Chapter Text
The Bastard Son
Harvey was three years old when his mother told him he was going to live in a castle.
She knelt before him in their small room above the tavern, her work-worn hands cupping his face. Her eyes—dark like his own—were red and swollen.
"You're going to have a wonderful life, my darling boy," she whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word. "A proper life. With a proper family."
Harvey didn't understand. He reached up with clumsy fingers to wipe the tears from her cheeks. She caught his hand and pressed it to her lips, kissing his palm over and over like she was trying to memorize the shape of it.
"Mama?"
She pulled him close, so tight he couldn't breathe. Her whole body shook.
The man came at dawn.
He was tall, dressed in fine clothes that seemed too clean for their shabby room. He didn't look at Harvey's mother. He looked at Harvey with an expression something between pity and distaste.
"It's time," the man said.
Harvey's mother dressed him in his only good shirt, the one she'd sewn by candlelight. Her fingers trembled as she worked the buttons. She combed his dark blonde hair, smoothing it down again and again even though it was already smooth.
"Be good," she told him. Her voice was barely a whisper. "Be so, so good, Harvey. Make them—" She stopped. Swallowed hard. "Just be good."
The man in fine clothes took Harvey's hand. His grip was firm and impersonal, nothing like his mother's gentle touch. Harvey looked back as they reached the stairs.
His mother stood in the doorway, one hand pressed to her mouth. Her shoulders heaved with silent sobs. She raised her other hand—a small wave, or maybe a blessing—and then the man pulled Harvey around the corner and she was gone.
He never saw her again.
-----
The Duke's estate swallowed him whole.
Everything was big. The entrance hall with its vaulted ceiling and marble floors. The corridors that seemed to stretch forever. The windows that let in too much light, making Harvey squint after the dimness of the tavern. Servants moved through the spaces like ghosts, their footsteps silent, their faces polite and empty. They bathed him in water that smelled like flowers he didn't recognize. They dressed him in clothes so stiff and fine he was afraid to move. They spoke to him in soft voices but never met his eyes.
A woman came that evening.
She appeared in the doorway of the room they'd put him in—a room bigger than the entire space he'd shared with his mother. Harvey had been sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling because his feet couldn't touch the floor, trying not to cry.
The woman was beautiful. Pale skin, brown hair swept up elegantly, brown eyes that looked nothing like his mother's warm dark ones. She wore a gown the color of winter sky, and when she moved, it whispered like secrets.
Harvey slid off the bed. He'd seen enough nobles pass through the tavern to know he should bow, though no one had taught him how. He bent at the waist, wobbling slightly. When he straightened, he smiled. His mother had always smiled back when he smiled.
The woman's face didn't change.
"So this is the boy." Her voice was soft, measured.
She wasn't talking to him. A nurse stood behind her, hands folded.
"Yes, Your Grace."
The woman—the Duchess, Harvey would learn—looked at him. Her gaze moved over his face slowly, cataloging. Her mouth thinned.
"He has his father's features."
The nurse said nothing.
The Duchess stood there for another moment, looking at Harvey like he was something unpleasant she'd found on the bottom of her shoe. Then she turned and left, her skirts whispering against the floor.
Harvey's smile faded. His chest felt tight and strange. The nurse—Martha, her name was Martha—knelt beside him. She had a kind face, lined with years and worry.
"Don't fret, little master. Her Grace has been unwell. She's not herself yet."
But Harvey was three years old, and even at three, he knew the difference between someone who was unwell and someone who looked at you like they wished you didn't exist.
-----
The family spent the next several years at one of the Duke's country estates.
The official story, Harvey would piece together from servants' whispers and half-heard conversations, was simple: the Duchess had been gravely ill after the birth of the Duke's first son. She needed rest, country air, time to recover away from the demands of society. The Duke, devoted husband that he was, took his family into quiet seclusion so his wife could heal. Then, three years into that seclusion, the Duchess gave birth to a second son.
No one questioned it. Why would they? Noble families retreated to the country all the time. Difficult births were common. A second son arriving years later was a blessing, not a scandal. Only the household staff knew the truth. And household staff knew better than to speak of such things.
His brother Stephen was six when Harvey arrived, old enough to be curious about the new addition to the household. For a few weeks, Stephen tried to include him. Showed him the grounds, the stables, the secret corners where the tutors couldn't find them.
But children learn what their parents value.
"Stephen, darling, come here." The Duchess's voice, warm when directed at her son. "Let's leave your brother to rest. He's had a long day."
Harvey hadn't had a long day. He'd been sitting in the library, trying to stay quiet and out of the way.
