My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 252

er 252 Fractured Vows

He could tolerate having to placate Rita once in a while, but being forced to bow in every dispute grated hard against Elijah’s nature.

Before the banquet ended, Naomi and Hillary linked arms with Fiona and spirited her away toward the bridal chamber to greet the new princess consort.

Because members of the Thankerton family filled the room, Fiona remained at a polite distance. The veil still hid Roxanne’s face as she sat perfectly straight, fingers twisting the silk sleeves in quiet anxiety and muted sorrow.

Moments earlier, inside the Thankerton Estate, Marianne had wept herself hollow. For mothers, a daughter’s wedding is equal parts triumph and heartbreak; after today, those childhood mornings shared over tea would become rare as comets.

The gaiety in the air tugged Fiona back to her own wedding day, and a sudden ache for Meryl’s tender presence swept through her. Unlike Naomi and Hillary, who chatted with childlike excitement, she slipped from the crowded room and stepped into the corridor, leaving the laughter behind.

The Prince’s Estate rivaled the Zonfrillo Estate in size; winding around streaming guests, she chose a narrow footpath and, before long, realized she had lost her way.

Turning a corner fragrant with peony lanterns, she nearly collided with Elijah.

“Fiona, have you taken the wrong path?” Elijah asked, quickening his stride to match hers.

“I did no such thing. Tend to your own affairs, Elijah.”

“Look, Rita is getting restless at the Wagner Estate. If you have some spare time, I hope you can visit her and keep her company.”

His persistence clung like sticky resin; if anyone spotted them, the rumors would be merciless. Worse, Rita would pin the blame on her as well.

At last, she reached the pavilion and caught sight of Soren’s broad silhouette framed by moonlit cypress.

“Ms. Fiona, Naomi is searching for you. Wait here a moment; she will return shortly,” Soren said, brow still knit in thought.

“Very well.” She dipped into a courteous half–bow, every movement as precise as calligraphy. Then she walked toward the lakeside pavilion, yet paused at the threshold, polite enough to

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zurice Coins

remain outside the private shelter.

Soren leaned back in the shade, voice mild yet cutting. “Mr. Wagner, why do you keep following Ms. Fiona?” The question drifted across the summer air like a stone skimming water -perfectly casual, perfectly aimed.

Elijah’s smile stiffened. He muttered something about Rita longing for her sister’s offered a shallow bow, and hurried down the garden path, shoes crunching gravel in his haste

company,

to vanish.

“Thank you, Lord Soren.” Fiona’s voice was soft, yet the gratitude in it rang as clear as temple bells.

Soren pushed himself upright. The motion looked simple, yet his feet tangled beneath him, sending a wobble through his tall frame. Fiona read the drunken sway at once. “I will fetch someone to help you,” she said, already turning to go.

Her exit was hurried, almost panicked. On the first stone step, her slipper caught. She pitched forward, a breath away from cracking her skull against the garden’s jagged rock. Blood drained from her face.

She had scarcely begun to rise when Soren lurched to her side. Seeing the chalky terror on her cheeks, he felt a memory slam into him–Fiona lying cold, drained of life, eyes shuttered forever.

The thought rattled him. If fate ever forced him to witness that scene again, he knew with bitter certainty he would shatter beyond repair.

“Don’t worry, Fiona. There’s nothing to fear.” Words slurred by wine, he drew her into the cage of his arms, stroking her shoulders as though gentling a frightened foal.

After scouring the pathways and shrubs, Hillary found no sign of Fiona. She left the courtyard to search, splitting from Naomi so they could cover more ground.

Yet the moment she neared the pavilion, her steps locked. What she saw rooted her like ivy to

stone.

Not far away, Soren was on his knees upon the mossy floor, gathering Fiona–still seated on the ground–into his arms. Tenderly, he brushed a consoling kiss across her brow. Then he folded her tight against his chest, as if all harm must break against him first.

Fiona twisted, pushing at his shoulders in abrupt, jerking bursts.

Soren’s brows knit in brief frustration. Bowing his head, he murmured something too low to carry–words that sounded like promises. A heartbeat later, his mouth captured hers, no force,

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only a delicate tasting, a slow rolling of affection between their trembling lips.

Her fist shot up and landed squarely against his ribs. He grunted, yet instead of anger, he seized her hand, turned it palm–up, and pressed a reverent kiss to her knuckles.

The kneeling lord, the unbridled kisses–he looked like some fallen deity who had surrendered all dignity just to worship a single mortal.

Hillary stared, unblinking, heart thundering against her ribs as though it meant to break free.

The woman in his arms was not her–yet warmth flooded Hillary’s cheeks all the same, blooming scarlet.

What if it were me he held? If only he would bend that proud head for my sake and cradle me with that fierce tenderness…

Bewildered, she grasped at the thought. If she desired that, then surely she had long since stopped viewing Soren as a brotherly figure.

A flare of panic burst inside her chest.

She bit down on her lip, smothered the chaos, and fled, skirts whipping behind her like frightened sparrows.

Fiona’s earlier blow had carried no mercy. Her knuckles still tingled where bone had met bone.

Pain lanced through Soren’s chest, sharp as a split reed, yet he refused to voice it.

“Lord Soren, do not use wine as an excuse for madness,” Fiona scolded coldly.

“Are you hurt?” Soren asked, voice low.

“No. Now please, leave.” Determination edged each syllable.

His next words rasped, raw. “When you died in your previous life–before everything ended— did it hurt then?”

Fiona paused, her lashes trembling as she studied the glaze of drink in his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

Soren was indeed drunk–so drunk that time folded, returning him to a night from another life. In that memory, he knelt beside a bed where Fiona’s pulse had already gone still.

He caught her hand, gripping it as if bone and flesh were mooring lines holding him to shore. “I’m begging you, Fiona, open your eyes, will you? Please don’t leave me. I swear never to set foot in Broadmoor again in the

years ahead…”

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Chapter 252 Fractured Vows

Outside, a ragged winter wind howled against the shutters.