Chapter 25 Aug 19, 2025 Celeste "The child born to Princess Céleste is not mine." The words shattered the morning stillness of the council chamber. I stood frozen in the antechamber doorway, my daughter sleeping peacefully in my arms, as Renard's voice carried across the mahogany table with devastating clarity. "I never laid with her. Not before, not after marriage. The child is a lie-and worse, the King's lie." The eruption was immediate and catastrophic. Lord Beaumont's chair scraped violently against marble as he pushed back from the table. Duke Laurent's mouth fell open in undisguised shock. Count Moreau's papers scattered to the floor as his trembling hands lost their grip. "Good God," someone whispered-I couldn't see who through the crack in the door, but the voice carried the weight of genuine horror. "You dare-" Lord Beaumont began, but his words died as Renard continued his assault. "Look at her," my husband said, his voice rising with manic energy. "Look at the timing. Look at the mathematics that somehow don't add up. Look at the way my father defends her, protects her, rearranges the very foundations of this court for her comfort." My legs threatened to buckle beneath me. Three days. I'd had three precious days of holding my daughter, of believing we might somehow navigate the treacherous waters ahead. Three days of peace before the world exploded around us. "This is madness," Duke Laurent said, but his voice lacked conviction. I could see the terrible understanding dawning on faces around the table-the pieces of a puzzle they'd suspected but never dared voice clicking into place. "Is it?" Renard laughed, the sound sharp and brittle. "Is it madness to acknowledge what everyone in this palace already knows? That my wife found comfort in another man's bed? That the child she bears is the product of that adultery?" Several nobles nodded slowly, reluctantly, as if Renard's words were merely confirming suspicions they'd harbored for months. Lord Sinclair-the same man who'd called my child illegitimate-actually looked vindicated, his thin lips curved in the ghost of a smile. But it was Lord Pemberton who dealt the killing blow to any hope of containing this disaster. The elderly nobleman rose quietly from his seat and walked toward the chamber doors without a word, his face pale but determined. He was going to spread the news. Within the hour, every corridor in the palace would echo with whispers of the Crown Prince's accusations. "Stop him," I wanted to scream, but my voice had abandoned me entirely. Through the chaos, Alexandre remained seated at the head of the table, unnaturally still in the center of the storm his son had unleashed. His hands rested flat against the polished wood, and I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful control he was exerting over every muscle in his body. "You accuse your wife of adultery," he said finally, his voice cutting through the babble of shocked voices. "That is a grave charge. One that requires proof." "The proof is in the timing!" Renard slammed his fist against the table, making the crystal water glasses jump. "The proof is in her behavior, her mysterious disappearances, her sudden… flowering under your protection!" "And who," Alexandre continued with deadly calm, "do you accuse as her partner in this alleged crime?" The chamber fell silent. This was the moment-the precipice from which there would be no return. I clutched my daughter closer, feeling her warmth against my chest as the political world we'd built began to crumble around us. Renard's eyes met his father's across the table, and I saw the exact moment when years of resentment, jealousy, and wounded pride crystallized into pure, destructive purpose. "You," he said simply. "I accuse you, Your Majesty. My father. My King. The man who stole my wife and planted his bastard in her womb." The silence that followed was so complete I could hear my own heartbeat, could hear the soft breathing of my sleeping daughter, could hear the distant sound of birds in the palace gardens-life continuing its ancient rhythms while our world collapsed. Count Moreau made a sound like a wounded animal. Duke Laurent's face had gone ashen. Lord Beaumont stared at the table as if it might provide answers to questions too terrible to voice. Then Alexandre stood. Slowly, deliberately, with the measured grace of a man who had never doubted his right to command. The scrape of his chair against marble seemed to echo forever in the stunned silence. "You call my daughter a lie?" he said, his voice soft as silk and deadly as winter frost. "Then what does that make you?"