Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 183

Elara’s POV

The little girl’s arms wouldn’t leave me alone.

Not physically. She wasn’t here. She was somewhere in the capital, in a palace I’d walked away from, living a life I’d forfeited. But her arms—those chubby, sticky, impossibly soft arms—had wrapped around my neck in that street market, and they hadn’t let go since.

Mommy.

I flinched. The garlic bread under the broiler was smoking.

"Ela, honey, the bread—"

Margaret was already reaching past me, pulling the tray out with a towel. The tops were black. Curled and cracked like charcoal.

"Sorry." I stared at the ruined bread. "I got distracted."

Margaret scraped the tray into the waste bin without a word. She squeezed my shoulder once—brief, firm, lavender soap and that perfume she always wore—then set about slicing a fresh loaf.

"Sit down," she said. "I’ll handle this."

"It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t—"

"Sit. Down."

I sat.

The dining table was already set for four. Candles, cloth napkins, a vase of wildflowers from Margaret’s garden. Her reading circle friend Linda had arrived early, a bottle of wine tucked under her arm and a voice that filled every corner of the cottage.

Linda was still talking. She hadn’t stopped since she walked through the door.

"—and she’s doing wonderfully at the new firm, really thriving, you know how she is, always landing on her feet—"

I pressed my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger. Focused on the small bite of pain. Grounded myself.

The bread was replaced. The roast came out golden. Margaret lit the candles, and we sat down to eat.

Linda raised her glass. "To Margaret! Another year wiser, more beautiful, and still the only woman I know who can make a perfect lamb shoulder."

We clinked glasses. I managed a smile. It sat on my face like something borrowed.

"So, Ela." Linda turned her attention to me. Her eyes were bright, curious, the way people looked at exotic animals behind glass. "Margaret tells me you’re a professional fighter. An actual arena gladiator!"

"Pit fighter," I corrected. "It’s less glamorous than it sounds."

"Oh, don’t be modest! I saw one of those underground matches once—well, from the balcony seats, you know, the safe ones—and those women were incredible. All that muscle and intensity. You must have men falling at your feet."

I cut a piece of lamb. Put it in my mouth. Chewed.

"It’s a living," I said.

Linda didn’t take the hint. She leaned forward, wine sloshing gently in her glass.

"You know, my daughter—she’s about your age, actually, just turned twenty-six—she’s doing something very modern. Preserving her eggs with stasis magic." Linda said this with the particular pride of a mother who had memorized the healer’s scrolls. "Her healer says it’s becoming quite common among young professional women. Using crystals to preserve options, you know? In case the right partner doesn’t come along in time. She says she wants children eventually, just not yet." Linda laughed. "I told her, ’Darling, your body has its own schedule whether you like it or not.’ But you young women today, you have choices we never—"

The chair scraped back. I was standing before I registered the decision to move.

"Excuse me."

I walked to the washroom. Closed the door. Locked it.

My reflection stared back from the small mirror above the basin. Ice-blue eyes. Hollow. Silver-white hair pulled into a braid that had started to unravel hours ago.

Twenty-six.

Stasis magic.

Preserving options.

I pressed my back against the door and slid down until I was sitting on the cold tile floor.

I already had children. Two of them. A boy with dark curls and gold eyes who probably hated me by now. And a girl I’d given birth to in a border-town clinic, whose face I’d barely memorized before I—

Mommy.

That wasn’t Lyra’s voice. That was the street market. A random child. A little girl with sticky cheeks who’d mistaken me for someone else.

But my body didn’t care about accuracy. My body heard Mommy and cracked open like an egg.

I pressed my fist against my mouth. Breathed through my nose. Counted.

A soft knock.

"Ela?" Margaret’s voice. Low. Careful. "Take your time. Linda’s having more wine. She won’t notice."

I almost laughed. It came out closer to a sob.

I stayed on that floor for a long time.

