Betrayed by My Ex, Marked by His Alpha Emperor Brother

Chapter 175

Kaelen’s POV

"Daddy! Daddy, are you there?"

The rage drained out of me like water through a cracked vessel. Every muscle in my body unclenched. The broken desk. The fractured wall. The ghost of Senator Henry’s and Sir Marcus’s fear still hanging in the air. All of it—gone. Erased by a single word in a tiny voice.

"I’m here, baby girl." I pressed the communication stone closer. "I’m right here."

"Daddy, you sound grumpy." A pause. Then, with devastating toddler certainty: "Are you mad at someone?"

I almost laughed. Almost. She could hear it—even through a magical connection, even across the distance between the palace study and our private quarters. My daughter could sense my fury the way wolves sensed storms. Before they arrived. Before the damage was done.

"Not anymore," I said. And meant it.

"Good. Because grumpy daddies don’t get hugs."

I leaned against the windowsill. Let my head fall back. Stared at the ceiling.

How long had I been in this office? Since early morning. It was late afternoon now, the sun slanting low, cutting gold lines across the floor.

An entire day. I’d spent an entire day buried in war reports and council politics while my daughter sat at home waiting for me.

"Lyra."

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Do you still want those cupcakes we talked about?"

The shriek that came through the stone could have shattered glass. "YES! Yes yes yes! Daddy, really? Really truly?"

"Really truly. I’ll be home in a short time, little sweetie. Can you be ready for me?"

"I’m ALREADY ready! I’ve been ready ALL DAY!"

I smiled. A real one. The kind that cracked through the mask I wore in this place.

"Give me a little while. I’m coming."

I cut the connection. Then I turned my attention back to the two men cowering by the door.

"Get out," I commanded coldly, my voice leaving no room for argument. "And Henry, if you value your seat on the council, never mention finding a replacement for my Luna again."

Senator Henry swallowed hard, his face pale, before he and Sir Marcus scrambled out of the wreckage of my study. I stepped over the scattered papers and followed them out.

---

The carriage ride home took longer than I wanted. Every moment felt stolen. Every delay—a cart blocking the road, a merchant unloading crates—scratched at my patience like a blade on glass.

When I finally pushed through the front door of our private residence, the scene that greeted me was chaos.

Beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

Lyra stood in the center of the foyer wearing a lavender dress—backwards, the buttons gaping open along her chest, the bow trailing behind her like a tail. Her silver hair was a tangled nest piled on top of her head, held in place by what appeared to be three mismatched ribbons and sheer stubbornness.

And her shoes.

One pink. One purple.

She beamed up at me like she’d conquered the world.

"I dressed myself!"

"I see that." I crouched down to her level. Studied the mismatched shoes with exaggerated seriousness. "Bold choice."

"Pink AND purple," she explained, as though I might have missed the significance.

"Very fashion-forward."

The nanny appeared in the doorway behind her. Her expression was soft and understanding.

"Your Majesty," she said gently but firmly. "She has been waiting for you for a long time. A small apology for your absence would mean the world to her."

The words landed exactly where they were meant to.

I held the nanny’s gaze for a moment. Then looked back at my daughter. At the backwards dress and wild hair and the two tiny shoes that didn’t match because she was so young and she’d gotten tired of waiting and decided to do it herself.

Because her father wasn’t there to help.

"Lyra, I am so sorry I was late," I said softly, reaching for the hem of her dress. "Can I fix this for you before we go?"

She considered it. Then nodded solemnly, lifting her arms.

I turned the dress around, buttoned it properly, straightened the bow at the back. Then I pulled the ribbons from her hair—gently, untangling the knots one by one—and combed through the silver strands with my fingers until they fell smooth down her back.

Silver hair. Ice-blue eyes. That stubborn little chin.

She looked exactly like her mother.

The thought hit without warning. It always did. A knife that never dulled no matter how many times it found the same wound.

Elara.

I pushed the name down. Locked it behind the door in my chest where I kept everything that could destroy me.

"Ready?" I asked.

Lyra grabbed my hand with both of hers. "Ready!"

---

After a short drive, we arrived at the bakery tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookshop on a quiet street far enough from the palace to feel almost normal. No banners. No guards at the door. Just a painted wooden sign and the smell of sugar drifting through the open window.

Betty was behind the counter when we walked in. She was a stout older woman with flour-dusted hands and a face that had been smiling for so long the lines had become permanent.

"Emperor Kaelen!" She clapped her hands together. "And Little Miss Lyra! My two favorite customers."

Lyra released my hand and pressed her face against the glass display case. Her breath fogged the surface. "Miss Betty, do you have the purple ones?"

"We have fresh chocolate, vanilla, and red velvet cupcakes today," Betty offered with a warm smile. "And of course, your favorite purple frosting with the little silver sprinkles."

Lyra’s entire body vibrated with joy. She turned to me with eyes so wide they swallowed her face. "Daddy. Look."

I looked.

The cupcake in question was enormous. A mountain of purple frosting swirled into a peak, crusted with glittering silver sugar. It was approximately the size of Lyra’s head.

"That one," she declared. "I want THAT one."

"That one is bigger than your stomach."

"My stomach is very big."

"It is not."

"It IS."

Betty chuckled behind the counter. I rubbed the back of my neck. Calculated the odds of winning an argument against a young child.

"How about this," I said. "Two normal-sized cupcakes. One pink. One purple. Two colors. Two cupcakes. Deal?"

Lyra narrowed her eyes. Considered the terms. "Three?"

"Two."

"...fine."

Betty boxed them up with practiced hands, tucking the little cakes into a white cardboard container. "Eight gold coins, Your Majesty."

I reached into my pocket. Counted out the coins.

The bell above the door chimed. An elderly couple shuffled in—gray-haired, stooped, her arm hooked through his. He held the door for her. She patted his hand as she passed. A gesture so small. So automatic. The kind of thing that only came from decades of belonging to someone.

I stared at them longer than I should have.

Decades. That was what I’d wanted. Decades of holding the same hand. A lifetime of ordinary mornings and shared meals and arguments that ended with laughter. A future with—

I closed my eyes. Swallowed.

Stop.

"Here you are, Your Majesty." Betty slid the box across the counter. "Fresh as morning dew. And a little extra cookie in there for the little miss."

I took the box. "Thank you, Betty."

I turned around.

The spot where Lyra had been standing was empty.

My smile disappeared. "Lyra?"

No response.