"But Mother, I wanted to show him—"
"Stephen." Firmer now. "Come."
Stephen glanced back at Harvey, something uncertain in his brown eyes. Then he followed his mother, and Harvey was alone again.
It happened again and again.
"Don't wake your brother, Stephen. He needs his sleep."
Harvey had been awake, reading.
"That's Stephen's toy, dear. Find something else to play with."
Harvey hadn't been reaching for anything.
"Must that boy always be underfoot?"
Harvey had been sitting in the corner of the drawing room, completely still, trying to be invisible.
The Duchess never said his name. It was always "that boy" or "your brother" in a tone that made it clear Harvey was an obligation, a burden, something to be endured rather than loved. The Duke barely spoke to him at all and Stephen learned.
-----
Harvey was five the first time Stephen hit him.
They'd been in the nursery. Stephen had been building something with wooden blocks, and it kept falling over. He was getting frustrated, his face red, his movements jerky.
Harvey, watching from across the room, said quietly, "If you put the big ones on the bottom, it won't fall."
Stephen went still.
Then he stood, crossed the room, and shoved Harvey hard enough to knock him into the wall.
"I don't need your help," Stephen said. His voice was tight. "I don't need anything from you."
Harvey's shoulder throbbed where it had hit the wall. His eyes stung, but he blinked hard. Crying made things worse. He'd learned that already.
Stephen went back to his blocks. Harvey stayed against the wall, making himself small.
That evening at dinner, the Duchess smiled at Stephen and touched his hair gently.
"Good boy," she murmured.
Harvey didn't know what Stephen had done to earn the praise. But he saw the way his brother's face lit up, saw the way Stephen glanced at Harvey with something that might have been triumph.
The hitting got worse after that.
-----
Harvey threw himself into his lessons.
He was seven when the tutors began teaching them in earnest—languages, history, mathematics, philosophy. Harvey absorbed it all like a man dying of thirst. He stayed up late by candlelight, reading until his eyes burned and his head ached. He memorized historical dates and mathematical proofs.
When Master Clement praised his translation of Virgil, calling it "exceptional work, truly exceptional," Harvey felt something flutter in his chest. Something fragile and desperate.
He looked at his father. The Duke was reviewing correspondence at his desk in the corner of the study. He didn't look up.
"Father," Harvey said quietly. "Master Clement said—"
"That's good, Harvey." The Duke's voice was distracted. He still didn't look up. "Keep at it."
The fluttering thing in Harvey's chest went still.
Across the room, Stephen glared at him. His own translation had been adequate at best, and Master Clement had said so.
That night, Stephen cornered him in the hallway. The punch caught Harvey in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs.
"Think you're so clever?" Stephen's voice was low, vicious. "Father doesn't care. You could be the smartest person in the kingdom and it wouldn't matter. You're nothing."
Harvey curled on the floor, trying to breathe. Stephen walked away.
The next week, Harvey deliberately made mistakes in his lessons. Not too many—just enough that Master Clement stopped singling him out for praise. It didn't help. Stephen hit him anyway.
The master-at-arms came when Harvey was ten.
Sir Roland was a scarred, grizzled man who'd spent thirty years training nobles' sons in swordcraft. He had no patience for excuses and no interest in politics. He cared about form, discipline, and whether his students could hold a blade without dropping it.
Harvey discovered he could do more than hold a blade. His body understood the movements instinctively—the footwork, the weight distribution, the rhythm of attack and parry. Sir Roland demonstrated a sequence once, and Harvey could replicate it. Not perfectly at first, but close enough that Sir Roland's eyebrows rose.
"Again," Sir Roland said.
Harvey did it again. Better this time.
"Interesting." Sir Roland circled him, studying his stance. "You've got natural talent, boy. Your body knows what it's doing even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."
That fragile, desperate thing bloomed in Harvey's chest again. He wanted to be good at this. Wanted to earn that gruff approval in Sir Roland's voice. Wanted his father to see him doing something right.
He practiced until his arms shook and his hands blistered. He ran the drills in his mind at night, working through the sequences until he fell asleep. He pushed himself harder than Stephen, longer than Stephen, better than Stephen.
Because maybe this was it. Maybe this was how he could make them proud.
The Duke came to watch them spar three months later.
Stephen fought sloppily, his form falling apart under pressure. He left himself open and got disarmed twice. By the time Sir Roland called the match, Stephen was red-faced and panting, his eyes bright with humiliation. Harvey had been faster, cleaner, controlled. He'd landed every strike, maintained his guard, moved like Sir Roland had taught him.
The Duke watched impassively.
