A Throne for the Forgotten

Chapter 7

Clarisse had searched twenty-three files, ten registries, and one archived baptism book—what she found terrified her more than what she didn’t.

She slammed the cabinet drawer shut, rattling the archive room. Her hands were coated in dust, her eyes glassy from screen glow and frustration.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “Nothing anywhere.” Her voice cracked. “Only the President can lock a file like this. Who the hell is she?”

Marion appeared in the doorway, poised and cold. “You’re spiraling,” she said, glancing over the mess. “Celeste is addicted to attention. This is her latest stage trick.”

Clarisse held up a sealed birth record. “This is federal. Not forged. Not erased. Sealed.”

She stepped forward. “What if we didn’t just pick the wrong girl? What if we tried to erase someone who outranked us the entire time?”

Marion turned away, fingers twisting her bracelet with slow, controlled precision.

“She was supposed to sit down when told. That’s all,” she murmured.

Clarisse narrowed her eyes. “You knew something, didn’t you?”

Silence.

“Mother.” Still nothing.

Clarisse’s voice dropped. “You’re not afraid she’s lying. You’re afraid she’s telling the truth, isn’t it?”

Marion brushed past her like the conversation had never happened—but her shoulders didn’t recover their usual height.

Across the city, Celeste stepped into a press fitting, bathed in camera light. Navy silk swept behind her like command itself. No one guided her. No one had to.

Her hair was pinned clean. Her makeup was precise and cold. A stylist gestured toward the mirror.

“You can smile if—”

“I’m not here to smile,” Celeste cut in, eyes already locked on her reflection. “I’m here to be remembered.”

She didn’t see the girl who had once been erased. She saw someone carved from silence. Built in fire.

The cameras clicked. One flash. Then another. Then dozens more. But she stood through them like a statue at war—still, cold, unshaken.

Mid-morning, the headlines detonated across every major outlet:

‘POLITICAL WYNNE ENGAGED TO MISTRESS WHILE WIFE SILENTLY PREPARED LEGAL CASE.’

One corner of the screen showed Lucan and Virelle laughing in sunlight.

The other? Celeste. Black dress. Stiff-backed. No tears. No scandal. Just presence.

She hadn’t spoken to reporters. She hadn’t posted a single statement. But somehow, the message landed louder than a scream.

Clarisse dropped her phone onto the table. “She didn’t even say anything.”

Marion looked up, stiff. “She didn’t need to.”

Clarisse stared at the screen, still stunned. “She’s letting Lucan do it all himself. Dig the grave, lie in it, post the updates.”

Marion’s wine glass clinked softly. “And we left her the shovel.”

She said it under her breath, like whispering it might soften the truth.

At Halden Hall, Celeste sat at the head of a long, polished table. Her team surrounded her—three legal advisors, one political strategist, and a communications head she hadn’t spoken to yet.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. “This clause is weak.”

“Drop that exhibit.”

“Don’t announce anything until Lucan panics publicly.”

Her tone didn’t leave room for contradiction. Her silence led like a scalpel.

“The tribunal is confirmed,” her lead attorney said. “Public court. Cameras allowed.”

Celeste scanned the schedule. “What date?”

“One week.”

She nodded. “Perfect.”

A pause. Then she added, steady and unblinking:

“They’ll prepare defenses. Let them. They’ll think I want revenge.”

A beat. A flick of her pen across the docket.

“What I want… is record. Something their bloodline can’t wash away.”

No one asked her to elaborate. They simply followed her lead.

Meanwhile, at the Wynne estate, Lucan’s legal counsel had already called Marion twice in thirty minutes.

“She’s filed under Halden protections,” the voice on speaker said. “She’s got leverage. Precedents. Access.”

Clarisse listened from the hallway, arms folded.

“And we called her invisible.”

Marion said nothing.

Clarisse stepped into the room.

“We didn’t just underestimate her,” she said. “We crowned her. You gave her everything she needed to ruin us. Legally.”

Marion rose from her chair, every inch regal—but cracking.

“Then we destroy her in public.”

Clarisse faltered. “She’s not fighting for press, Mother. She’s fighting for precedent. And we handed her the papers.”

Marion crossed to the window, jaw clenched.

“She doesn’t have a crown yet.”

Clarisse shook her head. “She doesn’t need one. She walks like she’s already wearing it.”

At Halden Hall, the door opened without a knock.

Emeric entered the strategy room. Everyone stood.

Celeste didn’t.

He waved them out without breaking eye contact.

The room emptied fast. She closed her folder slowly, never looking away.

“They’re going to spin it,” Emeric said. “Say you’re unstable. Vengeful. Political.”

Celeste leaned back, unbothered.

“They always thought I was a girl trying to stay quiet.”

Then she stood, dress trailing behind her like a shadow.

“I’m not here to scream,” she said. “I’m here to finish what they started. But with documents. With power. Not pity.”

Emeric’s eyes didn’t waver. “You know once you’re public, there’s no pulling back.”

She stepped past him, toward the door.

“Then I won’t need to pull back. I’ll move forward—until they don’t even remember who stood behind me.”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, gently. “Are you ready to be seen?”

Celeste didn’t hesitate.

“I was born for this.”