Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother novel Chapter 143

Chapter 143: Chapter 143

Elara’s POV

The potato peeler slipped. A thin curl of skin dropped into the bowl.

"Careful, sweetheart." Margaret’s hand closed over mine, guiding the blade at a gentler angle. "You’re pressing too hard. Let the edge do the work."

"Sorry." I adjusted my grip. "I’ve never been good at this."

"Nonsense. You’ve been peeling potatoes all week without a single nick." She bumped my hip with hers. "You’re a natural. You just don’t believe it yet."

I smiled. A real one. The kind that didn’t feel like it cost anything.

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and slow-roasted meat. Margaret had been tending the roast since mid-afternoon. She moved through her kitchen like a dancer—reaching for jars without looking, adjusting the fire by instinct, tasting broth from a wooden spoon and nodding to herself. Everything she did had rhythm. Purpose. She made it look effortless.

I envied that. The ease of belonging somewhere.

"Hand me that dish, would you, darling?" She pointed with her chin toward the shelf above the stove.

I set down the peeler and reached for it. Fine white porcelain with delicate blue wildflowers painted along the rim. Old. Well-loved. The glaze was cracked in places, smooth from decades of use.

"These were my grandmother’s," Margaret said, taking the dish from me with both hands, reverent. "She carried them with her in a horse cart a long time ago. Didn’t lose a single plate."

"They’re beautiful."

"They’re home." She set it on the counter and patted my cheek. "Now finish those potatoes before the boys get back and eat them raw."

As if on cue, the back door banged open.

Finnian came in first, wiping his hands on a rag already black with grease. His golden hair was dark with sweat and pushed back from his forehead. Behind him, Robert stomped his boots on the mat, leaving muddy prints anyway.

"Something smells like heaven," Robert announced. He crossed the kitchen in three strides, caught Margaret around the waist, and gave her an exaggerated military salute with his free hand. "Reporting for dinner duty, General."

Margaret swatted his arm. "Go wash. Both of you. You smell like the inside of a furnace."

"That’s the smell of honest labor, woman."

"That’s the smell of a man who’s not sitting at my table until he scrubs those hands."

Robert grinned. Kissed her temple. Disappeared down the hall.

Finnian caught my eye as he passed. "Everything okay, Sarah?"

Sarah. The name still felt like borrowed clothing. Too loose in some places, too tight in others.

"Perfect," I said. "Your mother’s teaching me her secrets."

"Dangerous territory." He smiled. "She guards that roast recipe with her life."

Margaret pointed a wooden spoon at him. "Wash."

He went.

Twenty minutes later, we sat around the table. Margaret’s grandmother’s plates held generous portions of roast, golden potatoes, and roasted root vegetables glistening with herb butter. Candles flickered in mismatched holders. The window was cracked open just enough to let the evening breeze carry in the scent of the garden.

Robert said a short blessing. Margaret served. Finnian poured water from a clay pitcher.

I sat between Margaret and Finnian and tried not to think about how easily I’d slipped into this. The rhythm of it. The simple choreography of a family sitting down together.

For three weeks, I’d been Sarah. Finnian’s distant cousin from the capital, down on her luck, needing somewhere quiet to recover. The story was thin enough that any serious scrutiny would shred it. But the townspeople didn’t ask too many questions. And the Morrisons treated me like I’d always been here.

Margaret refilled my plate without asking. Robert told a story about a horse that kicked over his anvil. Finnian laughed and corrected the details. Margaret shook her head and called them both ridiculous.

I ate. I listened. I let the warmth seep into the cold places.

After dinner, Margaret brought out a pie. Golden crust. The smell of cinnamon and baked apples. She cut thick slices and slid one in front of me.

"Eat," she ordered. "You’re still too thin."

"Margaret, I just had plenty of—"

"Too. Thin." She pointed at the pie with her knife. "Eat."

I ate. It was perfect. Sweet and tart and warm. The kind of thing that made your eyes close on the first bite.

After the plates were cleared and the kitchen scrubbed, Margaret dried her hands on her apron and gave me a look that permitted no argument.

"Living room. Both of you. Finnian, put on something from the memory stone. Something with cowboys."

"Margaret—"

No, no, no— 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

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