebastian.
And this time?
Sebastian wasn’t going to let it happen.
He watched as Gideon’s gaze locked onto Arden, a territorial edge in his eyes, the kind that made it painfully clear what was happening.
Arden wasn’t just someone Gideon wanted.
She was someone he thought heowned.
Sebastian’s fingers tightened around his glass until the pressure threatened to crack it.
Mine.
He had heard it before, or a similar sentiment.
Spoken in a different lifetime.
From a different Gideon.
He had heard it the summer Gideon was twelve, the year Henry started choosing him over Sebastian.
The year everything changed.
August hung heavy in the air, the scent of sun-warmed grass and sweat clinging to their skin as they stood at the edge of the estate. The football lay between them, scuffed and dirt-streaked from hours of adolescent war.
Sebastian, at seventeen, had just finished running circles around the younger boys, his muscles burning with adrenaline, his grin sharp with satisfaction.
He had turned to grab the ball, only to find Gideon standing there, holding it.
“Give it back,” Sebastian had said, voice even.
Gideon had only smiled.
