A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 12

The table was too long for how quiet the room had become.

Marion sat at the head, dressed in her signature navy, hands folded neatly beside an untouched plate. She had planned this dinner weeks in advance—gold-trimmed menus, imported candles, and a guest list full of Valderra’s elite. But now, half the seats were empty.

Three guests had canceled last-minute. Two others arrived, stayed long enough to be seen, then left without finishing their wine.

Clarisse shifted in her seat and muttered as a waiter refilled her glass. “This is what she does. Turns pity into policy, and the whole country follows her like sheep.”

She stabbed her salad, not looking up.

“Manipulation. That’s all it is.”

Marion said nothing. Her eyes flicked toward the double doors every few minutes, as if someone might still walk in. But they both knew—no one was coming.

Across the table, Lucan sat quietly, phone in hand. He wasn’t texting. He was staring at an old image saved weeks ago. Celeste at the gala. Crimson gown. Sharp eyes. She hadn’t even looked his way that night.

“She doesn’t say my name anymore,” he said quietly.

Clarisse scoffed. “She shouldn’t. You made her invisible.”

Lucan didn’t argue. What was there to say? Being forgotten by someone who once loved you wasn’t cruel. It was justice.

Marion reached for her water, hand trembling slightly.

“She’s not invincible,” she said. “Public opinion turns. It always does.”

No one agreed. The silence said it all.

The power had shifted. And not because Celeste demanded it—because she stopped asking.

In the days that followed, Lucan moved like a man stuck between time zones. He showed up to council meetings but left before votes were cast. He responded to calls with one-word answers. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think of anything except her.

He read everything—articles, quotes, opinion pieces. Her face was on every screen. Her name in every headline. She hadn’t said a word to him, but somehow, her silence spoke louder than any speech he’d ever heard.

He sent flowers first.

White, then crimson, then pale blue.

None were acknowledged.

He didn’t expect them to be. But he sent them anyway, as if petals could fix what decisions had destroyed.

Then came the letters. Some typed. Some handwritten. All of them personal. All of them too late.

He didn’t beg.

But the tone was soft enough to be mistaken for longing.

No replies came. Not even a returned envelope. But he kept writing.

Clarisse found him at the estate gates one afternoon, leaning against his car, watching the hill in the distance.

“What are you doing?” she asked sharply.

He shrugged. “Just standing.”

She crossed her arms. “Don’t be pathetic. She doesn’t owe you a conversation.”

He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the estate across the hill—the one that bore Celeste’s name now.

“She built something from the ashes,” he said quietly. “While I kept trying to bury them again.”

Clarisse didn’t soften.

“You’re not the only one she left behind.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’m the only one who watched her become everything—and still didn’t choose her.”

She rolled her eyes. “So what now? You stand here until she pities you?”

He didn’t answer.

Because pity wasn’t what he wanted.

But he wasn’t sure he deserved anything more.

The days turned into routine. He walked more. Past the estate. Around the paths they once took. He stopped reading the headlines, but her name still found him—on the lips of strangers, in passing conversations, on signs and invitations.

Absence was strange. It filled everything. She didn’t speak to him, didn’t mention him—but somehow, she was everywhere.

He thought about stopping. About writing one last letter and never sending it.

Then one afternoon, a white envelope arrived. Thick paper. Gold script.

His name on the front. Just his name.

Inside: a single invitation.

Celeste Halden invites you to a political fundraiser.