Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 139

Chapter 139: Chapter 139

Elara’s POV

I woke reaching for him.

My hand swept across the quilt, fingers searching for the warm curve of a small body. The soft curls. The steady rise and fall of a child’s breathing.

Nothing.

Just cool cotton and the faint scent of cedar.

My eyes flew open. Unfamiliar ceiling. Exposed wooden beams. Morning light spilling through lace curtains. The parlor. The Morrison farmhouse.

Not the palace.

Not Valerius’s bedroom, where I used to curl around him like a shield.

Reality crashed in—blunt and merciless. I was three hundred miles from my children. From the capital. From everything.

Because I had chosen to be.

My stomach twisted so violently I pressed both fists against it and curled onto my side. The quilt tangled around my legs. My breath came in short, shallow pulls.

Valerius woke up this morning and I wasn’t there.

Lyra reached for me and found empty air.

A sound escaped my throat. Small. Animal. I buried my face in the pillow and held it there until the worst of it passed.

The smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen. Bacon. Something sweet—pancakes, maybe. Normal sounds followed. The clink of a spatula against cast iron. A chair scraping across floorboards. The rustle of newspaper pages turning.

I sat up. Pressed my palms over my eyes until the burning stopped. Then I folded the quilts with mechanical precision, stacked them at the end of the sofa, and walked toward the kitchen on bare feet.

Margaret stood at the stove, apron already dusted with flour. She turned at the sound of my footsteps and her face broke into a smile so warm it almost undid me.

"There she is. Sit down, sweetheart. Coffee’s fresh."

A mug appeared in front of me before I’d fully settled into the chair. Then a plate. Pancakes stacked three high, glistening with butter. Strips of bacon, perfectly crisped. Scrambled eggs, fluffy and golden.

"Margaret, you didn’t have to—"

"Hush. Eat."

Robert sat at the far end of the table, newspaper open, reading glasses perched on his nose. He glanced up long enough to nod. "Morning, Elara."

"Good morning, Robert."

I wrapped my hands around the mug. The ceramic was almost too hot. I held it anyway. The small pain was grounding. Real.

I forced myself to take a bite. The pancake was light, faintly sweet, with a hint of vanilla. My body wanted food even if my mind rejected it. I chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite because Margaret was watching from the corner of her eye, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her.

The kitchen clock ticked. Steam curled from my mug.

I set down my fork.

"I’ve been thinking," I said carefully. "There’s a mortal city not far from here. I could find work there. Cleaning, maybe, or tutoring. I don’t want to impose on your family any longer than—"

"No." Margaret’s spatula hit the counter with a decisive clang.

Robert lowered his newspaper.

"Sweetheart, you are not going to a mortal city alone." Margaret turned from the stove, hands planted on her hips. "Not in your condition. Not without a plan. Not while I’m breathing."

"Margaret, I can manage. I’ve managed before. I just need to get settled somewhere and—"

"And what? Sleep in a doorway? Skip meals until you collapse?" Her voice wasn’t harsh. It was fierce. The fierceness of a woman who had raised children and buried grief and knew exactly what desperation looked like wearing a brave face. "You walked through my door looking like a ghost. I’m not sending you back into the cold."

"She’s right." Robert folded the newspaper and set it aside. His voice was low. Measured. Carrying the weight of a man who chose his words the way a carpenter chose nails—each one placed with intention. "Family doesn’t abandon family, Elara. That’s not how this house works."

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