My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 111

Chapter 111 Midnight Confessions

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When the word “Dreamveil” escaped Fiona’s lips, Cecilia’s eyes narrowed with swift deduction. “Was it Lord Soren?” she ventured.

Fiona lowered her gaze, silent and unreadable.

A flicker of regret crossed Cecilia’s features; she brushed a loose curl from Fiona’s cheek. “Leave Jexburgh behind,” she urged. “Here in Yondale, no one would dare treat you with anything less than admiration.”

The reassurance did little to calm Fiona. Helen’s overwhelming influence was precisely what troubled her. She had come to Yondale to heal, yes, but also because Fiona’s mishandling of the Pierre scandal had begun to erode the family’s standing.

And yet, Yondale itself was breathtaking: mountain ridges folding like slumbering giants, waterfalls stitching silver thread through emerald valleys, air so clear it tasted of pine and promise.

The province belonged to Helen, which meant its households were far less constrained than those in Jexburgh. Here, a woman might step beyond her gates whenever she pleased–a freedom Fiona had not known she craved.

During Fiona’s first days, Cecilia escorted her through teeming bazaars and quiet gardens, then placed Henry at her side and encouraged her to explore on her own, to let the city unfold like a map beneath her feet.

Helen considered hosting a banquet to present Fiona to polite society, but Fiona declined; she had crossed half the realm for peace, not introductions she would instantly forget.

“Very well–your wish, your way,” the Princess Royal said with a patient smile, content to let Fiona acclimate at her own pace.

Cecilia returned one afternoon laughing, a purse jingling in her hand. “Everyone wants to know which young lord you will meet first,” she told Fiona. “They have stuffed me with lots of silver coins, enough for us to split later.”

But Fiona wished to meet no one, offend no one, and above all, focus on the quiet purpose that had drawn her here.

Cecilia only chuckled. “Knowing you wouldn’t be able to decide, I told the hopefuls this: whoever proves the most skilled may claim the first audience. Let them duel for the privilege -it keeps them busy and us entertained.”

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12:10 Mon, Oct 13

Chapter 111 Midnight Confessions

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Fiona studied Cecilia across the low tea table, lamplight trembling over porcelain and pale silk. The faint rustle of a departing footman still lingered in the corridor. “Just now–did you really send someone out with a letter?”

Cecilia’s smile widened, bright as cut glass, eyes sliding away as though she nursed a private joke. “Mm–hmm. Curious about what I wrote?”

Fiona had little taste for other people’s secrets. She merely shook her head, letting the subject fall like dust from her sleeve.

Yet the very air in Yondale buzzed with rumors about her. Young heirs, bored with horse races and wine, had trampled the track in their frenzy just to glimpse the elusive beauty said to dwell behind the Niven gates. Fists had flown, whips had cracked, and more than one satin- clad rival left the field with blood matting his hair.

To them, she was peril, promise, and political shortcut in one; what they truly pursued was the title that made her Princess Helen’s granddaughter.

Word of the commotion reached Zachary, and anxiety gnawed at him the way winter mice gnaw at stored grain. He prayed the gossip would never seep into Jexburgh, though he knew Jexburgh’s couriers rode faster than any north–road rumor.

At last, he decided to ride the two hours to Yondale himself and see his daughter with his own

eyes.

The morning Fiona learned of her father’s intended visit, she stayed inside the estate, practicing calligraphy she could not concentrate on.

When the carriage finally rolled through the cedar gate, it carried not one guest but two.

Xavier stepped down behind Zachary. Half a year of frontier wind had bronzed his skin, sharpened the lines of his face, and kindled a quiet fire in his eyes.

Fiona gathered her skirts and offered a formal bow. “Mr. Xavier.”

Xavier let his gaze skim over Henry Thankerton, as though noting but not dwelling, then settled gently on Fiona. “Ms. Fiona, you’ve grown thinner.”

Helen watched the exchange. The young man’s self–possessed stillness reminded her, disturbingly, of Alexander; that kind of quiet steel was never simple, and while she disliked its echo, she could not help respecting it.

Her silk–gloved hand lifted in polite inquiry. “And this gentleman is?”

Xavier inclined his head. “Xavier Luthor, at your service.”

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12:10 Mon, Oct 13

Chapter 111 Midnight Confessions

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A shadow of comprehension crossed Helen’s eyes. Anyone Zachary bothered to escort inside must already have Fiona’s silent approval–and that meant the matter deserved attention.

Helen offered a gracious smile, stepping aside. “Fiona, since Mr. Xavier is our guest, why don’t you show him around the grounds?”

Across the hall, Cecilia released a quiet sigh. She had believed the true contender lived in far- off Jexburgh, enough to copy Fiona’s handwriting and send a probing letter to that young lord of the Zonfrillo Estate.

The test was simple: Would Soren remain frozen in indifference? She doubted it–after all, he had once risked his life to save her.

Yet if the Niven family now favored Xavier, Soren’s reaction suddenly mattered far less. By now, she guessed, the letter had already reached his hands.

Soren did not ride through the estate gates until deep night; the lanterns had burned halfway down their wicks when his horse stamped into the courtyard.

“Lord Soren, a letter arrived from the Princess Royal’s Estate in Yondale.” Quentin, the ever- vigilant bodyguard, met him at the steps, scroll case in hand and puzzlement in his brow. The Princess Royal’s Estate and the Zonfrillo Estate had never seen eye to eye–Quentin could make no sense of it.

Soren spared Quentin a single, cool glance, then took the envelope. The seal cracked under his thumb–one brittle pop–and the parchment unfolded in the lamplight. He skimmed the ink, expression entirely blank.

“The Princess Royal’s Estate is pressing hard over Counselor Pierre,” Quentin observed in a careful undertone. “They may intend to strike a bargain with you, Lord Soren. Best weigh every word before you answer.”

The letter itself was harmless chatter–dinners in distant Yondale, idle games of chance, polite weather talk. The hand looked uncannily like Fiona’s, yet a trained eye could see the forger’s tiny hesitations.

Still, one line caught him. Whoever wrote it lamented the need to hide a lover’s kiss marks and begged for a remedy, the tone both prim and quietly aggrieved–exactly how Fiona might sound when propriety wrestled with indignation.

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