Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 22

Elara’s POV

The stack of treaty amendments on my desk had become my best friend.

Every line I transcribed, every clause I cross-referenced, every margin note I flagged for revision—each one was a brick in the wall I was building between myself and the hum beneath my skin.

The mate bond pulsed faintly. A low, persistent vibration that lived somewhere behind my sternum. I’d learned that if I focused hard enough on the work, the hum faded to background noise. Manageable. Almost ignorable.

Almost.

I pulled another file from the stack and flipped it open. A border dispute between two minor lords over grazing rights. Riveting. Exactly what I needed.

The morning had been a gift. The end of the week at the imperial archive meant a flood of last-minute requests—nobles wanting documents sealed before the weekend, ministers needing summaries for the coming week’s briefings, couriers arriving with scrolls that required immediate cataloging. I threw myself into the tide with something close to gratitude, glad for the distraction from Kaelen.

By midday, I had processed 17 case files and rescheduled 8 meetings that had been double-booked for the coming week. My handwriting was neat. My index cards were alphabetized. My desk was a model of order.

If only the rest of my life could be organized so cleanly.

I worked straight through midday, not wanting to break the rhythm. The archive room was quiet. Dust motes floated through the slanting light from the high windows. The smell of old parchment and binding glue wrapped around me like a familiar blanket.

Safe. Contained. Predictable.

From the corridor beyond the archive, I could hear him.

Not his voice—not yet. But his presence. The bond told me he was close. Through the wall, through the stone, through whatever distance separated us, I could feel his mood like weather pressure before a storm.

Dark. Restless. Dangerous.

Something crashed in his study. The muffled thud of impact—palm against wood, or fist against desk. I flinched. My quill skipped, leaving a jagged line across the margin of the grazing dispute.

I stared at the ruined page. Then I pulled a fresh sheet and started the notation again.

He was pacing. I could feel it—back and forth, back and forth, like a predator wearing grooves into a cage floor. The bond transmitted his agitation in waves. Irritation. Frustration. Something hotter underneath, something that made my throat tighten.

I pressed my lips together and turned to the next file.

You are an archive clerk. You have a job. Do the job.

The afternoon ground on. I heard raised voices from his study once—sharp, clipped commands that sent someone scurrying past my door. Later, a servant appeared in the archive carrying a tray of tea that had clearly been rejected.

“He’s in a mood,” the servant whispered to the hallway guard. “Wouldn’t even let me set the cup down.”

I kept my head bent over my work.

When the evening approached, the storm behind the wall shifted. The pacing stopped. Heavy footsteps moved toward the corridor—purposeful now, not restless. He was leaving.

The bond pulled taut as he passed my door. I felt him slow. One heartbeat. Two.

Then his boots resumed their stride, faster now, almost aggressive. I looked up before I could stop myself. His shadow crossed the crack beneath my door as he passed by, leaving the archive entirely without so much as a “good evening” tossed in my direction.

The front entrance boomed shut a moment later, and the bond stretched thin and distant, like a thread pulled to its limit.

He was gone.

I sat very still for a long time. Then I picked up my quill and returned to work.

The archive grew dim as the night deepened. I lit a lamp and kept going, staying late to prepare the upcoming schedule. There was no reason to rush home—and several excellent reasons not to. The alliance treaty revisions required a clean summary. And if I stayed busy enough, long enough, the stretched-thin bond might fade to nothing.

A soft knock came at the archive door. Not a person—a folded letter, slipped beneath the gap by a courier who was already retreating down the hall.

I recognized the handwriting instantly. Brenna’s looping, cheerful script, slightly smudged with what appeared to be tomato sauce.

Ela—

Picked up your little prince from his lessons. We’re eating pizza the size of his head. He’s already got sauce on his shirt, his shoes, and somehow in his hair. After this we’re going to watch a puppet show. He says to tell you the dragon puppet is his favorite and he wants one for his birthday.

Don’t work too late. But if you do, we’re fine. He’s happy.

— B

Something warm and painful bloomed in my chest. I pressed the letter flat against my desk and read it twice more.

My boy was happy. He was eating pizza and watching puppets and getting tomato sauce everywhere, and he was safe, and he was loved.

I made a silent promise. The moment my first real wages came through, Brenna was getting a bonus so generous she’d cry. She deserved more than I could ever repay.

I folded the letter carefully and tucked it into my bag. Then I pulled the treaty revision stack toward me and worked until the lamp burned low.

Much later into the night, the summary of the treaty amendments was complete. Clean. Organized. Ready for the days ahead.

I gathered my things, blew out the lamp, and stepped into the corridor.

The palace at night was a different creature. During the day, servants bustled and guards patrolled and the stone walls rang with footsteps and conversation. Now, the halls stretched silent and cavernous, lit by the low amber glow of enchanted sconces that cast long shadows across the marble floor.

My footsteps echoed too loudly. I pulled my shawl tighter and moved quickly toward the main hall.

The hall wasn’t empty. I heard him before I saw him.

That voice. Low. Commanding. The kind of voice that didn’t need volume to fill a room—it simply occupied every corner by right.

I slowed at the edge of the grand hall, half-hidden behind a pillar.

He stood near the reception alcove, his back partially turned. He was speaking to a palace courier, his tone businesslike but smooth. Relaxed, even—a stark contrast to the explosive tension I’d felt from him all day.

“The penthouse suite at the Grand View Palace,” he said, his deep voice carrying to where I hid. “Tonight. Have the staff prepare the full arrangement.”

The courier nodded and scribbled on a piece of parchment.

My stomach tightened. The Grand View Palace. Even I knew the name. The most exclusive lodging in the capital. The kind of place where a single night cost more than most families earned in a season.

Not your business, I told myself. Keep walking.

But my feet had rooted themselves to the marble.

Because he wasn’t alone.

She stood beside him. Close—closer than protocol demanded. A woman in a tight red dress that clung to her curves, her dazzling blonde hair sweeping over one shoulder and catching the light. She was radiant, glamorous. The kind of beautiful that made other women feel like rough sketches.

She laughed at something. A low, musical sound. Her hand brushed his forearm.

The bond screamed.

I pressed my back against the pillar, my breath catching. Move. Walk away. This is nothing. He is the Sovereign, and what he does outside working hours is—

When the woman turned toward the reception desk in the bright light of the hall, my blood turned to ice.

It was Seraphine de Valcourt—the unfathomable girl who had made my girlhood a living hell, leaning close to whisper poison into my ear with those full lips during the darkest moments of my past.