Rejected by My Fiancé, I Accidentally Carried His Mother's Heir (GL)

The banquet hall buzzed with the energy of a celebration that had reached its peak. The musicians had shifted to livelier melodies, their fingers were dancing across strings and keys with practiced precision.

Couples twirled across the dance floor in a whirl of silk and satin, their laughter was mingling with the clink of crystal glasses and the murmur of animated conversation. The servants moved through the crowd with trays of delicacies and goblets of wine, their movements are seamless and efficient despite the chaos surrounding them.

Prince Kariv had reentered the hall with measured steps, his composure was carefully restored. His expression was smooth, betraying none of the anger that had consumed him in the garden just moments before. He accepted a fresh glass of wine from a passing servant, bringing the ruby liquid to his lips and took a long sip.

The wine was rich and smooth, a vintage from the southern vineyards that had been aging for decades. It did little to soothe the agitation that still simmered beneath his carefully constructed facade.

He positioned himself near one of the grand pillars, his gaze swept across the crowd with practiced disinterest. The nobles who approached him were met with polite but distant smiles, their attempts at conversation was deflected with diplomatic grace.

He had no interest in their flattery, their political maneuvering, their desperate attempts to secure his favor. His mind was still churning with frustration at Eiravelle’s rejection, at her pathetic refusal to submit to his wishes.

The audacity of it. The sheer, unmitigated audacity. He was a prince, the third son of the Sovereign herself, and she had dared to push him away as though he were some common suitor.

He had offered her a chance—a chance to elevate herself, to prove her worth, to show that she was worthy of his attention. And she had thrown it back in his face like a child refusing a gift.

”I gave her everything,” he muttered under his breath, swirling the wine in his glass. ”Everything, and she was still too stupid to accept it.”

His grip on the glass tightened, knuckles are turning white with tension. He took another sip, forcing himself to breathe, to maintain his composure. He was royalty and an Alpha. He would not let some pathetic little omega ruin his evening.

From his position near the pillar, he could see the grand entrance doors, could watch as the guests continued to arrive and depart. He could see Lord Arthion and Lady Elaria moving through the crowd, their faces were fixed in expressions of practiced hospitality. He could see Arisia, the evening’s honored guest, surrounded by admirers who vied for her attention.

And then, he saw Eiravelle.

She had returned from the garden, her lavender gown now stained and wrinkled, her carefully styled hair falling in limp, tangled curls around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red and swollen, and she was doing a terrible job of hiding her distress. She was trying to slip through the crowd unnoticed, head bowed, and shoulders hunched as though she were trying to make herself smaller.

Kariv watched her with cold amusement. So she had finally come back, had she? After running away like a frightened child? He could see the tears still streaming down her cheeks, could see the way her body trembled with barely suppressed sobs.

She was trying to hide it, trying to muffle the sounds with her hand pressed against her mouth, but it was obvious to anyone who bothered to look.

He smirked and turned away. Let her suffer. Let her cry. It was her own fault for being so foolish, so naive, so utterly pathetic. She had brought this upon herself.

But as he turned away, Eiravelle’s gaze found him. She saw him standing there, saw the cold smirk on his face, and her heart shattered all over again. She had known now, somewhere deep in her heart, that he did not truly care about her.

But to see it so plainly written on his face, to see the contempt and amusement in his eyes as he watched her suffer—

She looked away quickly, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. The shame was overwhelming, suffocating, and she could not bear to see him looking at her like that. She stumbled backward, her hands were pressed against her mouth to stifle the sobs that threatened to escape.

Arielle had been speaking with a group of noblewomen when she caught a glimpse of movement near the edge of the hall. Something about the figure—the hunched shoulders, the trembling frame, the only shade of pink curls—made her heart clench with instinctive worry. She excused herself from the conversation, her eyes were already searching for her youngest sister.

”Eiravelle,” she murmured, and without another word, she hurried across the hall.

She found Eiravelle huddled in a shadowed corner near one of the large marble pillars, her body was shaking with silent sobs. The girl had pressed herself against the wall as though she were trying to disappear into the stone, her hands were still clamped over her mouth in a desperate attempt to muffle her cries.

”Eiravelle!” Arielle rushed to her side, her voice was thick with concern. She reached out, her hands are gentle as she touched her sister’s shoulder. ”Eiravelle, what happened? Why are you crying?”

