My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 80

Chapter 80 Calculated Alliances

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A prudent mind grasped the value of staying in the Divine Doctor’s good graces. One could never hope to control such a man; one could only befriend him–and be very careful never to become his enemy.

Soren flicked his sleeve, voice low and even. “Pearl Terrace is a web of competing interests. Even Mr. Niven has eyes planted there. When you step inside, every word and gesture must be weighed.

Fiona steadied her pulse and nodded. “I appreciate the warning, Lord Soren. I know my limits.”

Then remember this,” he added, his smile thin. “If Mr. Niven discovers that you keep a male favorite in Pearl Terrace, he will show you no mercy.”

She met his gaze with playful defiance. “You underestimate Sterling’s looks, Lord Soren.”

Soren paused, the street’s noise slipping into silence around them. “You call beautiful a fallen gentleman whose face you have never seen?”

“Must a man be born noble to earn respect?” she shot back, brows lifting in quiet challenge.

“You are right,” Soren conceded, though a cryptic lilt colored his words. “Yet if playacting runs too hot, remember–you, Fiona, stand alone before any man you tempt.”

Harriet slowed, eyes darting between the two like a spectator watching sparks leap toward tinder. Emotion flickered over her features–concern, curiosity, something perilously close to recognition.

For Harriet alone knew the truth of who Sterling really was.

An uneasy intuition whispered through Fiona that Soren’s notion of danger had less to do with hidden daggers and more to do with blurred lines between a woman and the man who holds her attention.

Is Sterling merely pretending to be aloof?

Either way, she decided, trading speculation with Soren on such matters felt increasingly improper.

She lowered her lashes and let a measured note of courtesy slip into her voice. “Thank you for

the caution, Lord Soren.”

Soren observed the gesture, replying with practiced calm. “Because you act on my behalf, your

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Chapter 80 Calculated Alliances

safety is my concern.”

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Yet Harriet sensed a faint edge to his tone, an undercurrent she could not easily name. Everything between Soren and Fiona appeared proper, and yet every exchanged glance suggested something that defied tidy explanation.

His attitude toward her, she decided, was many–layered and far from simple.

Harriet had long since noticed Soren’s manner toward Fiona. He neither pursued nor ignored her; his bearing hovered in a gray space that was not quite affection, yet certainly more than polite indifference.

If Soren had truly desired Fiona, Harriet knew, the resourceful young lord possessed a thousand elegant stratagems to secure her consent.

Instead, he held himself at arm’s length. He invented no casual meetings, offered no tokens, and in conversations about future weddings he never once allowed Fiona’s name to surface.

Yet when circumstance obliged them to share a space, some instinctive tenderness betrayed him. He seemed to resent her aloofness, closing the distance, voice softening, fingers ready to steady her as she climbed into or out of a coach.

Harriet could puzzle over it for days, she admitted to herself, and still arrive nowhere. Better to swallow the questions and lock them deep.

If she, too, had been gifted a husband who carried memories of a previous lifetime, perhaps she would understand. Who could remain unmoved when confronted by someone who had once shared their very soul?

At last the carriage rolled to a gentle halt before Scarlet Boutique–a glittering landmark whose very signboards promised silk dreams. Serena had suggested the stop, longing for new gowns, and so here they were.

Fiona expected only to step down with Harriet. When Soren’s boots touched the cobblestones behind her, she frowned ever so slightly. “Lord Soren, it might be more comfortable if you waited inside,” she offered, courtesy masking discomfort.

Harriet’s laughter was light but clear. “No need to fret, Fiona. This shop, too, falls under Lord Soren’s household.”

The explanation eased Fiona’s brow. She nodded, letting the matter drop.

Scarlet Boutique spanned three luminous stories. The ground floor glittered with gemstones and filigreed hairpins. Above, walls vanished behind shimmering bolts of silk–gauzy robes, brocade jackets, twill skirts, cloud–soft gowns–more colors than a sunset on water.

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Chapter 80 Calculated Alliances

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Harriet turned to Fiona, catching Soren’s distant profile at the staircase. “Whatever delights you, choose it,” she said, voice bright with unconstrained generosity.

A single skirt here, Fiona knew, could buy ten on any ordinary street.

“Thank you, Harriet,” Fiona answered, sweetness warming her smile.In truth, the gratitude ought to have been directed at Soren, yet etiquette favored accepting a lady’s kindness over a lord’s silent purse. Besides, wealth was not her problem; refusing goodwill would only bruise pride on both sides.

One must give face now to receive favors later; Fiona had learned that lesson young.

The moment they crossed the threshold, a steward approached Soren with a discreet bow and whisked him toward a private salon, leaving the women the full freedom of the display hall.

Draped silks drifted like waterfalls around them. Fiona walked a slow circle and laughed, “So many patterns can be a curse; the eye tires before the heart decides.”

Moments later, the floor manager appeared, cradling a folded miracle. “My ladies, this is Luna Threadgold’s latest creation–the Dress of a Hundred Butterflies. Might you care to try it?”

The fabric floated between their hands, lighter than breath, as translucent as fresh snow. Though devoid of dye, it pulled the eye from every brighter bolt around it, as if purity itself shimmered there.

In that instant, Fiona grasped the ancient poets‘ paradox–how something white could still dazzle with color. The truth was now draped across her arms.

When the attendants laced the gown around her, the scene hushed.

Silk kissed skin, and the dress seemed woven for her alone: waist no wider than a pair of hands, hips a subtle curve, the whole line sinuous as a whispered promise.

In the mirror’s hush, she saw a whisper of peril in her own reflection–the elegance of a pale viper asleep beneath moonlight. Beauty, it seemed, could wield a sharpened edge.

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