My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 295

Chapter 295: One Safe Glimpse

Xavier had endured every hardship for a single, unwavering purpose: to be there by the riverbank the next time she slipped beneath the water’s surface, to witness with his own eyes that she would rise again, unharmed and whole.

Back in Lakeshire, it was Soren who had plunged into the dark lake, dragging Fiona from its depths. The faint, trembling utterance of “Hubby” she breathed afterward nearly brought Xavier to tears.

He understood with absolute certainty that the name she spoke was meant for him, not the young Soren standing before her. Yet, Soren was no longer himself. From that moment forward, he had to live as Xavier Luthor—embracing that identity so completely that even the rhythm of his own heartbeat would forget any other name.

When Fiona whispered “Hubby,” Soren froze, a flicker of unease crossing his features. Carefully, he placed her into Xavier’s waiting arms, then turned on polished boots and walked away without a word.

Xavier watched Soren’s retreating figure with a chilling stillness in his chest, certain that regret would one day chase Soren as relentlessly as night chases the sun.

Minutes later, Fiona’s lashes fluttered open. A sharp crease of pain tightened her brow. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the warmth beneath Xavier’s sleeve, and whispered again, that same soft, intimate plea: “Hubby.”

In that fragile heartbeat, all the trials of Xavier’s reborn life found their meaning. How could he not love her?

It had never been her delicate beauty that captured him—indeed, he never considered her conventionally beautiful. But every time they shared a bed, it was he who broke first, undone by the taste of her skin. His longing for children was not the cause; he simply craved the closeness, the nearness of her.

Still, he knew the truth about himself: a cold, self-absorbed madman who only recognized reality when the sands in his hourglass were nearly spent.

He searched markets and temples for wood carvings to please her, each purchase a tribute to the life she had once lived—carving his likeness line by patient line. Her passion for wood and blade was etched deep within him; forgetting was impossible.

That memory stirred a tenderness in his chest. He bent down, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of her head.

Fiona pulled away from the gesture, her small shoulders tensing.

“Mr. Xavier, you shouldn’t treat me like this,” she said, a crease of uncertainty knitting her brows.

“I was presumptuous, Ms. Fiona,” he replied, his voice rough, and he released her gently.

In that moment, he judged himself harshly and found the verdict damning; even now, he could not measure up to the present Soren.

Fiona’s kindness was reserved only for him because she believed he was Xavier Luthor. If the mask ever slipped, if she ever saw the truth beneath, she would flee—and never look back.

What she truly rejected was closeness with the Soren of this lifetime.

Yet the deeper target of her loathing was the Soren from her previous life—the very soul now inhabiting Xavier’s body.

Noticing the faint redness circling his eyes, her heart faltered. Shifting to practical matters, she said, “It seems, Mr. Xavier, that you and Lord Soren were close before—even this hideout is familiar to you.”

He nodded once. “You saved Lord Soren. I knew he would lead you here. So when we reached Dasshire, I made the necessary preparations.”

“Where shall we go now?” she asked, though her thoughts quietly drifted toward Meryl.

“Southmere,” he answered without hesitation, as though the word had been on his tongue for days.

Good weather, a patient husband, a plainly woven future—those simple threads now felt more precious to her than any silk of courtly ambition.

Across the carriage, Xavier watched Fiona’s sleeping profile with quiet tenderness that belied his military bearing. He slipped off his heavy cloak and carefully tucked it around her slight frame.

When he lifted the canvas flap, a shaft of silver morning light spilled in, casting a soft glow across her cheeks and catching in the loose strands of her hair like threads of fire.

She was nearing the age she would one day marry him—at least in the future he envisioned—and with each passing day, her features aligned more perfectly with the image seared into his memory.

So he simply sat beside her, letting the wheels clatter beneath them as he kept silent vigil.

Only when the carriage rattled through the gates of Southmere did Fiona stir, blinking as though pulled from a sweet, impossible dream.

Meryl spotted the familiar crest on the coach and immediately knit her brows in concern. Seeing Xavier, she whispered a quick order. The side gate creaked open, admitting the carriage into the manor quietly.

Perplexed, Meryl leaned in—and there it was: a curious face peeking between the curtains. A mother remembered the curve of her own child’s shoulders, so it was no surprise she recognized Fiona at once.

For half a month, Meryl had barely slept, tormented by Pearl’s tale that Fiona had rescued a hunted stranger. What if the man served the enemy? The thought gnawed at her so fiercely she dared not speak it aloud, instead sending a quiet letter to Jexburgh, begging Zachary for counsel.

Now, seeing her daughter safe and sound, Meryl’s composure shattered; tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

“Mother,” Fiona exclaimed, scrambling down before the footman could lower the steps. She unfolded a silk handkerchief and, with gentle care, dabbed away the tears glistening on Meryl’s lashes.