A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 24

Tribunals weren’t meant for theatrics—but that didn’t stop the whispers.

The chamber was packed. Council members lined the curved bench, robes ironed sharp, eyes watchful. The gallery behind them buzzed with restrained chaos—press, aides, officials pretending not to lean in.

Everyone knew this wasn’t just a hearing. It was a reckoning. And the name that echoed through the room wasn’t Celeste’s. It was Clarisse Wynne’s.

Clarisse entered like the room owed her silence. Head high, coat tailored, heels slicing into the marble with the confidence of someone raised to believe shame was a myth for poorer people.

She didn’t acknowledge the crowd. Didn’t flinch at the cameras. She sat without help, without expression. But her hand trembled when she reached for her statement.

Across the aisle, Celeste sat in stillness. Her legal team flanked her, but she didn’t speak to them. She didn’t move. She wore black. Not for mourning—for clarity. This wasn’t celebration.

This wasn’t revenge. This was order being restored. But when Clarisse glanced across the room, Celeste didn’t meet her gaze. She wouldn’t give her that moment.

Lucan sat in the front row, waiting for his name. He hadn’t slept much. But he hadn’t tried to, either. There was a kind of clarity that came with the right choice. It didn’t make the day easier.

Just cleaner. The court aide called his name. He stood. Walked. Stepped behind the polished witness barrier. The room stilled.

He took the oath. Looked up. “I testify because it’s the truth,” he said.

No introduction. No preamble. Just the sentence that needed to be said. One of the judges nodded. “Proceed.”

Lucan held nothing back. “These documents are real. And they were created to defame Celeste Halden.” He handed over the drive. The tribunal began playback.

Clarisse’s voice, recorded. Her instructions to staff. Her demands for silence. Her plan to time the release with the tribunal hearing. The money trail. The metadata. The verification.

Each detail carved deeper. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t object. She couldn’t. Her team sat stone-faced, watching the mountain crush what was left of her credibility.

Celeste didn’t move. Not once. Not when Clarisse shifted in her seat. Not when the judges leaned in to take notes. Not when the room grew tense with disbelief.

She didn’t turn to Lucan. Didn’t nod. Didn’t offer comfort or thanks. This wasn’t about recognition. It was about truth. And the truth didn’t need applause.

The ruling came faster than expected. The tribunal didn’t argue. They didn’t debate. The evidence was clean. The motive was clear.

The damage was undeniable. “Clarisse Wynne,” the head judge said, “you are hereby fined for obstruction of justice and deliberate defamation of character. Your actions undermine the credibility of this court, and of public trust. Effective immediately.”

Clarisse blinked. Just once. Then exhaled. Not loudly. But like someone trying not to fall apart in public.

Outside, the press surged forward like floodwater. Cameras rolled. Microphones extended. Journalists yelled over each other, demanding quotes, apologies, reactions.

Clarisse stepped into the daylight—still in heels, still with posture. But something in her walk faltered. She looked smaller. Quieter. Her coat caught in the wind. Her lipstick was too red for this kind of ending.

She glanced once down the street. Marion’s car wasn’t there. Not the black town car. Not the security escort. Not the driver. Clarisse stood frozen on the steps for a breath too long.

As the press swarmed Clarisse outside, Marion’s car never came to collect her.