Page 32 of Alpha's Exiled Mate

“It seems that we have a visitor,” she said, her smile carrying a confident edge, as if she’d anticipated my presence.

My heart froze, heat flooding my cheeks as shame and fear coiled within. Eavesdropping was a scandal, unbecoming of a princess. But retreat was impossible. I stepped into the parlor, legs heavy as stone, forcing a facade of composure despite my trembling hands.

Perock’s brow creased, his expression a mix of irritation, confusion, and—most wounding—embarrassment, as if my intrusion tainted his precious reunion. His gaze made me feellike an outsider, an error in his world. My throat tightened, the air thick with my own irrelevance.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” I whispered, my voice faint, humiliation searing through me. “I was just passing by and heard voices…”

“It’s okay, dear,” Sophia said, her tone kind, her smile impeccable. “Since you’re here, could you pour me some tea? It was a long journey to get here. I'm kind of thirsty.”

I stiffened, disbelief anchoring me. She’d seen me at the banquet, knew I was Perock’s wife, yet she treated me like a servant, her request a calculated insult.

Her eyes gleamed with challenge, silently declaring one thing: I was allowed to do this, and he won’t stop me.

I looked to Perock, my eyes pleading for him to correct her, to acknowledge me, even if only as Viossi. But he stood silent, his gaze drifting to the window, lips pressed tight, fingers twitching at his cuff—a nervous tic that betrayed his unease. His silence cut deeper than any words, confirming I wasn’t worth defending.

Just like last night, when he’d protected Sophia without a thought for me.

Humiliation burned through me, a scorching wave from head to toe. My cheeks flamed, my hands shook, but a defiant pride straightened my spine. “Of course, Lady Sophia,” I said, my voice steady despite the chaos within.

I’m used to this, aren’t I?

I approached the tea table, each step a trek across shards of glass, my heart bleeding with every motion. Perock’s gaze lingered on my back, not with care but with discomfort, as if I were a problem he couldn’t solve. I lifted the teapot, the silver spoon clinking in my trembling hands, a mocking chime of my fragility.

As I handed Sophia the tea, her smile deepened—a victor’s triumph, laced with superiority and faint pity. Her eyes shonewith the assurance of a woman who knew she was cherished. “Thank you,” she said, barely glancing at me before turning to Perock. “Your… servant is very polite.”

Perock remained silent, his lips tight, his eyes avoiding mine.

Don’t let a few kind glances fool you, Lilia.

Lord Thornfield’s voice echoed, the final crack in my resolve. My throat constricted, tears burned my eyes, and my heart felt pulverized, each beat a jagged pain. The truth was clear - Perock’s tenderness to me was a fleeting charity, not love.

I had to escape before I broke entirely. “Excuse me,” I murmured, my voice trembling with suppressed sobs, barely coherent.

Without waiting for a reply, I fled the parlor, tears spilling the moment I crossed the threshold, soaking my cheeks and collar. I hurried through the corridors, my gown trailing, footsteps echoing in the vast halls. I ran blindly, desperate to outrun the agony, but it pursued me, a relentless specter. In my haze, I collided with someone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I gasped, wiping my tears, looking up to see Orin.

“Your Highness?” His eyes widened, concern furrowing his brow. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” I lied, my voice breaking, fingers twisting my skirt. “I’m… fine.”

Orin didn’t press, instead offering a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Here, Your Highness.”

The gesture undid me, my lips quivering as tears fell anew. I took the handkerchief, nodding gratefully, unable to speak.

“You seem...very upset,” he said softly, keeping a respectful distance, his voice warm with compassion. “Is there anything I can do?”

I shook my head, clutching the handkerchief. “Thank you, but… it’s nothing serious.”

Orin’s smile was gentle, empathetic. “Sometimes, pain needs to be shared. You don’t have to bear it alone. Your Highness.”

His words pierced my defenses, another tear escaping. As I dabbed my cheek, Orin reached out, his fingers softly brushing a tear from the other side. The touch startled me, his gaze holding a fervor I’d never seen in Perock’s eyes—an intense, almost obsessive care.

His eyes lingered, tracing my face from brow to nose, resting on my lips longer than decorum permitted. “Your eyes shouldn’t be dimmed by tears,” he whispered, his voice low and intimate. “You’re too beautiful, Your Highness, too radiant for sorrow.”

His breath brushed my ear, and I realized we’d drifted too close, beyond propriety’s bounds. My heart raced, caught between shock and discomfort. “Orin, I…” I began, stepping back, unsure how to respond.

“What’s going on here, Orin?”