Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 398

In the garden—

A woman sat to the side, her figure draped in a veil of white lace. Beside her lounged a dangerously handsome man, his lips curling into a sly smile. With practiced elegance, he sliced the steak on his plate into bite-sized pieces.

“Eat properly,” he murmured, his tone light but unyielding. “You’ll heal faster that way.”

Beneath the layers of her dress and veil, Mila clenched her fists, struggling not to lash out at him. After all, wasn’t it his fault she was hurt in the first place?

What a fraud.

“Is it your shoulder that aches? Here, let me help you.”

The man speared a tender piece of meat, lifted her veil with teasing fingers, and brought the fork toward her lips. Mila turned her face away.

“Don’t make me angry,” he said softly, laughter rumbling in his chest.

Apparently, his patience had its limits. Sensing he was about to lose it, Mila decided not to push him further. She reached out and gripped the fork, indicating she’d eat on her own.

He released it with a chuckle, letting her have her way.

Finally, she tasted hot, savory meat—a small portion, but enough to quiet the emptiness gnawing at her stomach.

For the first time in days, Mila felt a flicker of life return.

After breakfast—

She expected the usual routine: sitting in the garden while the man read his book. But instead, he took a casual sip of red wine, caught her wrist in his hand, and gestured for the staff to bring out an easel. He announced he would paint her portrait.

She was used to his whims by now. Without protest, Mila settled into a plush chair near the flowerbeds, careful not to put pressure on her injured left shoulder. She reclined at an angle, letting her veil shield her face, and watched as Cossio set up his canvas a short distance away. The sound of his brush on canvas soon faded into the background as Mila drifted off, her body craving rest after days of pain.

The gentle rustle of his brushwork echoed through the quiet garden. Dressed in her gauzy white gown, Mila lay motionless on the chair, lost in sleep until the afternoon sun blazed overhead. She woke with a start, suddenly remembering where she was—and froze.

Had she dozed off too long?

To her relief, the man didn’t scold her. In a gentle voice, he called, “Come here. Take a look.”

Working the stiffness from her limbs, Mila stepped closer and, with her back to him, lifted the edge of her veil to peer at the painting.

She stared, surprised.

On the canvas, a mysterious woman reclined on the ornate chair, her slender form draped in a sheer white dress. The veil obscured her features, lending her an enigmatic beauty. But Mila couldn’t shake the feeling that the woman in the painting was somehow different—delicater, almost fragile.

“Do you like it?” came the man’s low, slightly hoarse whisper, his breath tinged with the scent of wine and roses as he leaned close behind her.

He really was drunk.

Mila didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak, and even if she could, she wouldn’t have. Instead, she let her silence speak for her.

Perhaps, in his drunken haze, he mistook her for someone else—someone who often rejected him. He didn’t get angry. Instead, he took her by the wrist and led her toward the old manor, the staff trailing behind with the portrait.