All Chapters of Marked By The Cursed Alpha Prince: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

LaylaI looked around instinctively, my eyes searching the crowd for familiar faces. Sora had accompanied me today, along with Rosie. Rosie stood a little behind me, her posture straight and her hands folded neatly in front of her. She was very quiet and easily slipped into the background, as if that was where she belonged. But Sora was nowhere to be seen.My gaze swept across the garden again, moving past nobles and servants, but I did not find her. I gestured to Rosie, who had no idea as well. I waited for half an hour. Still no sign of her.I was about to turn to Lucian to ask when a couple approached us from the side. They slowed as they neared, their steps were measured, their expressions were carefully composed. Something about them tugged at my memory before recognition fully settled in.“Brother. Sister-in-law.”I remember the woman. On our wedding day, she was the one who ran as soon as she saw an injured Ser Calhoun. She gave him first aid because experiences healer took con

Layla“Where were you?” I asked Sora, my voice low. The grand hall of the banquet felt suddenly too loud and too crowded. The main programme of singing and dancing was about to begin, but the king and Queen were not there. Sora turned to me with her smile wide and conspiratorial. My husband, Lucian, was a few feet away, deep in conversation with another knight, their faces etched with a seriousness that contrasted sharply with the surrounding celebration.“I went to bring you news,” she said, her voice barely a breath against my ear.“News?” I repeated, my curiosity instantly piqued.She smiled cleverly, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Everyone is taking a walk, Princess. Shall we take one as well?"Rosie shifted uncomfortably beside me. “It's advisable not to leave the banquet, Princess. The King and Queen may return at any moment.”"The Queen and King are not here. They will come again in sometime. We shall come by then,” Sora countered, dismissively waving a hand. Before I could

Two Months Since the Moon Flower Festival Layla I meticulously studied my reflection in the full-length mirror. It was remarkable how much had changed in just two months. Gone was the sickly, stressed look I had carried for years. My transformation was the result of an almost militant training toward well-being, orchestrated by Lucian. I had been subjected to a carefully crafted, healthy diet that was no longer extreme or restrictive, but balanced and clean. My days were structured to avoid excessive sun exposure, and I had finally learned the magic of good quality, minimal makeup. And, of course, there was the 'lots of sex' part, which had certainly contributed to the healthy glow and general happiness.My skin color had undergone a subtle but significant change. It was no longer the patchy, dull brown I had always hated. While Rosie had optimistically declared I was no longer "tanned," the color still fell on the deeper side of the spectrum, definitely golden-tanned, not pale. No

Third Person POV“Listen, O people—listen!”The drum went thud-thud-thud, loud enough to wake the dead and annoy the living.“A new shop is opening on the fourteenth!”“A brand-new market!”“All in one market!” The drummer stood proudly in front of a poor, defenceless book stall, beating his drum like he was announcing the end of the world instead of discounted flour. The bookseller’s eye twitched. His peace was gone, his customers were gone, and his patience had already packed its bags.But he said nothing.Why would he? The man had been paid the price of a hundred books to let the drummer stand there and make noise. A hundred books! In this economy, silence was expensive, and dignity was negotiable.On top of that, the bookseller had been offered a stall in the new market itself. No rent. No fees. Just bring your books and count the cash.He had thought, If this is a scam, so be it.At least I’m not throwing coins into a bottomless well.He would supply a thousand books. His artist

Third Person POVThe very next day, the same woman returned.This time, she did not come alone.She walked through the doors with three other women following closely behind her, their eyes wide and cautious, as if they feared the building might disappear the moment they stepped inside. Her name was Linda, though few ever bothered to ask it before. Her husband was so sick that he could no longer work and she survived by taking a meagre job cleaning a merchant’s house, earning five coins a day if luck was kind and the mistress was not in a foul mood.That small earning was all that stood between her family and hunger.Her husband had been struck by a disease that drained strength and color from his body, and medicine was far beyond their reach. When the rain had poured for three straight days, the merchants did what merchants always did: they raised prices, blaming low supply and poor roads. The poor had no choice but to pay more, because hunger did not wait for fairness. Linda’s five