Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Gareth’s POV

The whiskey tasted like horse piss.

I took another swig anyway. Three mouthfuls of liquid fire that burned a trail down my throat and settled into my gut like molten lead. Cheap. Foul. Exactly what a man of my station deserved—temporarily.

The room stank of mildew and something worse. Water stains bloomed across the ceiling like diseased flowers, and the single window was so grimy that even noon light came through gray and dying. A sagging mattress sat in one corner. A three-legged table in another, propped against the wall to keep from collapsing.

Home sweet home.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared at the letter on the table. Seraphine’s handwriting—elegant even in panic. The enchanted parchment still shimmered faintly at the edges, residual magic from the messenger construct that had delivered it.

Gareth. Cassian is looking for us.

I read it twice. Then I folded it into a neat square and held it over the candle flame.

The paper caught. Curled. Blackened into nothing.

"Poor thing," I murmured to the empty room. A smile pulled at my lips. Not a kind one.

Seraphine was afraid. Good. Fear made people careful. Fear kept them following instructions. And right now, the only instruction that mattered was the one I’d already given her: play the pregnant mistress and let the court devour Kaelen alive.

I leaned back in my chair—a rickety thing that groaned under my weight—and stretched my legs across the filthy floor. Through the thin walls, I could hear the sounds of the slum. A baby wailing. Two men arguing about a debt. Someone retching in the alley below.

No one looked twice at a man in a hooded cloak down here. No one asked questions. No one reported anything to anyone, because down here, authority meant nothing and survival meant everything.

The perfect hiding place for a prince who didn’t look like one.

Another letter materialized on the table. The air shimmered, and there it was—parchment folded into thirds, Seraphine’s seal pressed hastily into wax that hadn’t fully set.

Where are you? I need to know you’re safe.

I picked it up. Read it. Set it beside the whiskey bottle without bothering to destroy it yet.

A third letter arrived before I’d finished my next drink.

Gareth please respond. I’m frightened.

I stared at that one for a long time.

Then I pulled a scrap of parchment from my pocket. Dipped a finger in the residual magic of her last message—just enough to send a reply through the same channel.

Five words.

I’m safe. Don’t worry. Stick to the plan.

I pressed the message into the enchanted parchment and watched it dissolve, carrying my words back through whatever magical thread connected us.

Then I burned her remaining letters. One by one. Watched them become ash.

Seraphine would survive. She always did. Women like her—beautiful, clever, ruthless—they had a talent for landing on their feet. She’d been handling men since she was old enough to understand what a well-placed smile could buy. Cassian was her own blood cousin. She could easily handle an anxious man like him. He wouldn’t hurt her. Wouldn’t hurt the baby.

And if Kaelen questioned her directly?

She’d cry. She’d tremble. She’d clutch her belly and whisper his name with just enough reverence to make him doubt himself. She’d done it before. She could do it again.

I reached for the communication crystal sitting beside the whiskey. It was small—no larger than my thumb—and warm with stored enchantment. The kind of artifact that could be traced if you knew what to look for.

Which meant it had to go.

I turned it over in my fingers. Such a useful little thing. But useful was dangerous now. Useful left trails.

I pressed my nail into the hairline seam along its center and pried. The crystal split apart with a soft crack, revealing the tiny energy core within—a sliver of moonstone no bigger than a grain of rice. I plucked it free.

From my pack, I pulled two pieces of enchanted lead foil. The kind smugglers used to mask contraband from detection wards. I’d purchased them some time ago from a black-market dealer in the merchant quarter. Paid in coin that couldn’t be traced.

I wrapped the crystal shell in one piece of foil, pressing the edges flat until no magic could leak through. The energy core went into the second piece. Sealed tight.

The shell I tucked behind a loose brick near the window. The core I slipped into a crack in the floorboards across the room. Separated. Shielded. Invisible.

Let Cassian search. Let the Royal Guard sweep the city with their detection spells and their tracking hounds. They’d find nothing. Because they’d be looking in the wrong places—noble estates, country houses, the private residences of minor lords. They’d never think to look here. In the filth. In the forgotten corners where the empire’s refuse gathered and rotted.

I raised the whiskey bottle.

"To you, brother."

The word tasted bitter. Brother. As if we shared anything beyond a father who’d loved Kaelen’s mother and merely used mine. As if the same blood meant the same birthright.

It didn’t. It never had.

Kaelen got the golden eyes. The pure Alpha bloodline. The natural authority. The crown. The court’s adoration. The throne. He got everything—simply by being born first, born legitimate, born with the right mother’s blood singing through his veins.

And I got nothing. A courtesy title. A small allowance. The constant, suffocating awareness that I would never be enough. Never be him.

But soon—very soon—none of that would matter.

I took another drink and let the plan unspool in my mind like a battle map.

Seraphine’s seven-month pregnant belly would soon be exposed before the entire court. Whispers would become questions. Questions would become demands. The Privy Council—those pompous old wolves who cared more about bloodlines and legitimacy than actual governance—would demand answers.

And the answer would appear obvious: the Emperor had gotten his court lady pregnant while Queen Elara was away training knights. A betrayal. A scandal. The kind of thing that destroyed reputations and fractured alliances, stripping Kaelen of his empire, wealth, and power.

Elara would never come back after this. I’d seen her face before she left—that particular brand of devastation that went bone-deep. She was done. And without his mate, without the Council’s trust, without the court’s respect—

Kaelen would be nothing.

And I would be there. Waiting. The loyal younger brother. The concerned prince who only wanted what was best for the empire. The natural successor when the Council finally declared their emperor unfit.

I had three exit strategies prepared. Three different paths depending on how the pieces fell. If Seraphine cracked under pressure—unlikely, but possible—I had documents that proved nothing, alibis that held, and witnesses who owed me debts they’d never repay. If someone traced the drug I’d slipped into Kaelen’s wine that night—the night he couldn’t remember, the night we made him forget—I had a fall-back story ready. And a third, ultimate escape route to vanish completely if the entire plot imploded.

And if everything went perfectly? If the dominoes fell exactly as I’d arranged them?

I’d walk into that throne room and seize the empire. I’d sit in that chair. And every noble who’d ever looked at me with pity or contempt would kneel.

The whiskey was gone.

I set the bottle on the floor and lay down on the lumpy sofa. Springs jabbed into my spine. The ceiling above was cracked and water-stained, a map of decay.

Temporary, I reminded myself. All temporary.

I closed my eyes. Sleep came easily—the sleep of a man with no conscience and absolute certainty. I was a ghost vanishing in this lower-class rot, an untouchable phantom ready to usurp the Emperor’s seat.

In the moment before consciousness faded completely, my last thought was simple: Let them come. Let them search. Let them waste their time and resources hunting for someone they’ll never find.