Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 412

On the night boat,

Music drifted through the air—soft, haunting, full of hidden longing and desire. In the dim, shadowy cabin, a man and a woman faced each other: she stood, cool and aloof; he sat, silent, head bowed.

They stayed locked in that uneasy stillness for a long moment.

Then Lysander suddenly gave a low laugh. He slowly lifted his head, and the lamplight caught the raw redness in his eyes. His gaze burned with a desperate restraint. Mila’s icy detachment seemed unbearable to him, tearing open something deep inside, exposing the raw, fragile flesh beneath his hardened shell.

The sensation of being so vulnerable, so exposed, filled him with shame—a darkness washed over his face.

He stood up and took a hesitant step toward Mila.

Then he stopped.

Her voice broke the silence, low and hard to read, as if stating a fact: “Lysander, you love me.” A few seconds passed before she repeated herself, this time with a hint of confusion—almost a question: “You love me?”

He looked down, his expression unreadable.

“You actually love me?”

It was almost a joke—a stray, curious provocation that, against all odds, seemed to have landed on the truth. A complex surge of emotion left her wanting to laugh, but the sound refused to come. All she felt was bitter irony.

He loved her?

What a joke.

An absolutely ridiculous joke.

She nearly burst out laughing, but when she opened her mouth, all that came out was silence. Her lips moved, parted, closed again, and finally she managed a single sentence. “So, Lysander, did you know that I—”

Before she could finish, his hand closed around her throat.

He pressed her back against the wall, his bloodshot eyes burning into hers. He was smiling, but his voice was dark and low, trembling with pain and finality. “Mila, I don’t want to hear it.”

Despite his grip, Mila laughed.

She clutched his hand at her neck, feeling the way his fingers shook. For a moment, she tried to pry them away, gasping for breath.

Then, with sudden clarity, she said, “I hate you.”

His hand tightened, and the redness in his eyes deepened—he stared at her, jaw clenched, voice barely above a whisper, wild and broken: “I don’t love you, Mila. I don’t love you. I never have, and I never will…”

He repeated the words, desperate, as if saying them could numb the pain squeezing his heart, could protect him from being hurt.

But the more he said it,

the more his wavering voice cracked, choked with tears, his vision blurring.

—You’re always this cruel to me.

He wouldn’t love her. He couldn’t.

Anger drowned out all reason.

Mila’s breath grew shallow, her face flushed. Her grip on his hand weakened, slipping away.

—Madman.

Suddenly, he felt her body go limp beneath his hands. The haze of rage fell away and panic crashed in. He let go, catching her as she crumpled to the floor, frantically pressing his ear to her chest for a heartbeat, searching for a pulse, fumbling with trembling hands to dial for a doctor—only to have his wrist seized in a sudden grip.