A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 16

She never expected truth to come dressed in exhaustion.

Celeste stared at the folder Lucan held. The air between them felt too still, like something important hadn’t breathed yet. He didn’t extend the file. He didn’t push.

He just stood there in her doorway, wrinkled, quiet, older in some invisible way. She looked him straight in the eye. “Why bring this to me now?”

Lucan swallowed, shifting his weight like the answer cost something. “Because I finally stopped being their puppet.”

His voice cracked on the last word, like even saying it aloud had broken some string inside him.

Celeste didn’t move. She didn’t trust it yet. “And how long have you had it?” she asked. “Long enough,” he said. “Too long.”

She stepped aside. Slowly. Carefully. The door stayed open a moment longer before it closed behind him. He still didn’t hand her the file. It stayed tight in his grip like a confession he didn’t quite know how to release.

“You could’ve sent it,” she said. “I know,” he replied. “But that felt like a shortcut. And I owed you more.”

They sat across from each other—her in the armchair, him on the edge of the couch.

The silence wasn’t awkward. It was aware. Like both of them had finally come to the same page, but neither had dared read it yet. “You used to speak so easily,” she said. “Now it’s like every word has to prove something.”

Lucan gave a dry laugh. “Because back then I never thought my words would break you.”

Celeste’s face didn’t change, but her fingers curled slightly on the armrest. “They didn’t,” she said. “Not really.”

He tilted his head. “No?”

“They taught me I was alone,” she answered. “And then I taught myself how to stand anyway.”

He looked down. “I replay that night more than anything else.” Celeste raised an eyebrow.

“The gala?”

He nodded. “The moment I said her name instead of yours. I didn’t look at you. I thought I was protecting the family.”

She stared at him, long and sharp. “You weren’t protecting anyone. You were showcasing yourself.”

He didn’t argue.

The conversation shifted like old stones being turned. They talked. About things they hadn’t named in years. About the quiet dinners after she moved in. About the way she stopped asking questions.

About the night she didn’t scream when he left her in a room full of cameras and chose someone else. He looked at her like every word was a mirror.

Celeste poured them whiskey. Neat. She hadn’t planned it—but it felt right. He accepted his glass without a word. “You were quiet that night,” he said. “I expected a scene.”

She took a sip. “So did everyone else.” “But you just walked out,” he whispered. “I watched you go. And I let you.” “Because you thought I’d stay anyway,” she replied.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. It was full. Like both of them had stepped into something that couldn’t be undone. They drank slowly. Spoke less.

Let the weight of everything settle into the cushions. She didn’t forgive him. Not with her words. But she didn’t ask him to leave either. That, in itself, was its own kind of answer.

Lucan leaned back, eyes distant. “I kept looking for you in other people. In power. In politics. But I never saw you again.”

Celeste didn’t meet his gaze. “That’s because I stopped being the girl you left behind.”

“What are you now?” he asked, voice quieter. She finally looked at him.

“Fire,” she said. “You waited until I was fire.”

His breath hitched. He finished his drink and set it down gently. “Do you regret any of it?” he asked. “Any part of this?” She considered that for a long time.

“I regret who I had to become. But I don’t regret becoming her.” Lucan nodded like he understood. Like he’d been walking around the ashes, finally realizing he caused the burn.

She stood up, walked to the window. The night outside was still. Private. “You said you stopped being their puppet,” she said.

“What does that mean now?” Lucan looked down at the folder. “It means I finally chose someone without asking who it might disappoint.”

“And who did it disappoint?” she asked. “Everyone,” he whispered. “Except me.”

She turned around. For the first time, he held the folder out. Not forcefully. Not as an offering. Just as truth. “It’s all in here,” he said. “Names. Times. Who faked what. What my mother did.”

Celeste didn’t move to take it. Not yet. She walked to him, slowly, letting each step echo. “And what do you want from me in return?”

Lucan stood. “Nothing.” His voice was firm now. Real. “Not your forgiveness. Not your name. I just want you to have the truth.”

Her expression didn’t change. “Why now?” she asked again. “Because you deserve to hold the fire instead of just being it,” he said. “You should decide what burns next.”

The distance between them had changed. They weren’t strangers anymore. But they weren’t healed either.

They were two people at the edge of an unfinished page, standing in the smoke of what they used to be. He didn’t try to touch her. She didn’t ask him to. But neither walked away.

Later that night, they spoke less. Sat on the couch again. Closer. Not speaking. Not arguing. Just there. One glass of whiskey turned to two.

The silence folded into something warmer. And then, without planning it, they fell into old rhythms. Not forgiveness. Not reunion. But something softer than resistance.

She didn’t stop him when he brushed hair from her cheek. He didn’t stop her when she leaned into the moment. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it was honest.

And when they kissed, it wasn’t a promise. It was memory. And grief. And want. And everything that had been buried between courtrooms and silence.

When morning came, the folder was on her pillow. And Lucan was asleep beside her.