A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 22

The council reception wasn’t meant for confrontation—but fate had other plans.

Flashes popped like static behind crystal chandeliers. Politicians laughed with too-white teeth. Crystal clinked against crystal.

Celeste stood still, glass in hand, dress navy and severe. She didn’t smile. She didn’t flinch. Her posture alone silenced half the room.

People spoke her name in whispers, never with comfort. Power wasn’t her accessory anymore. It was the air around her.

Lucan wasn’t invited by name. He didn’t need to be. His presence still turned heads—some curious, some judgmental. But none surprised.

He felt the eyes, the unasked questions. Why was he here? Maybe he didn’t even know. He just knew he hadn’t seen her in this kind of light before—public, powerful, sovereign—and something in him ached from it.

She stood with the council’s head speaker, nodded once, then excused herself without breaking grace. He caught the shift. It was so subtle.

But he knew it meant something. He stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. As if the floor had grown brittle under his feet. When she turned toward him, it wasn’t out of warmth. It was timing. Precision. She knew he was there. She always did.

“You look…” he started, and immediately hated how weak he sounded. “Powerful.”

He paused, searching for something better. “And tired.” The second word fell heavier than he intended.

She raised an eyebrow. “Power does that,” she replied. There was no smile. No hostility. Just steel. Polished, practiced, and utterly unreachable. His stomach turned.

“I’m not here to make a scene,” Lucan said, lifting his hands slightly, almost in surrender. “I just—needed to say something.

Even if it’s nothing you want to hear.” She didn’t interrupt. That was worse than a slap. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Not for tonight. For everything. For not defending you. For acting like silence was safer.”

Her eyes flicked to his. “Are you sorry because you finally see me? Or because others do?” He stiffened. “I mean it.”

“You meant your vows, too,” she said flatly. “And yet here we are.” Her voice wasn’t angry. It didn’t need to be.

Her composure was punishment enough. He searched her expression, hoping to find the girl who once looked back softly.

“Apologies don’t rebuild what you burned,” she added. He nodded slowly. “I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because you deserve to hear it,” he said. “And maybe I needed to feel like I wasn’t entirely made of silence.”

She sipped her drink, slow and sharp. “And that’s the difference between us. I don’t do things to feel better. I do them to end cycles.” Lucan’s jaw clenched.

“I’m trying to break the cycle.”

“No,” she said. “You’re trying to soothe the wound you caused.”

He stepped closer. “Do you ever think about what we were?” “We didn’t collapse,” she said. “You abandoned.”

“I was scared.”

“You were compliant.”

“I thought I could make everyone happy.”

“And you chose them.”

The words cut. He didn’t try to defend himself again. His mouth opened, then closed. Silence filled the air between them.

“Do you ever miss us?” he asked, his voice softer than before—barely above the music.

She looked at him now—really looked. Not with affection. Not even with resentment. Just with the deep, distant recognition of someone who had loved and lost and lived through it anyway. There was no warmth in her eyes.

But there was memory. Not enough to heal. Just enough to hurt. She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing something final.

“I miss who I used to be when I loved you,” Celeste said. “But she’s gone.”