Eiravelle raised her gaze, her eyes held the deep, mesmerizing hue of a pink ruby, glowing with a soft inner warmth that swam with tears. ”S-Sister...” The word came out broken, barely above a whisper, and then the sobs broke free entirely.

”Eiravelle, Eiravelle, come here.” Arielle pulled her youngest sister into a warm embrace, her arms are wrapping around the trembling girl. ”What happened? Please, tell me what happened.”

Eiravelle clung to her older sister, her fingers digging into the fabric of Arielle’s formal masculine attire as though she were drowning and Arielle was the only lifeline within reach. She buried her face in her sister’s shoulder, her body was convulsing with each sob that tore through her.

”It is okay,” Arielle murmured, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Eiravelle’s head, and the other was rubbing slow, soothing circles on her back. ”I am here now. I am here. Do not cry, little one. I am right here.”

She continued to soothe her sister, her voice was a gentle lullaby against the storm of Eiravelle’s tears. But even as she offered comfort, Arielle’s mind was racing, trying to piece together what could have caused such a reaction.

”K-Kariv...” Eiravelle finally managed, the name emerging as a choked sob.

Arielle’s blood ran cold. Her hands stilled on her sister’s back, and a cold fury began to build in her chest. ”Kariv,” she repeated, her voice was carefully controlled. ”What about him? What did he do, Eiravelle?”

Eiravelle tried to speak, but the words would not come. ”K-Kariv... He... He...” She broke down again, the attempt to form the words too much for her shattered composure.

Arielle waited, her patience was strained but her touch was still gentle. And then, she saw it. As Eiravelle lifted her head slightly, the dim light caught the side of her face, revealing the unmistakable mark of a slap. The skin was red and slightly swollen, and beneath it, just at her chin, was the faint bruising of fingertips that had gripped her too hard.

The fury that had been building in Arielle’s chest exploded into white-hot rage.

”Did he hurt you?” Arielle’s voice dropped to a low growl, the Alpha in her surging to the surface. Her eyes, usually warm and gentle, had taken on a dangerous edge. ”Eiravelle, did that Alpha hurt you?”

Eiravelle shook her head frantically, more tears streaming down her cheeks. ”I am so sorry,” she sobbed. ”I am such a mess, sister. I am so sorry—”

”No.” Arielle gripped her sister’s forearms, leaning down slightly so that she could look directly into Eiravelle’s eyes. Her gaze was fierce and unwavering. ”You listen to me, Eiravelle. You are not a mess. Do you hear me? You are not a mess, and you have nothing to apologize for. Now tell me what he did. Please, I need to know.”

Eiravelle opened her mouth to speak, but before she could form the words, a voice rang out across the banquet hall. It was Kariv’s voice, smooth and commanding, drawing the attention of everyone in attendance.

”Good evening, everyone! If I may have your attention for a moment!”

The musicians fell silent. Conversations died. The dancers stopped mid-step, their gazes turn toward the prince who stood at the center of the hall, his wine glass was still in hand and his expression became one of carefully composed regret.

Arielle’s gaze snapped toward him, her hands are still gripping Eiravelle’s arms. She could feel her sister trembling behind her, could feel the desperate grip of Eiravelle’s fingers on her sleeve.

Without thinking, Arielle stepped forward, moving slightly to block Eiravelle from view. She did not know what Kariv was about to do, but she knew, instinctively, that it would not be good.

From behind her sister, Eiravelle peeked around Arielle’s shoulder, her tear-streaked face was a mask of confusion and dread.

”Tonight,” Kariv began, his voice was carrying easily through the silent hall, ”I must apologize for gathering everyone’s attention when this sweet moment should only belong to Lady Arisia. This is her special night, and I have no desire to overshadow her celebration.”

He paused, his gaze was sweeping across the assembled guests. His eyes found Lord Arthion and Lady Elaria, who stood near the center of the hall, their expressions were carefully neutral but their postures are rigid with tension. He inclined his head to them, a gesture of respect that seemed almost mocking.

