Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 4

Elara’s POV

“Mommy! Mommy, mommy, mommy!”

The front door had barely closed behind me before a small body collided with my legs. Two arms wrapped around my knees with the ferocity of a bear trap, and a face pressed into my thigh.

“Hey, sweetheart.” I dropped my bag and crouched down, gathering him into my arms. He smelled like honey and firewood and the faintest trace of flour — Brenna must have been baking with him again.

My four-and-a-half-year-old son, Valerius, pulled back just enough to look at me. Those dark curls were wild, sticking up in every direction like he’d been wrestling the cat. And his eyes — deep, warm brown in the dim light of the cottage, but when the afternoon sun caught them just right through the window, they flickered with that unmistakable dark-golden shimmer.

Every single time, it knocked the breath from me.

“Can I have a honey cake?” he asked, deadly serious. “Auntie Bren said I have to ask you first.”

“Did you eat your soup?”

“Most of it.”

“How much is most?”

He held up his fingers, thought about it, then spread them wider. “This much.”

I kissed his forehead. “One honey cake. After dinner.”

He cheered like I’d handed him a crown and scrambled off my lap, bare feet slapping against the stone floor as he raced back toward the kitchen.

I stayed crouched for a moment, watching him go. That shimmer in his eyes. The same shade I’d seen five years ago, in a dark alcove behind a tapestry, on a man whose name I never learned. It had been five years since I left my adoptive parents and that life behind, but the memory of that passionate encounter remained. Shortly after, I had learned that Isolde and Gareth were married.

I shook it off. I’d gotten good at that.

Ella, Moonlight murmured. You’re doing that thing again.

What thing?

The thing where you disappear inside your own head and forget you have legs.

I stood up. My knees cracked.

There she is, Moonlight said approvingly. Now go deal with the real problem.

The real problem. Right.

I pulled the folded letter from my apron pocket and stared at it for the dozenth time. The seal of Lord Harwick’s estate — a stag over crossed quills — pressed into faded red wax. The words inside were polite, measured, and devastating.

While your work has been exemplary, Elara, the position of senior archivist requires a candidate of appropriate standing...

Appropriate standing. A polished way of saying: You’re common-born, and no amount of talent will change that.

I’d worked in Lord Harwick’s household for over a year now. Cataloguing his library. Restoring water-damaged records. Translating correspondence that his own steward couldn’t read. The old lord called me by my first name, patted my shoulder when I brought him particularly well-organized documents, and told me I had “a remarkable mind for someone of your background.”

For someone of your background.

He meant it as a compliment. It landed like a slap every time.

And now, after a year of late nights and careful work, the promotion I’d been quietly hoping for had been handed to his nephew’s wife. A woman who, to my knowledge, had never opened a book that wasn’t about table settings.

The stipend stayed the same. Barely enough to cover rent on this cramped cottage and keep Valerius fed. Never enough for new shoes when he outgrew the old ones. Never enough for the medicines he needed when the winter coughs came.

I folded the letter and tucked it away.

The kitchen door swung open, and Brenna appeared, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the oven, dark hair pulled back in a messy knot.

“He asked about the honey cake, didn’t he?” she said.

“Before he even said hello.”

“That’s my boy.” She leaned against the doorframe and studied my face. Her smile faded. “You got the letter.”

I nodded.

“And?”

“And nothing. Lord Harwick appreciates my service but regrets that the position requires someone of — and I quote — appropriate standing.”

Brenna’s expression darkened. “That pompous old—”

“He’s not wrong, Bren. That’s how it works. Common-born wolves don’t get promoted into noble households. We get patted on the head and told we’re remarkable for our background.”

“That’s garbage and you know it.”

I did know it. Knowing didn’t change anything.

She crossed the room and took my hands. “Ella. Listen to me. I heard something yesterday at the market. There’s a posting — at the palace.”

I blinked. “The palace.”

“The Royal Archives. They’re looking for a new records keeper. The pay is—” She paused for effect. “Three times what Harwick pays you.”

The number didn’t register at first. Then it did, and my stomach flipped.

“Three times?”

“Three times. Full lodging stipend. Meals provided on working days. And Ella — they don’t care about bloodlines. The posting said merit-based selection. Your skills, your knowledge. That’s it.”

