A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 17

The light touched the bed like it was afraid to witness what had changed.

Lucan lay still, eyes open, staring at the soft glow spreading across the ceiling. The room felt unfamiliar, even though nothing about it was new.

He’d spent years dreaming of being this close to her again—but now that it had happened, everything was heavier. Real. Unforgiving. And utterly impossible to escape.

The pillow beside him was warm. Quiet. He turned slightly and saw her lying there—facing away from him, hair tangled from sleep, shoulder bare above the sheets.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t move. But the ache in his chest refused to stay silent. His voice came out low. Careful. “I never stopped wanting you.”

The words hung in the morning like unfinished promises. He watched her exhale. No response yet. He waited.

“I just…” he continued, voice breaking slightly, “feared becoming nothing under her shadow.” It was the truth. Ugly. Naked. But finally spoken. The guilt burned in his throat. But he didn’t swallow it this time. He let it linger.

Celeste turned slowly. Her face was unreadable. No smile. No softness. But no hatred either. Just quiet comprehension. She looked at him—not through him, not around him—but directly. Really looked.

“And I was nothing under yours,” she said. The statement didn’t ask for a reply. It stood on its own. And it cracked something inside him.

Lucan blinked. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t have to,” she said. “You made it obvious.”

“I was afraid of failing.”

“And I was afraid of being erased.” His lips parted. But there was nothing left to defend. Only acknowledgment.

The silence between them grew. Not out of anger, but out of weight. The kind that settles after two people stop pretending. Lucan sat up, dragging a hand through his hair. “I should go.”

He didn’t stand. Not yet. But his body shifted, like shame was pulling him toward the door. Celeste didn’t stop him. She didn’t reach out.

But she did speak. “You weren’t afraid of her shadow,” she said. “You were afraid of mine.”

That sentence stopped him. He looked over his shoulder. She sat up slowly, wrapping the sheet around her.

“You knew who I could become,” she said. “You saw it. And instead of standing beside me, you stepped aside so I couldn’t rise too far.”

Lucan’s voice cracked. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked softly. “You saw who I could become, and you chose what made you feel bigger.”

“I chose wrong,” he admitted. “I let them guide me.” “You let them diminish me,” she replied. “And you called it duty.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. She stood, moved toward the window. The light hit her then—like armor.

“I gave you every version of myself,” she said. “Quiet. Strong. Loyal. Humble. But the only one you respected was the one who stayed silent.”

Lucan nodded slowly. “And the only one I deserved was the one who walked away.”

For a moment, neither spoke. She poured herself a glass of water. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped.

“Last night…” he began. She turned. “Wasn’t forgiveness,” she finished.

“I know,” he said. “It was a moment.” “It was a goodbye,” she clarified. His chest tightened, but he didn’t protest. Not anymore.

“I wanted to give you the folder before I left,” he said. “But then we talked. And it felt like you deserved more than a file.”

She held his gaze. “What I deserved was the truth back then. Not the apology now.” “I’m not asking for anything,” Lucan said. “I just want you to know I see you now.”

Celeste walked over, slow but steady. “You always saw me,” she said. “You just never wanted the world to see me too.”

Lucan blinked. “That’s not—” She shook her head. “You loved me in private. You shamed me in public. And now that the world sees me, you miss the part of me you thought you owned.”

He pressed a hand to his face. “I don’t want to be this man anymore.”

“Then stop being him,” she said. “But don’t expect me to rewrite the pain.”

Lucan stood, finally. The sheet shifted behind him. The moment felt close. Final. Like something fragile had just finished breaking.

He picked up the folder again. This time, he placed it on her desk. “Everything’s in there. You can burn it. Or bury it. Or use it. It’s yours.” She nodded once. No gratitude. No warmth. Just clarity. “You’re still trying to earn something from me,” she said. “I’m not,” he answered. “I know I can’t.”

The air grew still again. He walked to the door but paused before opening it. “I used to dream about hearing you say my name again,” he murmured. “Not with love. Just with recognition.” Celeste didn’t reply right away. “You had that once,” she said. “You spent it.”

His fingers rested on the handle. She stepped closer, just enough for him to hear her clearly.

“I hope you become the man you pretend to be,” she said. “For someone else. Not for me.”

He turned, pain flashing across his face—but he didn’t argue. She’d already spoken the one thing he feared most.

“I was afraid of you,” he whispered. “Not because you were cruel. Because you made me feel like I could be more.”

Celeste tilted her head, voice soft and unshaking. “And I was nothing under yours.”