---

Margaret wouldn’t let me drive home.

"Hours in a carriage when you can barely keep your eyes open? Absolutely not." She steered me toward the guest room with the floral quilt and the lavender sachet on the pillow. "You’ll leave in the morning."

I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy.

I lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The little girl’s arms were still around my neck. The weight of them. The warmth. The absolute trust of a child reaching for someone they believed would hold them.

I hadn’t held either of my children in so long that my arms ached with the phantom weight of them.

Sleep didn’t come. Not really. I drifted in and out of something gray and formless, and by the time Saturday morning rolled around, I was already dressed.

Margaret was in the kitchen. Blueberry muffins. My favorite. She pushed a plate toward me without speaking.

I managed a few bites. Tasted nothing.

"I need to get to the training grounds," I said. "Monday’s match."

"I know." She studied me. Those sharp eyes missed nothing. "Drive carefully."

---

The navigation crystal mounted on my carriage’s front panel hummed as I pulled onto the main road. Blue light pulsed softly, mapping the route south. The training grounds were a straightforward journey. I’d driven it dozens of times.

Sometime later, the road slowed. Then stopped.

Carriages ahead. A long, motionless line of them stretching around the bend. I craned my neck. Somewhere up ahead, flickering amber warning flares marked the scene of an accident.

The navigation crystal chimed. Its blue light flickered, recalculating.

Route blocked. Estimated delay: several hours. Rerouting through city center.

My stomach dropped.

City center.

His city.

The capital’s inner ring. The district where the palace quarter bled into high-end restaurants and embassy rows. Where he lived. Where he breathed. Where he existed in a life that no longer included me.

I gripped the reins. Considered turning back. Considered pulling off the road entirely and just sitting until the accident cleared.

Several hours.

I couldn’t lose that much time. Monday’s match had a purse I needed. The training grounds closed at sundown.

I followed the crystal’s reroute.

The city center swallowed me slowly. Cobblestone streets narrowed. Traffic thickened. Buildings grew taller, more elegant. Wrought-iron balconies heavy with flowers. Shop windows displaying things I couldn’t afford.

Every block deeper felt like walking into a room where I didn’t belong.

The carriage crawled. Stop. Inch forward. Stop again. The sun climbed higher, burning through the canopy overhead. I’d been in this traffic for what felt like an eternity.

Then the magical traffic crystal ahead turned red, and my carriage rolled to a halt beside an outdoor restaurant.

White tables. Yellow umbrellas. The kind of place where people lingered over wine and pretended the world was gentle.

I looked—the way you look at a wound you know you shouldn’t touch.

Corner table. Partially shaded by one of those yellow umbrellas.

Kaelen.

He was laughing. Actually laughing. Head tilted back slightly, that deep sound I used to feel in my chest before I heard it with my ears. He hadn’t spoken, nor did he even glance toward the congested street, completely unaware of me watching him. His dark hair caught the sunlight. He looked relaxed. Easy. Like a man without ghosts.

And beside him—

A woman. Brown hair falling past her shoulders. She was leaning toward him, her hand resting on his forearm. Casual. Familiar. The kind of touch that said I belong here.

The air left my lungs.

All of it. At once.

My vision tunneled. The sounds of the street—hooves, voices, a vendor shouting about fresh flowers—collapsed into a high-pitched ringing. My hands went numb on the reins.

He moved on.

He’s fine.

He’s laughing and she’s touching him and he’s fine and you’re—

A horn blared behind me. The traffic crystal had turned green. Someone shouted.

I snapped the reins. The carriage lurched forward.

I made it a few blocks. The buildings blurred. Everything blurred.

I yanked the reins hard, pulling the carriage into a side street. The wheels scraped the curb. The horse snorted, confused.

The moment the carriage stopped, my hands started shaking so badly I couldn’t hold the reins anymore. I pressed my palms over my eyes, trying to physically stop the tears, but they poured through my fingers anyway.