A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 2

Talia closed the door behind her—softly, carefully—and that’s when it hit her. The silence. The emptiness. The realization.

She couldn’t stop crying.

Not loud sobs. Not the kind that begged for comfort. Just quiet, aching tears that slipped down her cheeks as she leaned against the polished wood of the Wynne estate’s front door.

She gave him everything. She followed the rules. Smiled when it hurt. Stayed silent when it killed her.

“I fought fair,” she whispered to no one. “I was good. And what did I get in return?”

She could still hear his voice echoing through the ballroom, like a dagger dressed in velvet: “I’m honored to announce my engagement to Lady Virelle Astaire.”

No plates shattered that night. Not one scream rang out.

Talia walked through the grand foyer like a ghost in silk, her expression unreadable. The staff froze as she passed—shoulders tense, eyes averted. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe too loudly.

At the stairs, Clarisse lingered with her phone half-raised, disappointed.

“That’s it?” she muttered. “No crying? No scene?”

Talia didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. She ascended the steps, spine straight, and disappeared behind the soft click of her bedroom door.

Lucan didn’t come home that night. The bed beside her stayed cold, untouched. She stared at the ceiling in silence, hands folded neatly across her stomach. Even the darkness didn’t feel private anymore.

By morning, the headlines had arrived to do what Marion hadn’t.

‘WYNNE FIRST WIFE STUNNED INTO SILENCE’

‘DISCARDED AND DIGNIFIED—BUT FOR HOW LONG?’

The television buzzed in the background while she sipped her tea. “Sources say she fled the gala after the engagement announcement,” one host chirped. “No official statement yet. Is the marriage already over?”

“She always looked a little… out of place,” the co-host added. “Like she didn’t belong among them.”

Talia folded the corner of the newspaper and slid it aside. Behind her, the maid hesitated mid-step. “Ma’am…”

Talia turned. “Yes?”

“N-nothing.” The girl scurried off.

In every hallway she passed that day, silence followed her like perfume. But no one dared ask what they were all thinking—When is she going to break?

She didn’t post a response. She didn’t call her lawyer. She didn’t print the articles. She folded them cleanly and slid them into a folder labeled EVIDENCE, stacking it behind the others—tiny things she’d collected over months.

Glances. Receipts. Emails. Things she never had the courage to confront. Until now.

That evening, Lucan returned. No knock. No apology. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, steady and slow.

She stepped out of her room just as he rounded the corner. Their eyes locked. Neither moved. Neither blinked.

“Talia,” he said at last, voice low, like he didn’t know what tone to take. Husband? Ex? Stranger?

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. The weight of what he’d done sat between them, dense and sharp like broken glass. Her silence made him falter. He blinked first.

Later, alone again, she opened her drawer. Not the one with her jewelry. Not the one with her letters. The one she hadn’t touched since the wedding.

Beneath stiff envelopes and unused thank-you cards, she found it: the contract Marion had handed her the week before the ceremony.

“Just a formality,” Marion had said, all charm and champagne. “You don’t need to read it. Everything’s been arranged.”

Back then, Talia had believed that.

She unfolded the papers with steady hands, reading every line now like it might burn her. She paused halfway through, frowning. There it was—a clause. Quiet, hidden, unhighlighted.

A space for two signatures. Hers. And Lucan’s.

Both blank. Her breath caught. Talia stared at the empty space, her pulse thudding in her ears.

They weren’t married at all.