A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 14

Clarisse’s rage always came in volume.

Marion’s came in silence. The newspaper hit the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery.

“She’s everywhere!” Clarisse snapped, jabbing her finger at the front page.

The headline read: “Halden Heiress Breaks New Approval Record.”

Celeste’s photo—another gala, another spotlight—beamed back at them.

“She’s stealing everything that should’ve been ours.”

Marion didn’t look up. Her hands folded calmly around her teacup. That was the warning sign.

“Then we erase her,” Marion said, voice cool and crisp.

Clarisse blinked. “Erase her? How?”

“People believe noise,” Marion replied. “Not facts.”

Clarisse leaned in, trying to read her mother’s expression. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely. We won’t challenge her in court,” Marion said. “We’ll challenge her in whispers. Let the public doubt her. Let them poke holes in her crown.”

The campaign began in shadows.

An anonymous blog post surfaced, accompanied by an old baby photo. The caption read: “No resemblance. No legitimacy.”

Then another article appeared—citing an unnamed source:

“Celeste Halden was adopted. Not a real Halden. Not blood. Not born.”

The claims were vague. Sloppy. But they didn’t need truth.

They had volume.

Forums reposted. Radio shows debated. News anchors hesitated before saying her name. The public didn’t need evidence. Just enough noise to make certainty uncomfortable.

And Marion? She didn’t tweet. She didn’t post. She whispered.

To the right people—who whispered louder.

Celeste noticed.

Her staff brought her the screenshots, the headlines, the talk show clips.

Her press director asked, “Do you want us to issue a response?”

“Not yet,” Celeste said, scanning the titles.

Illegitimate Heiress?

Halden Bloodline Under Scrutiny.

“We stay still,” she said, “until they show their hand.”

But even stillness took a toll. Threats increased—emails, anonymous letters. One night, a voice murmured outside her building:

“Prove who you are.”

She kept walking. Kept working. But the weight behind her eyes grew heavier by the day.

“They’re trying to erase me,” she said to Emeric one evening.

He didn’t argue. He just placed his hand gently over hers.

Journalists started requesting DNA verification. Birth records. Family archives.

The messages were worded politely. But the venom was clear.

“Decline every request,” Celeste told her team.

“You could end it,” her advisor said. “One document—”

“No,” Celeste replied. “If I answer one doubt, I give them permission to question everything. This isn’t about proof. It’s about control.”

She stayed silent.

But silence, even strategic, still bled.

Lucan saw the headlines too.

He scrolled past the blogs, the clips, the comments. His stomach sank each time her name appeared beside the word fraud.

He recognized the pattern.

“This is my mother,” he muttered aloud, standing alone in his apartment.

He’d seen her do it before—quietly, efficiently, with a smile. But this time, it wasn’t about power.

It was personal.

At first, he did nothing. He watched. Waited.

But something twisted in him every time Celeste’s name was dragged through dirt he knew too well.

He hadn’t protected her before.

And somehow, even now, his name was still tied to hers.

He could stay silent.

Or he could start digging.

He didn’t look in the obvious places.

He opened estate email servers. Filtered archives. Pulled old calendar logs. Not illegal—just forgotten access.

He searched by subject lines. Staff names. Meeting dates.

It was tedious. Quiet. But Lucan had learned how to live in quiet. It was all he had left.

Back at the Wynne estate, Clarisse grew impatient.

“Shouldn’t we push harder?” she asked, pacing.

“Make the DNA thing trend?”

Marion sipped her tea. “Push too hard, and it looks like a lie. Doubt works better slowly.”

“And if she fights back?”

Marion’s eyes narrowed. “Then we ruin her faster. Every defense becomes an admission.”

Clarisse smiled tightly. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

It wasn’t victory. It was nervous energy.

At 1:42 a.m., Lucan paused over a file labeled HR – Discreet. Low-priority.

He almost skipped it.

But inside was a string of old forwarded messages. Masked. Moved. Re-routed.

He clicked open the attachment.

The subject line read:

“Erase Celeste Halden.”