Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 120

Chapter 120: Chapter 120

Kaelen’s POV

I heard the front door open from the top of the stairs.

Valerius had just fallen asleep, one arm flung over his pillow, the other clutching a wooden toy sword I’d carved for him recently. His breathing was slow and steady. Peaceful. I pulled the blanket up to his chin and stepped into the hallway.

Voices drifted up from the foyer. One I recognized instantly—Elara’s, thin and uncertain. The other was crisp. Formal. Familiar in the way all court officials sounded. Practiced authority wrapped in politeness. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

I descended the stairs quietly. Bare feet on stone.

"—the covenant revision drafts for tomorrow’s privy council session, Your Majesty Nightfire."

Sylvia Vance stood in the doorway. Impeccable as always. The charcoal court uniform without a single crease. Leather briefcase. Gloved hands. Hair pulled so tight it looked painful. She held out a thick portfolio stamped with the imperial seal.

"Apologies for the late hour," she continued smoothly. "The council insisted these be reviewed before morning."

"Sylvia." I took the portfolio. Glanced at it. Then glanced past her to Elara.

My mate stood several paces back. She held Lyra against her chest, one hand cradling the baby’s head, the other pressed flat against her own stomach as if she were trying to hold herself together. Her face had gone pale. Not the pallor of exhaustion—I’d memorized that shade weeks ago. This was something worse. Something hollow.

She wasn’t looking at me.

"That will be all," I said to Sylvia. My voice came out harder than I intended.

"Of course, Your Majesty Nightfire." She dipped her head. "I’ve flagged the sections requiring your signature with—"

"Tomorrow."

A beat of silence. Sylvia’s gaze flickered. She wasn’t used to being dismissed mid-sentence. But she recovered quickly. Another crisp bow.

"As you wish, Your Majesty Nightfire. Good evening."

I closed the door. Locked it. Set the portfolio on the side table without looking at it.

Then I turned to Elara.

She was already moving away. Walking toward the sitting room with that careful, measured stride she used when she was trying very hard not to fall apart.

"Elara."

She didn’t stop.

"Baby."

She stopped. Her shoulders drew up. Tight. Defensive.

Lyra chose that moment to squirm and let out a thin, reedy cry—the kind that meant she was hungry or just uncomfortable enough to protest. Elara shifted her automatically, adjusting her hold with the fluid, practiced ease of a mother who’d done this countless times. She bounced gently. Murmured something against Lyra’s silver-dusted hair.

The crying subsided to a whimper. Then silence.

I closed the distance between us. Slowly. The way you approach something fragile.

"What did she say to you?"

"Nothing important."

"Elara."

She exhaled. A shaky, uneven breath. When she finally spoke, her voice was flat. Detached. Like she was reciting something that had happened to someone else.

"She asked me if I was your mortal nanny."

The words landed in my chest like a blade between the ribs.

I stood very still for a moment. Processing.

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