My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 264

264 Unspoken Farewells

“Everyone inside has been alerted and stands ready,” Quentin reported.

“If I go in, she will only find me more annoying than before,” Soren said after a pause.

“You won’t regret this?” Quentin asked softly.

No one could say when they might see Jexburgh again–or whether they would see it alive.

During that span, Fiona might accept another man’s hand.

How could regret not exist?

But neither did Soren wish to face the wariness and tired frustration that flickered across her features whenever their paths crossed.

The carriage slid back into the night, wheels swallowing the road in silence.

No trace remained that he had ever been there.

That same night, behind the manor walls, Fiona lay awake, eyes wide open to the darkness for a very long time.

She had not known what prompted it. But all at once the memory of her previous life came rushing back–the moment, a year later, when Soren rode south from the windswept barrens of Broadmoor and returned to Jexburgh.

At that time, Emperor Aldric lay bedridden, his breath shallow and counted, but the situation at Broadmoor had finally quieted. Zephyr held a slight advantage in the arcane duel for power, and the Zonfrillo family once more blazed at the center of the realm’s sky.

The Zonfrillo Estate’s banquet hall had overflowed with velvet gowns and glinting circlets; not a single noble house of Jexburgh dared remain absent. Hidden behind a pillar, Fiona stole one furtive glance at Soren, nothing more.

Gone was the clean–cut youth she once knew. In his place stood a nascent kingmaker whose gaze seemed bottomless; every ounce of authority he wielded pressed upon the air, raising him to heights that others could only fear to scale.

A gulf, vast as a canyon carved by centuries of rain, cleaved the space between them. Cold resignation dripped into her chest. She understood with brutal clarity that the man she loved now dwelt far beyond her reach.

Claudia let her fan drift shut with a whisper of silk. “Now that you’re back in Jexburgh, it is surely time to speak of your marriage, is it not?” she said, her voice sweet as ripened fruit.

Soren inclined his head with effortless grace. “I’ll leave that to you and Mother, Aunt Claudia,” he replied, the curvature of his lips polite yet glacial, as if the words themselves had been sculpted from winter ice.

Soren caught the weight of Fiona’s gaze and lifted his head. The moment their eyes met, the latter’s lungs locked. She wrenched her stare aside as though his look had been a blade pressed to bare skin.

The banquet grew cruel. Zephyr shadowed her step for step, cornering her with forced toasts. Joanna, who had accompanied her, feared offending a prince and murmured coaxing words that tasted of surrender. She urged Fiona to bow her head and drink.

Left with no other choice, Fiona went along and emptied her glass. She formed a bright, unbreakable smile for Zephyr while wine and humiliation slid together down her throat.

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Out of the blur of faces, she sensed Soren’s brief regard, sharp as winter light.

She escaped on the pretext of dizziness and drifted into a quiet courtyard. There she sat, numb, while her aunt’s and grandmother’s wishes echoed in her mind: better to yield to Zephyr than risk the wrath of a prince. Perhaps such a match could even revive the dwindling fortunes of the Niven family.

Only her mother, Meryl, would not bend. Meryl would see her daughter bargain for nothing less than happiness, no matter the cost.

Lost in thought, Fiona looked up. On the crest of the rockery stood Soren, gaze lowered, expression blank. He watched her the way a lone hawk studies the ground below.

“Have I disturbed you, Lord Soren?” she asked, her voice scarcely louder than the rustle of leaves.

His reply cut through the dusk. “Do you intend to marry Zephyr as his concubine?” The words were flat, stripped of any feeling, and the distance in them made the evening air feel colder still.

Fiona lifted her chin and shook her head.

“Very well.” No curiosity lingered in him. The subject died where it stood.

He left her rooted in place, heart drumming so hard she felt each beat in her fingertips. Cold as he was, every syllable from her beloved sent a fierce flutter of hope through her chest.

Days later, one of Soren’s stallions nearly trampled her at a crossroads.

Soren swung down from the saddle, his glance icy and quick. After confirming she was unhurt, he asked, “What compensation do you want?”

Fiona blinked at him in honest puzzlement. “I am unharmed, Lord Soren. There is no need for compensation.”

He placed a boot to the stirrup and paused. “I owe you something nonetheless. When you’ve figured out what you want, come look for me at the Zonfrillo Estate,” he said before riding away.

Fiona stared after him, baffled. Could a near accident merit such gravity?

Naturally, she did not go to the Zonfrillo Estate.

If he had promised her anything, perhaps it was this: not long after, Meryl visited the Zonfrillo Estate to speak of marriage.

Her mother went twice.

One crisp morning, Pearl burst in, cheeks glowing. “Ms. Fiona, the Zonfrillo family has come to propose!”

Joy and a flicker of triumph flared inside Fiona. In the end, she had won him after all.

Sunlight blazed that day. She took great care with her hair and silks, then stepped into the front courtyard. A man stood against the light, shoulders broad, waist narrow. The sight alone painted her cheeks pink.

Soren regarded her steady hands and hopeful eyes without a trace of bashfulness. “May I ask you one thing, Ms. Fiona? Is it your own free will to marry me?”

She nodded, certain and calm. “Yes.”

His voice dropped, threaded with something solemn. “If one day I fall on the battlefield, will you manage the estate in my stead?”

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“I will,” she whispered.

Soren’s lips seemed to twitch–perhaps a smile, or perhaps nothing at all. The flicker was so fleeting no one could read it, and one suspected that, to him, marriage was simple arithmetic: any bride would balance the ledger.

But for Fiona, the betrothal had been sunlight after an endless drizzle. For weeks, she glided through the Niven Estate buoyant, the hush of jealous murmurs rustling around her like silken skirts.

Even when someone muttered, “Why would Lord Soren choose Ms. Fiona from that declining Niven family?“, delight unfurled inside her–warm and fierce as a hidden flame.

The memory drifted forward: one winter night, he had roused her from sleep, Broadmoor–bound, lantern in hand. “Come see me off,” he had said.