My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 117

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Fiona laughed, surrendering to the idea. Killing time was reason enough, and Henry had, after all, spent entire days escorting her over hills and brooks, dispatching unwanted admirers with effortless charm.

“If it’s all the same, I prefer white,” Henry added, hopeful.

Fiona arched a brow. “Besides white, what shades appeal to you?”

“I’m rather fond of you, Ms. Fiona, as well.” Henry’s smile lingered, carrying with it a disarming ease. His allure rivaled that of any vixen, and at just sixteen, he bore a beauty uniquely his own -when he played at being endearing, it was irresistible.

She waved the compliment away. “I’m not interested in boys.”

Color surged across Henry’s cheeks, climbing to the very tips of his ears. “I’m not just a young boy,” he whispered, earnest and embarrassed in equal measure. “Give me time, and you’ll see.”

Fiona’s lips parted, yet no sound emerged. The silence itself felt like the pulling back of a bowstring, tense and glinting.

“Say that again,” she warned, her voice low and precise, “and you’ll earn another bruise.”

“But, I’m serious,” Henry muttered, cheeks blazing while the tips of his ears all but burned.

Fiona drove her fist into his shoulder–hard enough to jolt him. Henry yelped on cue, more theatrical than hurt, as though the cry itself were part of some courtly dance.

Luna watched the exchange with practiced detachment. The boy’s ambition was obvious; his talent for flattery, modest yet undeniable.

She slid a glance toward Soren. His expression remained a polished mask, betraying not the faintest ripple of approval or annoyance.

Deciding Henry no longer deserved attention, Fiona drifted deeper into the shop. A bolt of deep teal–dark as a crow’s wing–caught the light and stole her breath.

She reached up, but the cloth hung just beyond her fingertips. An unseen hand intervened, lifting the roll free and offering it to her.

The hand was elegant, all long bones and quiet strength. “Much obliged,” she said, accepting the fabric.

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12:12 Mon, Oct 13

Chapter 117 Market Encounters

No reply came from behind her.

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Puzzled, Fiona turned. The face belonging to that graceful hand was Soren’s. Beside him stood Luna, so radiant her presence seemed to bend the light.

So beautiful.

“Thank you, Lord Soren.” She dipped in a composed curtsey, realizing at last that the capital’s distinguished visitor was none other than him.

In a flash, Henry tugged Fiona behind him, planting himself between her and Soren like a living shield.

Henry knew well the feud between the Zonfrillo Estate and the Princess Royal’s household. Bowing stiffly, he announced, “Lord Soren.”

Soren cast him a fleeting glance–cool, unhurried. Recognition failed to surface; why would a lion recall every passing mouse?

“Henry Thankerton, son of James Thankerton,” Henry supplied, voice steady despite the gulf between their stations. He and the Thankertons in Jexburgh were cousins, but both families had stopped keeping in touch.

“Unwell?” Soren asked, directing the question past Henry to the woman sheltered at his back.

“Ms. Fiona caught a chill a few days ago,” Henry answered quickly. “She was unable to greet you yesterday and begs your pardon, Lord Soren.”

Soren’s silence stretched, heavy as gathering snow. Henry grew uneasy, yet he refused to step aside.

Like a small hound guarding its mistress, Luna mused.

“Still making clothes for others when you are ill?” Soren countered, a faint edge of disapproval threading through his measured tone.

Fiona eased Henry a pace to the side. “I’m feeling much better now, Lord Soren. Sewing keeps the hours from growing dull, nothing more.”

Their last encounter had ended in frost. Soren’s disdain for her notions of love still lingered in the air between them, turning the moment awkward. “It’s time for my medicine,” she lied with courteous grace. “Please, Lord Soren, Ms. Threadgold–enjoy shopping.”

With that, she gathered the flustered Henry and slipped away, the bell above the door chiming softly in their wake.

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12:12 Mon, Oct 13

Chapter 117 Market Encounters

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Quentin flicked a glance toward Soren. The young lord’s face lay still, but in the slate–gray depths of his eyes new shadows gathered, so sudden and cold that Quentin’s footsteps faltered.

He had served at Soren’s side since boyhood. He knew, better than anyone, that beneath the calm veneer lived a will made of iron–possessive, unbending.

“Whatever Soren called his own was not to be coveted by another. It did not matter whether he actually treasured the thing. Affection was irrelevant.”

The moment someone dared lay a finger on what bore Soren’s invisible mark, one of two endings followed: either the offender disappeared, or the object itself was reduced to ruin. Even the Sixth Prince had once tasted that bitter lesson.

“Why is that Mr. Henry keeping company with Ms. Fiona?” Luna murmured, confusion tightening her voice. In Jexburgh, people without family ties avoided even the hint of scandal. To see them together out here felt like a drum strike out of rhythm.

“That rule belongs to Jexburgh,” Quentin said, voice low and steady. “Princess Helen kept more than a few pretty–faced companions even while her husband still breathed, so folk in Yondale look at men and women rather differently. I suspect-”

That single unfinished sentence told the rest of the tale. Henry, bright–eyed and delicate, was likely no more than a toy selected for Fiona’s amusement.

If no outsiders set foot in Yondale, the tryst would remain a half–forgotten whisper. Helen’s reach was long enough to crush any rumor before it crawled back to Jexburgh.

“Pity the man who someday calls Ms. Fiona his wife,” Quentin added in a rasp of dark humor. “He’ll never know how many cuckold’s caps have been set upon his head.”

Soren’s mouth twitched, the closest his face ever came to a smile, yet the rest of his expression stayed carved from stone.

Meanwhile, Fiona, afraid that Soren might create trouble for the Princess Royal’s Estate, had already returned to her grandmother’s estate.

“Granny, why would His Majesty send Lord Soren instead of a prince?” Fiona asked gently, folding the question in velvet but making its weight clear.

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