My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 152

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“If you enjoy it, Isabella, please take some leaves home,” Soren replied, his tone steady as river

stone.

Fiona chose a corner table that framed the lattice window like a painting. Outside, willows stirred over the pond; inside, the aroma of roasted leaves mingled with quiet. Lilith had entered shy, almost shrinking into herself, but Fiona’s composure proved contagious. Soon they were sipping, laughing softly, and dissecting brocade patterns.

Beauty seldom stayed private; glances began to bloom around them like fireflies, each patron drawn to the sisters‘ effortless poise.

“Keeper, allow me to send a pot of your finest to the two beauties upstairs,” a dashing voice from below announced.

From his private booth, Soren traced a fingertip along the rim of his cup, then shot a glance downstairs–ice clear, unamused.

Fiona answered, her smile bright yet edged with courtesy. “Your kindness flatters us, sir, but there is no need. In fact, allow me the pleasure of covering today’s bill for every guest present.” The teahouse was an expensive haunt; her offer served as a gentle declaration of pedigree, a velvet rope unseen yet unbreakable. No one dared intrude again.

For a fleeting moment, Isabella let her gaze wander across the upper gallery’s teahouse. Fiona -serene, self–possessed–sat two tables away, lifting a porcelain cup with an elegance so effortless it seemed born of the evening light itself. Isabella arched a brow at Soren, expecting at least a spark of interest. He answered with cool indifference, refusing to spare the young lady even a side–long glance.

“That must be the Niven family’s daughter, yes?”

Soren’s eyes flicked toward Isabella, then away again, his mood dipping several degrees as if a window had blown open on a winter night.

Isabella suddenly understood the chill. Rumor said Princess Helen and Soren were thick as kin; the Muirhaven Estate had heard that story often enough. Had His Majesty not confined the princess to her residence, those two would have met long ago.

“Jexburgh is flooded with beauties,” Isabella murmured, studying him.

“A painted shell means little,” Soren answered, voice light as frost. “Character is the only coin worth counting.”

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Chapter 152 Unexpected Encounters

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“Ms. Fiona settled our bill,” Isabella said, relief softening her tone. “Shouldn’t we step over and express our thanks?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Fiona departed soon after. Passing Soren’s private box, she did not so much as tilt her head. To her, he and the brash ruffian downstairs were cut from the same indifferent cloth–one more stranger in a city of strangers.

Soren tasted his tea. It had cooled; the flavor, like his mood, lay flat upon the tongue.

“Tell me what fortunate gentleman has won Ms. Fiona’s promise?”

A faint crease tightened between Soren’s brows. He did not dignify the gossip with an answer, and Isabella, catching the warning, let the matter drop.

When Penelope’s retinue arrived below, Soren remembered urgent business at the Imperial Palace and slipped away before she reached the stairs.

News had come that Xavier would soon return to Jexburgh. A post awaited him, and Soren meant to secure nothing less than a worthy command.

Xavier bled to steady Junbert, Soren told the palace ministers. “If we wish future captains to follow that example–to stake their lives for Duflana–His Majesty’s reward must speak louder than any trumpet.”

What calculations Aldric turned over in private, no one could say, yet the final decree matched Soren’s proposal almost stroke for stroke.

On the day Xavier re–entered the capital, his first stop was the palace’s marble steps.

You have endured much this past year, Emperor Aldric said, warmth rippling through his court–trained voice.

The

patent named Xavier to a senior fourth–rank commandant–an astonishing height for a man so young, with room enough above for mountains more.

“My thanks, Your Majesty.”

“Yet that outfit of yours,” Emperor Aldric teased, “isn’t quite palace finery, is it?”

The cloth itself was exquisite; the stitching, however, carried a rustic honesty that palace eyes found quaint.

Fiona’s needlework was far from coarse, merely humble beside the silken perfection to which

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“The woman who made this robe had never sewn one like it,” Xavier said, after a quick glance toward Soren. “Skill may be lacking, but affection isn’t–and that is what suits me.”

He stood tall in a snow–lilac round–collar robe of heavy brocade. Whoever chose the fabric had spent no small care; the muted shimmer caught the throne room’s light, draping Xavier’s lean frame in quiet, resolute dignity.

Anyone who happened to glance his way found the breath catch in their throat. Dressed in that shade of deep pine–green, Xavier stood straight as a young cedar, the cut of his robes lending an extra air of scholarly grace.

From the side, Soren spared him a single measured glance. His face remained unreadable, a lake without ripples.

Emperor Aldric let his gaze linger on Xavier, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are of marrying age now,” he said, voice smooth as warmed wine. “If your heart has chosen, I can grant the match.”

Xavier answered with the gravity of an advocate addressing the High Court. “I do not yet know the lady’s feelings,” he said quietly. “I will not force her hand.”

Emperor Aldric chuckled, an unhurried, almost conspiratorial sound that filled the chamber. “With thoughtfulness like that,” he teased, “the beauty will end up in your arms sooner or later.”

Yet, Xavier let the subject die there. Instead, he steered the conversation toward the far–flung province of Junbert and the bandit crisis that had plagued its hills. “The idea came from Mr. Niven,” Xavier explained. “Junbert is barren. Unless we first fill the people’s bowls, nothing will flourish. Some of the bandits we captured were driven to crime by the same hunger,” he went on. “So we offered amnesty. In exchange, they reclaim wasteland, raise cottages, and repay their debts with honest labor. Local officials may mouth service to the people,” he added, “but these former outlaws, desperate for a clean slate, work with genuine heart.”

Aldric’s eyes narrowed, his expression impossible to read. “You and Zachary seem well acquainted,” he observed.

Xavier inclined his head. “We both served in Junbert,” he said. “Our duties overlapped. Crossing paths was inevitable.”

For a moment, Emperor Aldric sat in silence, fingers drumming the arm of his throne. “Managing Junbert is no simple task,” he finally said. “Zachary has worked hard.”

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