"Well done, Harvey," he said when it was over. Then, to Stephen, "Don't look so downcast, son. A true lord commands others to fight for him. You have different strengths."
Stephen's humiliation turned to something darker. He looked at Harvey with pure hatred.
Harvey felt the fragile thing in his chest crack. His father had seen him be better. Had watched him do everything right. And it hadn't mattered. It would never matter.
Stephen caught him in the armory two hours later. The first punch split Harvey's lip. The second caught his ribs. Harvey didn't fight back. What was the point?
"You think you're better than me?" Stephen's breath was hot against Harvey's face. "You're nothing. You'll always be nothing. Father will never choose you over me. Mother can't even stand to look at you."
Harvey tasted blood. He said nothing.
After that, he stopped trying so hard. He still practiced—Sir Roland would have his hide if he slacked off—but he stopped pushing to be the best. He made himself adequate. Acceptable. Unremarkable.
It was safer that way.
By the time Harvey was twelve, he'd learned all the rules.
Don't excel where Stephen might fail. Don't ask for attention. Don't expect praise. Don't take up space. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't cry where anyone can see. Don't hope.
Hoping hurt worse than Stephen's fists.
The Duchess still couldn't look at him without her mouth thinning in distaste. The Duke still treated him like a piece of furniture—necessary, functional, unremarkable. Stephen's cruelty had evolved from clumsy childhood violence to calculated psychological warfare, always careful to leave bruises where they wouldn't show.
Harvey learned to be what they needed him to be: the spare. The second son. The one who existed to make Stephen look better by comparison, to serve as a cautionary tale, to fill space without taking up too much of it.
He learned to be quiet. To be useful. To anticipate needs before they were spoken so he could fulfill them without being asked. To bow his head and accept blame for things he hadn't done because it was easier than fighting. He learned that love wasn't something you earned through excellence or effort or existing.
Love was something given freely or not at all, and his family had decided long ago that he wasn't worth the giving.
He learned that the ache in his chest—that constant, gnawing hunger for someone to see him, to value him, to look at him like he mattered—was something he would carry forever. A wound that wouldn't heal because it kept being reopened every single day.
He learned that he was, fundamentally and irreparably, unworthy.
Unworthy of the name he carried. Unworthy of the food he ate and the space he occupied. Unworthy of the father who barely acknowledged him and the mother who looked at him like a mistake that refused to disappear.
By sixteen, the unworthiness had sunk so deep into his bones that he barely noticed its weight anymore. It was simply true, the way the sky was blue and water was wet.
He was Harvey Specter, second son of the Duke of Ashford.
And he was nothing.
-----
Breakfast at Specter Manor followed the same ritual it had for years.
The family gathered in the smaller dining room—"smaller" being relative when the table could seat twenty but held only four. Morning light streamed through tall windows, catching the silver and crystal until everything gleamed. Servants moved silently along the walls, ready to refill cups or remove plates at the slightest gesture.
Harvey sat in his usual place, to his father's left and across from Stephen. The Duchess sat at the far end, picking at her food with delicate disinterest. She hadn't looked at Harvey once since he'd entered the room. He'd learned not to expect her to.
The Duke read his newspaper, folded precisely beside his plate. He ate with mechanical efficiency—toast, eggs, tea—while scanning the pages. Stephen lounged in his chair with the easy confidence of someone who'd never questioned his place in the world.
Harvey kept his head down and ate quietly. If he didn't draw attention, the meal would pass without incident. That was the goal every morning: survive until he could leave.
"Well, well." Stephen's voice cut through the soft clink of silverware. "How very touching."
The Duke glanced up briefly. "Hmm?"
Stephen had pulled the society pages toward himself, a smirk playing at his mouth.
"Lord Whitmore's son. Apparently his soulmark appeared last week. He's taken out a notice in the paper."
The Duchess set down her fork with a soft click. "How old is the Whitmore boy?"
"Twenty-two, I believe." Stephen scanned the announcement. "The mark appeared on his forearm. They've included a sketch of it here—quite elaborate. All swirls and knotwork." He snorted softly. "Rather pretentious, announcing it publicly like this."
"It's perfectly proper," the Duchess said coolly. "How else is one to find their intended? The mark is a sacred gift. When it appears, one must seek their match."
Harvey kept his eyes on his plate. He'd heard of soulmarks before—everyone had—but the concept had always seemed distant, irrelevant. Something that happened to other people.
"Sacred gift," Stephen repeated, amusement coloring his voice. "I suppose that's one way to put it. Though I've heard others call it a curse. Imagine being bound to someone by fate, no choice in the matter whatsoever."
