Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 400

The paintbrush danced across the canvas.

Crows scattered through the sky, gnarled branches clawed at the darkness, and the moon was devoured by thick clouds—on the canvas, a landscape shrouded in the gloom of night.

It was a landscape born from Felicity’s brush.

All Mila could do was imagine Felicity’s inner world, slipping into her state of mind, mimicking every stroke and style. She poured out the despair and terror buried deep in Felicity’s soul, capturing it again, line by line, for Cossio to see.

Sometimes—

Art speaks to the soul more deeply than words ever could.

In the dimly lit studio, a woman veiled in gold released the man’s hand from the brush. She stood as motionless as a marionette, her gaze fixed silently on the man beside her.

His breathing grew heavier.

He reached out with a trembling hand, his fingers hovering above the crows struggling to take flight on the canvas. For a long time, he was silent. Then, his voice broke the stillness, low and hoarse with pain.

“Darling, does it hurt that much?”

He understood the painting.

Mila said nothing.

She knew he wasn’t speaking to her, and he didn’t expect an answer. Still, just as he’d said… it did hurt.

From the day she married into the Montgomery family,

From the very first moment she saw Felicity—

She sensed immediately that beneath that gentle woman’s exterior was a soul battered and bruised by pain.

At first, Mila didn’t understand. She couldn’t comprehend it.

But after only a few days here, she realized where Felicity’s suffering came from, even if she didn’t know the reason why.

One thing she did know—

The man standing before her was undoubtedly at the heart of it.

She picked up the brush.

The tip hovered over the neck of a crow. Sensing her intention, the man’s hand closed painfully around her wrist. Mila ignored the ache, pushing through the pain as she dragged the brush in a deep, stark line across the crow’s throat.

—Severed.

Her wrist throbbed so fiercely it felt as if the bones might snap. The brush fell to the floor with a faint clatter. She said nothing, bracing herself for the man’s anger.

After a long while, the pressure on her wrist eased.

He let go, gently rubbing her bruised skin, even lowering his head to kiss it softly, blowing a cool breath across the sore spot.

“Darling, why are you always so sad when you’re with me? What can I do to make you happy?”

His voice was full of helplessness.

He bent to pick up the brush, dipped it in paint, and placed it back in Mila’s hand. Wrapping his hand around hers, he guided her to the wound on the crow’s neck, quickly painting a few bright green leaves over the gash—startling and out of place on the somber canvas.

Now,

That ugly wound, the very mark of the crow’s beheading, looked almost like a few wayward leaves had fallen on its neck—no trace of violence, only a hint of whimsy.