My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 227

Chapter 227 Shifting Affections

Chapter 227 Shifting Affections

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That previous lifetime was gone like smoke. If Hillary truly was the Broadmoor woman reborn, Fiona could hardly blame her.

Responsibility, she mused, belonged to Soren. Had he kept his distance from temptation, none of the old calamity would have sprouted.

Ever since that realization, Fiona found it harder to look upon Soren with the same untroubled eyes; faint disapproval crept in like shadow after sunset.

During a sword lesson he caught the chill in her manner. “Have I offended

you lately?”

Fiona simply shook her head, silver strands of hair swaying like quiet bells, and lowered her eyes to the blade.

“Because I happened to give Hillary a few archery tips?” Soren asked, voice light yet carrying the quiet authority of someone who never second-guessed himself. “The girl’s gifted-quick of mind, quicker of eye. She learned in the time it takes others to string a bow. Keep watch; she may well become the finest lady archer Duflana has seen since the founding of the realm.”

Fiona forced a smile, genuinely pleased for Hillary, yet a pinprick of disappointment lodged beneath the pride.

After all, returning to life had given Fiona a single target-to be hailed as the foremost female scholar of the Six Arts-and now someone else threatened to claim the crown first.

“If Hillary manages to set a brand-new record, believe me, I’ll celebrate right alongside her,” Fiona said, and most of the words rang true.

The thought of a lady matching, perhaps surpassing, the men in archery eased the knot inside her. Pride in their shared sisterhood spread through her chest like warm sunlight after rain.

A few quiet days passed before life broke its calm again, this time in the shape of an unexpected, highly placed visitor.

At dusk, a lacquered carriage creaked to a halt outside the Niven family gates. The curtain lifted, and a woman veiled head-to-toe called softly, “Fiona.”

Fiona needed no sight to identify her visitor. The voice belonged to Cecilia, her cousin from the Princess Royal’s branch of the clan.

“Cecilia? What brings you here? Has Granny fallen ill?” Fiona asked, anxiety sharpening each

word.

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Chapter 227 Shifting Affections

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Cecilia lifted a corner of the veil. Angry red blotches marred her usually porcelain skin. Fiona’s own expression tightened, alarm flaring in her eyes.

“Someone slipped poison into my drink,” Cecilia said, voice barely above a whisper. “Grandma wrote to the Divine Doctor, and he told me to come to Jexburgh for treatment. I have not stepped inside the capital for years,” she added, a tremor betraying how the vast city unsettled her.

Fiona moved to usher her inside, but Cecilia shook her head. “I slipped in unnoticed; better to keep it that way. Pretend you never saw me–I only wanted to see your face for a moment.”

“Have you met with Dr. Murren yet?” Fiona asked, refusing to step aside.

“I arrived only an hour ago,” Cecilia replied. “I’m posing as a tea vendor; in a little while I’ll head to Dr. Murren’s house.”

Fiona’s mind raced. If Cecilia was bound for Morgan, it certainly would not be Pearl Terrace- the physician kept other, quieter places. Yet half of her doubted the story.

Princess Helen had already taught her how painful misplaced trust could be. Once trust shattered, rebuilding it felt like stacking sand in a storm.

“Then let me go with you,” Fiona said. Remaining passive had never been her style; it was time to meet Morgan on her own terms.

Cecilia gave a silent nod, eyes gleaming with gratitude behind the veil.

Morgan’s so-called residence turned out to be an unassuming tea shop tucked deep in a side alley. Suddenly Cecilia’s disguise made perfect sense.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Thomas, Morgan’s gray-haired steward, ushered them in with practiced tact.

From across the dimly lit hall, Fiona spotted a silhouette she knew too well-a tall man leaning on an obsidian cane coiled with a four-clawed dragon.

It was Marcus.

Fiona glanced at Cecilia. Hidden beneath her straw hat, Cecilia’s features were unreadable, yet her stillness spoke volumes.

Fiona needed no confirmation; Cecilia’s secret affection for the Third Prince was old news between them, and recognition always cuts both ways.

“His Highness is here about the injury in his leg,” Thomas murmured, explaining the prince’s

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presence.

Marcus turned, his gaze skimming past Cecilia as though she were air, settling instead on Fiona. “Ms. Fiona,” he said, the greeting clipped, distant, and cool as the jade in his cane.

Fiona tightened her grip on Cecilia’s sleeve as soon as the familiar silhouette cut across the courtyard. In one fluid motion she sank into a curtsey, dragging her cousin down with her.

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