"Don't be crude, Stephen." The Duchess's voice was sharp. "The soulmark is a blessing. It means the universe itself has chosen your perfect match. Your other half."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the table.
Then his brother's gaze landed on Harvey, and the smirk returned.
"What about you, Harvey?" Stephen leaned forward, eyes glinting with malice. "Interested in all this talk of soulmarks? Dreaming of the day yours might appear?"
Harvey said nothing. He knew a trap when he saw one.
"Oh, don't be shy."
Stephen's voice was light, almost friendly. It made Harvey's stomach tighten.
"Surely you've thought about it. Everyone does. That moment when the mark appears and you know—you know—that somewhere out there is someone meant just for you."
"Stephen," the Duke said mildly, still not looking up from his paper. "Leave your brother alone."
Stephen ignored him. He always did when the Duke's reprimands were that halfhearted.
"Though I suppose in your case..." Stephen tilted his head, pretending to consider. "Well. It's unlikely, isn't it? Not everyone gets a mark. Some people simply aren't meant to have one."
He paused, let that sink in.
"And honestly, Harvey, even if you did—can you imagine? That poor woman, bound by fate to someone as worthless as you?"
Harvey's hands tightened on his fork. He kept his face blank, his breathing steady. Don't react. Reacting made it worse.
"She'd probably try to cut the mark off her own skin," Stephen continued, warming to his theme. "Imagine her horror when she realizes what the universe has saddled her with. A bastard playing at—"
"Stephen." The Duke's voice was sharper now, though he still didn't lower his newspaper. "That's enough."
Not Stephen, apologize. Not how dare you speak to your brother that way. Just enough.
Enough because they had places to be, not because what Stephen had said was cruel.
Stephen sat back in his chair, satisfied. He'd drawn blood, even if it didn't show. Harvey carefully set down his fork. His appetite had vanished, not that he'd had much to begin with. The Duchess was looking at her plate, her expression unreadable. She hadn't said a word in Harvey's defense. She never did.
"We'll need to leave within the hour," the Duke said, finally folding his newspaper. "The Harrisons' garden party begins at two. It would be poor form to arrive late."
"Must we all attend?" Stephen asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"Yes. It's expected. The Harrisons are important allies." The Duke stood, signaling the end of the meal. "All of us will attend, we'll make the appropriate appearances, and then we can leave at a reasonable hour."
He left without another word. The Duchess rose gracefully and followed, her skirts whispering against the floor. Stephen stood, stretching lazily. As he passed Harvey's chair, he leaned down, voice pitched low enough that only Harvey could hear.
"No mark will ever appear on your skin, brother. You're not worthy of one. The universe knows what you are, even if you've managed to fool everyone else."
Then he was gone, leaving Harvey alone at the table.
A servant approached hesitantly. "Will you be needing anything else, my lord?"
Harvey shook his head. His throat felt tight.
"No. Thank you."
He sat there for another moment, staring at his half-eaten breakfast, Stephen's words echoing in his head.
Not worthy of one. The universe knows what you are.
The thing was, Harvey believed him. He'd spent years learning exactly what he was: a mistake, a burden, an unwanted spare who existed only because his father's indiscretion had needed to be hidden away. Why would the universe mark someone like that? Why would fate itself decide he deserved a soulmate when his own family could barely stand to look at him?
Harvey pushed back from the table and left the dining room.
He had a garden party to attend, where he would smile politely and bow at the appropriate moments and stay out of Stephen's way.
Just like always.
-----
The journey to the Harrison estate took an hour by carriage.
Harvey sat facing backward, watching the countryside roll past through the window. Stephen sat across from him, sprawled in his seat with practiced arrogance. Their parents occupied the opposite bench—the Duke reviewing some documents he'd brought along, the Duchess staring out the other window with the same distant expression she always wore.
No one spoke.
Harvey was used to the silence. It was preferable to conversation, which usually meant Stephen finding new ways to needle him while their parents pretended not to notice. He kept his gaze fixed on the passing trees and fields, letting his mind drift somewhere far away from this carriage, this family, this life.
When they finally arrived, the Harrison estate was already crowded with nobles and their families. Carriages lined the curved drive, footmen and drivers milling about while their employers enjoyed the gardens. Music drifted on the warm afternoon air—a string quartet playing something light and elegant.
The Duke descended first, then handed the Duchess down with careful formality. Stephen followed, adjusting his jacket and running a hand through his brown hair. Harvey came last, as always.