”But I am here to announce to everyone...” He paused again, taking a slow breath, as though the words were difficult to speak. ”I am deeply apologizing to Lord Arthion and Lady Elaria. But I am cutting off my engagement with Eiravelle.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Nobles exchanged shocked glances, whispers beginning to spread like wildfire through the hall. The engagement between Prince Kariv and Eiravelle had been arranged by the Sovereign herself, a political alliance that was meant to strengthen the ties between House Arthion and the royal family.

It had been announced just months ago, and everyone had assumed it would proceed as planned.

”I am rejecting the idea of marrying someone like Eiravelle,” Kariv continued, his voice was steady. ”I cannot bear the pressure. And if anything, I am taking full accountability for tonight.”

His personal knight, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward, his face was etched with worry. ”Your Highness, you cannot decide on this. The Sovereign personally passed this edict—”

”I know.” Kariv cut him off, his tone was firm but not unkind. ”And I shall face my Ama personally and accept whatever punishment she may deem fit for me. But now, in this moment, I want to follow my heart. I do not want Eiravelle.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Eiravelle felt the world tilt around her. Her knees buckled, and she would have fallen if Arielle had not been there to catch her. The whispers around her grew louder, more insistent, and she could feel the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on her like a physical force.

She could not breathe. She could not think. The only thought that filled her mind was a single, desperate question: Why?

But she did not wait for an answer. She could not bear to see the pity in their eyes, the contempt, the satisfaction at her humiliation. She turned and ran, her footsteps echoed in the sudden silence, her tears blurred the world around her into a haze of color and light.

Behind her, the whispers grew into a roar.

Lord Arthion’s face had gone pale with fury. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck stood out, and his silver eyes blazed with barely contained rage. He kept his anger at bay, though it cost him considerable effort, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling.

Lady Elaria stood beside him, her expression was frozen in a mask of mortification. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her knuckles turned white with tension, and she could not bring herself to look at any of the assembled guests.

The humiliation was unbearable, a weight that pressed down on her chest and made it difficult to breathe.

Arisia, the evening’s honored guest, felt her own rage building. The cold fury that she always felt whenever Eiravelle was involved had crystallized into something sharper and more dangerous.

This was supposed to be her night. Her celebration. And once again, Eiravelle had managed to ruin everything.

”Eiravelle,” Arisia muttered, the name dripped with venom. She turned away from the crowd, her wolf ears flattening against her head, her tail turned stiff with barely contained anger. ”Bring that girl to me,” she ordered, her voice was low and commanding. ”Now.”

The guards who had been stationed near the entrance snapped to attention. ”Yes, my lady!” They responded in unison, and they moved swiftly to obey her command.

Ariphale stood nearby, her expression was one of stunned confusion. She had known that Eiravelle was a source of tension in the family, but she had never expected something like this. The public humiliation, the rejection, the sheer spectacle of it all—it was beyond anything she could have imagined.

And then, Arielle moved.

She had been standing frozen, her hand was still extended as though to catch her fleeing sister, her face was a mask of shock and disbelief. But as the realization of what Kariv had done fully sank in, the shock gave way to something far more primal.

She balled her hands into tight fists, her knuckles whitening with the force of her fury. Her footsteps were heavy, purposeful, as she strode through the crowd. The guests parted before her, their whispers fell silent as they saw the expression on her face—the cold, terrifying rage of an Alpha who had been pushed too far.

Kariv saw her coming, but he did not have time to react before she reached him.

Her fist connected with his face with a sickening crack.

He collapsed backward from the impact, his wine glass shattered on the floor, sending ruby liquid splashing across the marble. He did not even have time to cry out before she was on him again, her fists raining down with brutal precision.

”You stupid!” She snarled, her fist connecting with his jaw. ”Stupid!”

Again, another blow to his cheekbone. ”You are insolent!”

Again, a vicious punch to his nose, sending blood spraying across his face. ”Roynish!”

Again, her fist drove into his stomach, forcing a choked gasp from his lips. ”Ronyon!1”

She continued to punch him, her fury was unrelenting, and her strength was terrifying. Kariv’s own knight rushed forward, but Arielle’s power was immense, and even the trained warrior was no match for the full force of her rage. She threw him aside with a single, furious shove.

”What are you doing?! Stop her!” The knight shouted, scrambling to his feet.

But Arielle could not be stopped. Her fists continued to drive into Kariv’s face, his body, his arms as he tried to protect himself. She was beyond reason, beyond control, driven only by the need to make him pay for what he had done to her little sister.