I pulled my hands back. “Brenna, that’s the Nightfire royal household. The Emperor’s palace.”

“So?”

“So I’d be working under the Alpha Emperor. The one everyone says is—”

“Demanding? Terrifying? Impossible to please?” She waved a hand. “Rumors. Every Alpha with power gets that reputation.”

She’s not entirely wrong, Moonlight offered. But she’s not entirely right either.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. Gareth — my former betrothed, the man who’d courted me with sweet words and then chosen Isolde without a backward glance — sitting across from me at a dinner table that now belonged to another lifetime. Bragging, the way he always did.

“My brother is an Alpha of the Nightfire royal family, you know. Real power. Not like these provincial lords.”

I’d dismissed it then. Gareth said a lot of things. Most of them were designed to make himself sound important. The idea that his family had any real connection to the imperial court seemed laughable — the desperate boasting of a nobody trying to punch above his weight.

I still thought so. Probably.

“Ella.” Brenna’s voice pulled me back. “You’ve been stuck in that drafty library for over a year, translating documents for a man who won’t even let you sit in the same room as his guests. Valerius is growing. He needs things. You need things. This is a real opportunity.”

From the kitchen, I heard Valerius singing to himself. Something tuneless and happy about a frog.

She’s right, Moonlight said quietly. We can’t keep scraping by. The pup deserves more. You deserve more.

“What if they reject me too?” My voice came out smaller than I intended.

Brenna squeezed my shoulder. “Then we’ll figure out the next thing. But you won’t know unless you try. And Ella — I’ve seen your work. You taught yourself imperial history from borrowed books and scraps. You read three languages. If they’re looking for merit, you’re it.”

I closed my eyes. Drew a breath.

Then I sat down at the kitchen table, pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward me, and started writing.

The response came faster than I expected. Two days after I submitted my application, a sealed letter arrived bearing the imperial crest — the Nightfire sigil pressed deep into black wax. My hands trembled as I broke it open.

Miss Elara. You are summoned for an interview at the Imperial Palace. Tomorrow morning.

Brenna screamed when I showed her. Valerius screamed because Brenna was screaming. The cat fled under the bed.

The next morning, I stood in a corridor of white marble and gold leaf, wearing my cleanest dress and trying not to look like I was about to faint.

A woman appeared at the far end of the hall. She moved with the deliberate grace of someone who had spent decades commanding respect without ever raising her voice. Silver-streaked hair swept into a flawless arrangement. Sharp, intelligent eyes set in a lined face that radiated quiet authority. She carried a leather portfolio under one arm. She looked to be in her sixties, an elegant and authoritative figure.

“Miss Elara?” Her voice was cool and precise.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She studied me for a long moment. Then she gestured toward an open door. “This way, please.”

The interview room was spare. A desk. Two chairs. A window overlooking the palace gardens.

She sat across from me and opened the portfolio. “Your application was... impressive. Self-taught in imperial history. Fluent in three written languages. A year of archival work under Lord Harwick.” She looked up. “Why did he not promote you?”

“My birth,” I said simply. “I’m common-born.”

She held my gaze. No pity in those sharp eyes. Only assessment.

“This position serves the Emperor directly. The hours are long. The standards are absolute. Mistakes are not tolerated.” She folded her hands. “And I should tell you plainly, Miss Elara — previous hires have rarely lasted more than a week. His Majesty is an Alpha who is incredibly difficult to please.”

My pulse hammered.

“You are also a single mother, I understand,” she continued, questioning my adaptability. “A young child requires attention. How do you intend to manage both?”

I straightened my spine. “My son is the reason I’m sitting in this chair. Every late night I spent studying, every document I translated by candlelight — it was for him. I don’t need patience from the Emperor. I need the opportunity to do the work. The work will speak for itself.”

Silence stretched between us. The woman’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted behind her eyes. I could tell she was moved by my drive.

She closed the portfolio.

“The stipend is triple your current earnings. You will have full access to the Royal Archives. Lodging arrangements can be discussed.” She paused. “Do you accept?”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “Yes.”

“We shall see,” she said, extending her hand. “Welcome to the palace, Miss Elara. You will serve as His Majesty the Emperor’s personal archivist. I will see you Monday morning at eight o’clock sharp. Do not be late—punctuality is non-negotiable.”