Lord and Lady Harrison greeted them at the garden entrance—a jovial older couple who'd known the Duke for years. There were bows, curtsies, polite exchanges about the weather and the journey and how lovely everything looked.
Harvey stood slightly behind his father, wearing his best smile—the one that looked genuine if you didn't know better. He made the appropriate bow when introduced, murmured the appropriate pleasantries. Lord Harrison clapped him on the shoulder and said something about how tall he'd gotten, and Harvey nodded and thanked him.
All the while, Stephen stood just to the side, radiating effortless charm. He made Lady Harrison laugh, complimented her gardens, asked after their sons with genuine-seeming interest. This was Stephen's gift: the ability to make everyone believe he was exactly what he appeared to be. Golden, bright, perfect.
No one saw the rot underneath.
"Well, boys," the Duke said once the initial greetings were complete. "Enjoy yourselves. We'll find you when it's time to leave."
Translation: Make the appropriate appearances. Don't embarrass the family. Stay out of trouble.
Stephen's hand landed on Harvey's shoulder, grip just tight enough to be uncomfortable. To anyone watching, it looked brotherly. Affectionate.
"Come on, brother," Stephen said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Let's see who else has arrived."
He steered Harvey deeper into the gardens, past clusters of laughing nobles and their children. The quartet played somewhere to their left. Servants wove through the crowd with trays of wine and delicate pastries. When they were far enough from their parents, Stephen's grip tightened to the edge of painful, then released.
"Right then." Stephen's voice was casual, but his eyes were cold. "I'm going to go actually enjoy myself. You're going to stay out of my way. Don't talk to anyone important, don't make a fool of yourself, and for God's sake, don't do anything that might reflect poorly on this family. Understood?"
Harvey said nothing. He'd learned years ago that Stephen didn't actually want responses to these commands.
"Good." Stephen straightened his jacket. "Oh, and Harvey? If I see you hovering around me or my friends, trying to insert yourself where you don't belong..." He leaned in closer. "I'll make you regret it."
Then he was gone, striding off toward a group of young men near the fountain. Harvey watched him go, feeling the familiar weight settle over his shoulders. The weight of being unwanted, unnecessary, tolerated at best.
He needed to find somewhere to disappear.
The gardens were extensive, full of winding paths and hedge mazes and secluded alcoves. Harvey kept to the edges, avoiding the main gathering areas. He nodded politely when he passed other guests but didn't stop to engage in conversation. He was good at being invisible when he needed to be.
After fifteen minutes of wandering, he found it: a small stone folly tucked away behind a wall of climbing roses. It was octagonal, open on all sides but sheltered by a domed roof, with a bench running along the interior. Ivy crept up the columns, and the roses created a natural screen that hid it from the main paths.
Perfect.
Harvey stepped inside and sat on the bench, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The sounds of the party filtered through the roses—laughter, music, conversation—but here they were muted, distant. He could almost pretend he was somewhere else entirely.
He leaned his head back against the stone and closed his eyes.
That poor woman, bound by fate to someone as worthless as you.
Stephen's words from breakfast wouldn't leave him alone. They played on repeat in his mind, mixing with a lifetime of similar cruelties until they all blurred together into one truth:
He wasn't worth loving. Not by his family. Not by fate. Not by anyone.
The sound of footsteps on the stone path made him open his eyes.
Harvey straightened, arranging his face into something neutral. The footsteps grew closer, then stopped just outside the folly.
A figure appeared in the archway.
A girl. Maybe a year or two younger than him.
She stepped inside and froze when she saw him, her eyes widening slightly in surprise.
"Oh," she said, her voice soft but warm. "Hello. I'm sorry—I didn't realize this hiding spot was already taken."
She smiled. It was the kind of smile that reached her eyes, genuine and bright and completely without artifice. Like she was actually pleased to have stumbled across another person, even a stranger. Like his presence here was something welcome rather than tolerated.
No one had ever smiled at Harvey like that before.
She had red hair that caught the afternoon light filtering through the roses, turning it to flame and copper. Hazel eyes looked at him with friendly curiosity, not the cold assessment he was used to. Her dress was a soft green that complemented her coloring, and she stood there in the archway with an easy, unguarded grace that made her seem like she belonged anywhere she chose to be.
Harvey couldn't speak. His throat had closed up entirely.
She tilted her head slightly, still smiling, waiting for him to respond. The warmth in her expression didn't fade when he stayed silent. If anything, it softened, like she understood that sometimes words were difficult.
Harvey looked at her—really looked at her—at the way the light haloed her hair, at the genuine kindness in her eyes, at the smile that made something in his chest crack open and ache.
He thought he'd never seen anyone more beautiful.