My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 231

Chapter 231 Rainbound Negotiations

Morgan sat back, hands still smelling faintly of crushed herbs.

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“Nothing,” he said with easy calm, voice low as the coals. “Ms. Fiona and I only discussed the Third Prince.”

Cecilia, hearing the prince’s name, stilled. Her curious eyes slid toward him.

Morgan folded the letter he had been reading. “Ms. Fiona is leaving,” he added. “Escort her.”

Cecilia obeyed with a gentle nod, ribbons at her temples trembling.

Fiona watched the pair, emotions braiding like storm clouds–relief, envy, something nameless.

“Fiona, do not worry about me,” Cecilia said, smile bright despite damp lashes. “My days here are good. I sort teas now and then. Tiring, yes, yet in this house my heart is light.”

Fiona answered softly, “Marcus does not dislike you.”

Surprise flickered across Cecilia’s face, then she laughed. “I already know.”

Fiona studied Cecilia, the puzzle clicking into place. Marcus, reclusive within his manor, wore the mask of Morgan whenever the world required him to move. With that mask he held twin securities: a throne’s authority and a healer’s untouchable reputation. In any danger he could survive untouched.

He had never meant to hide the truth from her. After today she belonged to him, would work for him. Every syllable he spoke carried the weight of a prince.

Memory pulled Fiona to her grandmother, Helen. She must have known Morgan’s true face; otherwise she would never have entrusted Cecilia to him.

Deep winter should have brought dry, biting air. Instead, rain fell in relentless sheets, unspooling from the heavens in mournful

gray curtains.

Two mornings later, Fiona climbed the slick stone steps to Clear Sky Pavilion. Soren was still absent, and even Harriet, usually unflappable, hurried through corridors with ledgers tucked

under one arm.

Raindrops clung to Fiona’s sleeves. “When will Lord Soren return?” she asked, fingertips brushing the damp silk.

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Chapter 231 Rainbound Negotiations

Harriet’s mouth curved. “If you miss him, he would be pleased to hear it.”

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Fiona shook her head once. “I am not here for tender words,” she said, cutting to the marrow. “Is he fretting over supplies?”

Harriet’s expression tightened, playful light extinguished. “Where did you hear such rumors?” she asked, testing the water.

“They are not rumors,” Fiona replied. “I know where grain is plentiful. What he hauls from Brorchester will not suffice. Bring him to me. I will explain.”

Harriet bowed her head. “He will need a few days more.”

Fiona lowered her gaze. “Tell him to hurry.”

Soren arrived two days later.

They sat across from each other in the hall of Clearsky Pavilion. Fiona had never seen him so disheveled; rain–streaked cloak, travel dust at the hems, eyes rimmed scarlet from sleepless miles.

Soren studied her in silence. His gaze was cool, not tender, weighing her words before she spoke.

“Lord Soren, you suspect the rumor about Broadmoor’s empty granaries leaked because of my granny, don’t you?” Only then did Fiona understand the chill that had slipped into his manner these past few days.

Soren tugged the corner of his mouth–something too thin to be a smile. “I never meant to implicate you.”

“Four months from now the Steppe Nomads will strike Duke Zonfrillo without warning. Duflana will be routed. Duke Zonfrillo will live, but he will be shattered in body. His Majesty will hold the Zonfrillo Estate responsible for the disaster.”

A shadow fell across Soren’s face as he stared at her, thoughts locked behind his eyes.

Fiona had guarded her rebirth like a sacred secret. Yet with the Thankerton family’s future, Helen’s very life–and perhaps her brother’s–at stake, silence was now a luxury she could not afford.

“Last year I warned Callum that military supplies would be cut off. Because of that warning he managed to keep one finger. I told him the warning came from a dream. That was a lie. I have lived this life once already. That is why I know what will happen in Broadmoor–and why I know you search for grain.”

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