It took Lord Arthion himself to pull her away.

”Enough, Arielle!” He shouted, his powerful arms wrapped around his daughter and lifting her body away from the prince. ”That is enough!”

Arielle struggled against him, her eyes were still blazing, her breath came in furious gasps. ”He hurt her! He hurt Eiravelle!”

Kariv lay on the floor, his face was a mess of blood and swelling, his breath came in ragged, pained gasps. He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out, and he collapsed back against the marble.

”Your Highness!” The knight rushed to his prince’s side, his face was pale with panic. ”Guards! Guards, seize her!”

The guards hesitated, their eyes are darting between their enraged Alpha lordess and the broken prince on the floor. They were caught between conflicting loyalties, and the confusion showed on their faces.

”Let them try!” Arielle snarled, her body was still straining against her father’s grip. ”I have my reasons for hurting your weak prince!”

Arthion tightened his grip, his voice turning sharp with warning. ”Arielle, you will be punished for this. You have assaulted a prince of the realm!”

”So be it!” Arielle yelled back, her fury was undimmed. ”I have my reasons why I hurt him!” She repeated and stopped her struggles for a moment, her gaze was fixing on the bloody figure of Kariv on the floor.

”You should remember, Kariv,” she said, her voice dropped to a cold, venomous whisper, ”you are nothing without my family’s political influence. And no matter how powerful you think you are, you will never be strong enough to harm my sister and escape without consequence.”

She straightened, shaking off her father’s hands with a sharp, angry movement. Without another word, she turned and walked away from the gathering as her footsteps became steady.

The silence in the hall was absolute. Every guest stood frozen, their faces were a mixture of shock, horror, and morbid fascination. The music had stopped, the dancing had ceased, and even the servants had paused in their duties to stare at the scene unfolding before them.

Lord Arthion stood in the center of the hall, his chest was heaving with the effort of containing his own rage. He watched Arielle’s retreating figure, his silver eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and something that might have been resignation.

His gaze swept across the crowd, past the nobles who were already beginning to murmur among themselves, past the servants who were trying to look as though they had seen nothing. Finally, his eyes found his wife, and the look they exchanged was one of mutual exhaustion.

”That girl,” Arthion huffed, his voice was low and barely controlled. ”Eiravelle has crossed the line many times. But this? This is beyond anything I could have anticipated.”

Lady Elaria said nothing. Her hands were still clasped in front of her, her face was still frozen in that mask of mortification. But there was something else in her eyes now—a flicker of something that might have been anger.

The guests began to slowly move again, the silence was broken by the prince’s knight, who was calling for healers to attend to his fallen master. Whispers rippled through the crowd, each one was more scandalous than the last.

”Did you see that? Lady Arielle assaulted the prince!”

”Poor Kariv. What could have provoked such violence?”

”And that engagement—broken, just like that? The Sovereign will not be pleased.”

”To think that girl Eiravelle would cause so much chaos...”

”She is a plague, that one. Always has been.”

Kariv was helped to his feet by his knight, his face was a ruin of bruises and blood. His amber eyes were dazed, but as the first wave of shock began to fade, the realization of what had happened—the humiliation, the violence, the public spectacle—began to dawn on him.

”This is not over,” he muttered through swollen lips. ”I will not forget this.”

But his threats went unheeded by the crowd, who had already moved on to the next piece of scandal. The healers arrived, the servants cleaned the blood from the floor, and the night’s festivities came to an abrupt, jarring end.

And somewhere in the shadowed corridors of the estate, Eiravelle was still running, her tears still falling, her heart was still breaking.

She had not seen what Arielle had done. She had not witnessed her sister’s fierce defense, the brutal assault that had left the prince broken on the floor. She knew only that she had been rejected, humiliated, cast aside like something worthless again. But this time, the pain is intense and too much.

In the distance, she could hear the sounds of the estate stirring, the shouts and commands of servants trying to restore order. She could hear the rumble of carriages departing, the noble guests eager to escape the scandal that had unfolded.

And she knew, with a certainty that cut deeper than any knife, that she would never be the same again.

So she chose to gather her strength, stand up, and run away again.

Roynish Ronyon is a redundant archaic insult coined by combining two old terms that both essentially mean a scabby, mangy creature or a vulgar, low-class person.