Novel & Cerita You Sit On A Throne Of Lies

Anrina was strapped tightly to the interrogation chair. "Leon! I was the one who helped you take the throne! You can't do this to me!" Leon crouched in front of her and slowly flipped open the diary, holding each page up for her to see. "You helped me? "You stole her achievements. And you got her, and my child was killed." Anrina instantly collapsed to her knees, smashing her forehead against the floor as she begged for mercy. Leon leaned against the wall and watched in silence, his face completely unreadable.

"I stood by you from the brink of bankruptcy all the way to growing the firm, yet you married Flora behind my back. You took my sacrifices for granted and completely dismissed all my hard work. "Your so-called feelings were nothing more than exploitation." With that, I turned around and stopped looking at him. "Security, escort him out. This man is banned from entering the Whitfield tower from now on." As Louis was dragged away, he was still roaring hysterically. "Rachel! You can't! You can't marry him! You belong only to me! Only I love you!" Love? His "love" was using me for ten whole years, bleeding me dry of every last drop of my value, and then discarding me like trash.

"I'm not after anything except a paycheck and a safe place to work." "Liar." The word hangs in the air between us. Mrs. Thornton looks ready to say more when footsteps sound in the hallway. Everyone in the room turns toward the door just as Xade appears in the doorway. He takes in the scene with one sweep of his eyes; The guards standing at attention, Mrs. Thornton holding my phone like evidence, Me standing in the middle of it all in my thin pajamas with my heart in my throat. "What's going on here?" His voice is calm but there's steel underneath it.

She said dismissively with a wave of her hand and reclined on her throne. "Is that thing even comfortable?" He threw her a question. "Huh? You mean my beautiful throne? Of course!" She said but was avoiding making eye contact. She was lying and Wilson could tell. "I can tell you are lying! It is obvious. Very obvious." He told her. "Shut up! You know nothing!" She snarled at him. "I know you are lying. And I am very sure about that!" "Shut up!" She barked again and shifted her weight on her throne before reclining on it even more as if to prove her point.

Silence returned, but not peace. Just wine, I told myself. Just exhaustion. But the words cut too deep. Ronan’s voice was too real. What if it was true? What if everything I built was already crumbling? What if Ronan lived, waiting to reclaim it? My hands were shaking as I poured another drink, his words were in my head: Brother, the throne you sit on is made of sand. I drank until the bottle was empty, the room moved in my eyes, and when I fell on the bed, the pelt wrapped around me like a burial cloth—I couldn’t run away from the truth.

The people—hundreds of them—watched her with wary eyes. She stepped forward, her voice steady but loud enough for all to hear. “I know many of you are afraid.” A ripple of uneasy agreement passed through the crowd. “For centuries, we were told the throne’s power was what kept us strong. That without it, we were nothing.” She let her gaze sweep over them. “But that was a lie.” A murmur of shock ran through them. “The throne did not build our walls,” Lillian continued. “It did not till our fields. It did not fight our wars. You did.”

The throne room was a cage of polished marble and gilded lies. Kaelen sat on the throne of his ancestors, a heavy, ornate monstrosity of cold stone and cold ambition, and he felt like a fraud. The echoes of Seraphina’s arrest still reverberated through the castle, a silent, seismic shock that had fractured the court into a hundred terrified factions. They looked at him with fear, with respect, with a new, dangerous understanding. He was not the pawn they had believed him to be. He was the predator they had foolishly ignored.

Chapter 57: The Rogue’s Throne CASSIAN’S POV I waited patiently like a predator eyeing a prey that is walking directly into a trap. Sitting on my heavy black throne which was carved from wolves bones and obsidian, I crossed my legs as I let my index finger drum a slow rhythm against the armrest.

She sat down at her desk and opened the Book of Ashes again. And on a new page, in clean black ink, she wrote: VI. The throne is not inherited. It is taken. And if I must become a monster to keep it, then let them tremble. Let them kneel. Let them burn.

“That’s Lyra. They say it’s named after a lyre that could charm even the gods.” “It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “You always look at things like that,” he says suddenly, voice low. “Like you want to believe in the stories. Even the sad ones.” I turn to look at him. He’s already watching me. “It’s easier than believing in silence,” I reply, just as quietly. His hand is still in mine. And I don’t let go. But just as I begin to breathe in that fragile sense of calm, it hits me—this is wrong.