Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Elara’s POV

“Is it true?”

The warmth of his jacket still clung to my shoulders, but his voice had turned to iron. Cold. Judicial. The voice of a monarch demanding testimony from the accused.

I turned to face him.

His dark gold eyes held no trace of the man who had just shielded me. No trace of the possessive warmth that had pulled me against his chest moments ago. He stood like a statue carved from winter stone—jaw locked, shoulders squared, every line of his body radiating imperial authority.

The mate bond pulsed between us. Frantic. Confused. I could feel it reaching for him, desperate to bridge the chasm that had opened in the space of a single breath.

He didn’t reach back.

“Answer me, Elara.” His gaze cut through the murmurs of the watching nobles. “Was Gareth the father of your son?”

Not is Valerius mine. Not what happened to you. Not even tell me your side.

Was Gareth the father.

As if Isolde’s poison was already gospel. As if my word meant less than the shrieking of a woman being dragged across marble.

Something cracked inside my chest. Not the mate bond. Something older. Something that had been stitched together with thread too thin, held in place by hope too fragile.

“You’re asking me that.” My voice came out quiet. Dangerously quiet. “You watched her pour wine on me. You watched her grab me. You heard every venomous word she spat—and this is what you chose to ask.”

His expression didn’t shift. “The accusation was made publicly. I need—”

“You need.” I laughed. It was a hollow, broken sound that made several nearby nobles flinch. “Of course. The Emperor needs answers. The Emperor needs to conduct his trial.”

“Elara—”

“Valerius’s father,” I said, and every word tasted like ash, “was a man I met once. He disappeared before dawn five years ago and left me nothing. Not a name. Not a word. Not even a goodbye.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. I could hear the rustle of silk as nobles leaned closer, hungry for every syllable.

“And Gareth?” Kaelen’s voice held no yielding. No softness. Just interrogation.

The crack in my chest split wider.

“Gareth,” I said slowly, “was a coward who crawled into my stepsister’s bed while wearing my engagement ring. He never touched me. Not once. He couldn’t even look at me without flinching, because I wasn’t the one he wanted.”

My throat burned. The memories surged—unbidden, unwanted. The night I’d found them together. Isolde’s laughter. The way Gareth had looked through me as if I were made of glass.

“I was eighteen.” My voice dropped. “Isolde made sure every noble family in the province knew I’d been discarded. She paraded my humiliation like a trophy. She told everyone I was barren, broken, unworthy—”

I stopped. My hands were shaking.

The banquet hall had gone deathly still. Hundreds of eyes fixed on us—some pitying, most simply fascinated. I could see the glint of enchanted recording crystals being palmed behind fans and goblets. This scene would reach every territory by morning.

Good. Let them watch.

“I will not stand here and defend myself to you,” I said. “Not to a man who would take the word of a stranger over his own mate.”

Something flickered in Kaelen’s eyes. A crack in the imperial mask. But his jaw remained set. His posture didn’t soften.

“You should stay.” His tone shifted—not warmer, but heavier. Commanding. “The temperature has dropped. Without proper—”

I shrugged his jacket off my shoulders.

The midnight-blue fabric slid down my arms and pooled on the gleaming marble floor between us. The cold hit my wine-soaked skin immediately, vicious and biting. Goosebumps erupted across my bare arms.

“Elara.” A warning threaded through his voice. “Pick that up. You’ll catch your death.”

I stepped over the jacket and walked toward the arched doorway.

The crowd parted for me. Not out of respect—out of morbid curiosity. I could feel their whispers trailing behind me like smoke. Every step echoed against the vaulted ceiling. My spine stayed straight. My chin stayed lifted.

I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

The night air hit me like a wall when I pushed through the palace doors. Cold. Sharp. Merciless. The wine on my dress turned to ice against my skin, and my teeth clenched to keep from chattering.

I made it two blocks before the shoes became unbearable.

They were delicate things—soft-soled court slippers, designed for polished floors, not cobblestone streets. Every step sent a jolt of pain through my arches. The thin fabric caught on rough edges, tearing, offering no protection from the uneven stone beneath.

I stopped, braced one hand against a wall, and pulled them off.

I threw them into the gutter.

Dramatic, Moonlight murmured in my mind. Truly theatrical. You realize those were the only pair you owned?

“Shut up,” I muttered.

I’m just saying. We could have sold them.

The cobblestones were worse than the shoes. Cold seeped into my bare soles immediately—a deep, bone-level cold that made my toes curl. But at least the pain was honest. At least the stones didn’t pretend to be something they weren’t.

I kept walking.

One block. Two. The grand facades of the noble quarter gave way to narrower streets lined with merchant houses and closed shopfronts. Lanterns cast uneven pools of amber light across the wet cobblestones.

Three blocks. My feet were numb. Then they weren’t. Pain returned—sharp, specific. I could feel the skin splitting on the ball of my right foot where a jagged stone had caught it.

You’re bleeding, Moonlight observed.

I knew. I could feel the warm wetness mixing with the cold beneath my feet.

Four blocks. Five. The streets emptied. The sounds of the palace district faded behind me—distant music, the clatter of carriages, laughter that belonged to people whose lives hadn’t just detonated in a banquet hall.

By the sixth block, I was limping.

My body had finally overruled my pride. Each step left a faint smear of red on the pale stone. My wine-stained dress clung to me like a second skin, and the cold had sunk so deep into my muscles that my legs trembled with every stride.

Perhaps, Moonlight said carefully, we could consider stopping.

“And do what? Sit on the ground and wait for morning?”

Better than bleeding to death on a street corner like a stray.

The clatter of hooves interrupted us.

A modest carriage slowed to a stop beside me. Not ornate—practical. A single lantern swung from its front hook, casting warm light across the driver’s seat.

The door opened.

A man leaned out. Sandy brown hair fell across his forehead in a way that looked careless but probably wasn’t. His eyes were hazel—warm, steady, the color of autumn leaves caught in afternoon light. He wore the subdued but well-tailored attire of a court official. Not a lord. Not a soldier. Something in between.

“Miss.” His voice was calm. Concerned without being intrusive. “Forgive my boldness, but you appear to be walking barefoot through the capital at an hour when nothing good happens on these streets.”

“I’m fine.”

His gaze dropped to the cobblestones behind me. To the trail of red I’d left on the pale stone.

“Miss,” he said again, quieter this time. “Your feet are bleeding.”

“I’m aware.”

He didn’t push. Didn’t argue. He simply opened the carriage door wider and extended his hand. His smile was genuine—not pitying, not calculating. Just kind.

“I was at the banquet,” he said. “I saw what happened.”

My stomach clenched. “Then you saw enough to know I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

“This isn’t pity.” His hazel eyes held mine. “This is a man with a carriage offering a ride to a woman whose feet are bleeding. Nothing more.”

He has a point, Moonlight said. Also, I can’t feel our toes anymore.

I stood there on the freezing cobblestones, blood pooling beneath my heels, pride warring with exhaustion. The cold had already won. My body knew it even if my heart refused to admit it.

I looked at his outstretched hand.

Then I limped forward and took it.