My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 1

In the sixth year of the Loyal Dawn Dynasty, during the heart of winter, Soren Zonfrillo, son of the Zonfrillo family, led his troops to a decisive victory against Lableoton. When he returned in triumph, the nation celebrated him as a hero.
After receiving his rewards and honors at court, he finally made his way back to the Zonfrillo Estate. By then, it was already well past midnight.

Fiona Niven had gone to bed, but she stirred awake when she heard his deep, steady voice instructing the servants to prepare water. 
She pushed herself up and looked toward him.

Soren, catching her gaze out of the corner of his eye, gave no reply. Without so much as a word, he walked into the washroom.
A quarter hour later, he reemerged. His tall, lean figure filled the doorway. Dark brows slanted toward his temples, his sharp features strikingly handsome. When he didn't smile, his expression was severe, almost forbidding. Now that he stood draped in glory, ranked high and commanding immense power, the sense of distance he carried felt all the more chilling, making him seem like a stranger.

Reaching out, he took Fiona's chin between his fingers, examining her calmly as if she were no more than a painting to study. Then, without warning, his hand slid downward, slipping beneath her collar.
At that very moment, thunder cracked across the sky. Rain fell in torrents, hammering against the windows. Outside, delicate blossoms shivered in the storm, willow branches swayed and quivered, the night scenery achingly beautiful even in its violence.

After some time, both the storm outside and the one inside the bedchamber came to a pause.
For other couples, such a reunion would have been followed by tender words, murmured endearments, the kind of affection that springs from long separation. But for Fiona and Soren, despite being apart for an entire year, their meeting felt colder, more distant than ever.

Soren had always been admired. At just seventeen, he had already followed his father, Alexander Zonfrillo, to battle and carved out achievements that made the empire take notice. Skilled both in the arts and in warfare, he was considered the perfect son-in-law by countless noble families in Jexburgh.

Fiona's marriage to him had been arranged by her parents and blessed by the matchmakers. Yet, before their wedding, Soren's heart had belonged to another—the second daughter of the Thankerton family, now the Fourth Princess Consort. The two had been deeply attached, lovers matched in both talent and affection. If not for the intervention of the Fourth Prince, they might have wed happily.

The thought of it still stung Fiona. She was no less beautiful or in family background than that other young woman. Yet while the Thankerton daughter now lived blissfully with her husband, Fiona's marriage was a gulf of silence and neglect.
"Three days from now, I'll be returning to Broadmoor," Soren finally said. His tone was flat, as though he were simply announcing a piece of military strategy.
Every time he returned home, he stayed no more than two or three days. Fiona remained silent.

For the next several days, he buried himself in official duties, often spending nights in his study. Not once did he visit her chambers.
It wasn't until the night before his departure that Fiona saw him again.
As he lay upon her once more, she finally whispered, unable to hold back any longer, "I want to go with you to Broadmoor."
He stilled. Then his voice came, low and detached. "The winters in Broadmoor are bitter. Your health won't withstand it. Stay here in the estate. If you're lonely, you can always invite your mother to visit."
Fiona said nothing. She turned over, her back to him, feigning sleep. 
Still restless with desire, he reached for her again. She dodged his hand. "Please, Lord Soren, have some mercy on my body."

His hand froze midair. He lingered for a long moment, staring at the curve of her back. Then, slowly, he withdrew, his interest extinguished.
Fiona didn't sleep. Silent tears soaked her pillow. She knew the truth—he simply did not want to take her with him.
As she reached to wipe her tears, his arm suddenly slid around her waist, pulling her against him.
"Why do you want to go to Broadmoor?" His voice was deep, steady, and close against her ear.
Her eyes were red, but her tone was deliberately light. "I've never been there. I was curious about the landscape. But since you say it's so cold, I suppose I don't want to go anymore."
"Good." Relief flickered in his voice, as though her lack of insistence eased his burden.
She said nothing more. She would not let him hold her. Pretending to be asleep, she drifted off for real. When she awoke, the bed beside her was empty.

Esme came in to serve her and said softly, "Lord Soren left for Broadmoor early this morning. He told me not to wake you."
Fiona merely nodded. She was used to this. He never told her when he would depart. She said not a word while Esme combed her hair. In the mirror, her face was much the same as it was three years ago. Only her eyes were different—dull, numbed by years of disappointment.
Is this to be my entire life? A lonely, neglected existence?

Everyone said Fiona had made a brilliant match by marrying Soren. Yet, if given the chance to choose again, she would never choose him. She didn't need a brilliant husband admired by the world. She only wanted a man who would not ignore her.
Her days followed the same dull rhythm. After breakfast, she was expected to go and pay her respects to Penelope, Soren's mother.
That morning, as she took the shortcut near the rock garden, she overheard a group of servants whispering.
"I heard the Duchess Zonfrillo tried to persuade Lord Soren to take Lady Fiona with him," one said. "But he still left alone."
"How could she go? Haven't you heard? Lord Soren has a woman in Broadmoor who looks remarkably like... the Fourth Princess Consort."
Esme's face paled. She was about to scold them when Fiona raised a hand to stop her. "Let's go."

Esme bit back her protest, but Fiona had already believed enough of it. Broadmoor abounds with beauties, not to mention someone who bears a striking resemblance to that woman; how could Soren resist? He was young, passionate, and powerful. He would never reject such temptation. That was why he didn't want Fiona there.
If the servants knew this much, then surely half the estate had already guessed. No one dared say it aloud, but the whispers were everywhere. No wonder her mother urged her to bear a child, for she feared Fiona would lose her place.
A wife with no child to her name—what dignity remained in that?

Perhaps it would be better to divorce than to go on like this.
Just then, her foot slipped. She tumbled down the artificial hill, pain flaring as she hit the ground. The sharp scent of blood filled her nose. She must have struck her head. Strangely, she felt no pain, only a hazy weakness pressing in.
Am I actually going to die here?
Fiona could not muster a single syllable.
Compared to life itself, it didn't matter if Soren kept a mistress. If she survived, even if he took a hundred concubines, she would never utter a complaint.
"Lady Fiona!" Esme's panicked cry reached her ears.
Fiona's heart clenched. Besides her husband, there were many who loved her dearly—Esme, her mother, her family. 
What sorrow would I leave behind if I were gone?
And then, darkness swallowed her whole.