My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 263

Chapter 263 Shattered Affections

Henrietta nodded. “If you still have things to do, you can go back first, Ms. Fiona,” she said.

Fiona offered Soren a formal bow and disappeared down the corridor, footsteps as light as falling petals.

Soren stood rooted, watching until the last flutter of her gown vanished beyond the corner. Only then did his eyes lower, the corridor suddenly colder for her absence.

A muted ache still throbbed beneath his breastbone, each breath dragging a thread of pain across the half–healed wound.

The moment steel met flesh, one reckless wish had flared inside him–to look upon her face again. The sharper the agony grew, the stronger that craving pulsed, as if her mere gaze could quiet the fire burning through his ribs. Yet she kept her distance, skirting him like sunlight dodging the edge of a storm.

Soren’s fingers drifted to the embroidered pouch Fiona had stitched and fastened at his belt, his expression unreadable, almost

calm.

Henrietta released a weary sigh. “It is good that you’ve come, Lord Soren. Your visit will lift Hillary’s spirits.”

Hillary stirred, lashes fluttering like startled moths. The instant she spotted Soren at her bedside, her eyes flared with unguarded joy. “Soren,” she greeted, careful to keep her tone respectful.

“Naomi asked me to bring you a few trinkets,” Soren said as he set a small lacquered box on the quilt. “Since you are ill and confined indoors, perhaps they’ll help the hours pass.” The baubles, initially given to Naomi by Quentin, clinked softly inside.

“Soren, why are you so good to me?” Hillary murmured, eyes lowering shyly.

“From the time you were little, I have regarded you as a sister. You need not feel indebted,” Soren replied, voice smooth as winter glass.

Hillary bit her lip, uncertain whether Soren was quietly warning her not to harbor foolish dreams. The thought stung far worse than the fever that still fogged her head.

“I was at Prince Cornelius‘ Estate the other day and saw you with Fiona,” Hillary whispered.

The words made Soren pause, shoulders stilling, yet he offered no reply.

The young lady drew a breath, summoning courage she scarcely felt. “Do you intend to marry Fiona?”

“Wanting to marry her and being able to are different matters,” Soren said, eyes skimming her face. “Do me a favor, Hillary–speak of this to no one, or Fiona will never forgive me.”

In the tremor beneath his light tone, Hillary heard an intimacy she could not name. Men, she had been told, sometimes chose to appear weak when courting.

“I won’t breathe a word, but is it true that Fiona has a thing for Mr. Xavier?”

Soren fell silent before asking, “Do you believe she likes him?”

“I often see her smiling at him,” Hillary said softly. “When Mr. Niven returned to Jexburgh, Mr. Xavier dined at the Niven Estate. People say Mr. Niven and Mdm. Meryl both approve of the match.”

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She spoke with careful caution, as though afraid the faintest ripple would tip the cup from his hand.

Soren’s face revealed nothing. Long moments stretched, heavy and unbroken.

Rumors like those had already blown through every corner of Jexburgh; he had heard more than most.

At times, the unfairness clawed at him–he had once known Fiona with a closeness no one suspected.

No one knew he had been her beloved.

He remembered another lifetime, yet its details were lost, leaving him stranded between a hazy yesterday and an unyielding today.

“Have a good rest,” Soren said at last, the urge to linger gone.

Hillary pressed her teeth into her lower lip. In the glimmer of the lantern light, she clearly saw the disappointment clouding Soren’s eyes. To her, a man as perfect and handsome as he was should never have looked so lost.

Each sunrise brought Soren’s departure for Broadmoor ever nearer, the days falling away like brittle leaves in an autumn wind.

His staff gathered in a shallow ring of candlelight, dividing responsibilities, sharpening plans, and vowing that everything would keep moving in his absence.

“Duke Niven favors you, Xavier,” someone said with a playful elbow. “Once you marry into the family, you’ll climb even higher.”

At the Zonfrillo Estate, however, Xavier no longer touched the secrets that mattered. Having stepped back before truly entering the core circle, he left room for others–and that, of course, delighted the crowd.

“Still, what a pity after all the training Lord Soren poured into him,” another voice added.

“Lord Soren isn’t the petty sort. Xavier’s good fortune must please him as well–right, my lord?”

Soren answered with nothing but a thin, unreadable smile, the curve of his lips as hollow as a painted mask.

Quentin, however, rolled his eyes. Mr. Luthor is marrying the woman Lord Soren loves. How can he possibly be pleased?

Because no one grasped Soren’s heart, they spoke of Fiona and Xavier before him, never realizing each syllable slipped another blade between his ribs.

Xavier kept silent too, the chill of unspoken things hanging between the two men like early frost.

“Why has Lord Soren left such painstaking instructions this time?” someone murmured, as though suspecting he was preparing

never to return.

Soren did not bother to explain. In that instant, however, a sudden longing rose within him to see Fiona once more.

In the last lifetime–even after he had taken Fiona as his bride–Emperor Aldric had failed to claim his life, yet the coming campaign remained a knife–edge all the same.

That night, an ordinary household carriage rolled to a stop in the narrow lane just short of the Niven Estate.

A man dressed head to toe in black–face half–hidden beneath a mask–stood in its shadow for a long while, fingers absently turning an embroidered pouch.

He could have slipped into the estate with ease; he knew every corridor by heart and the rotation of each guard.

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Yet he remained in the carriage, motionless, until nearly an hour had drained away. Only then did he whisper, “Drive on.”

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