Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 475

No matter how many times he tried to recall it, all that filled his mind was the cold, empty shell of a mansion.

That was where he grew up.

Twenty years—each day indistinguishable from the last.

Just like Johnnie always said, he lived a life that wasn’t real. Every day, he wore a mask, never daring to let anyone see his true face. All for a hope so faint he barely dared to admit it even to himself. Yet, even now, knowing it was impossible, he still couldn’t take off the mask.

He didn’t know how to take it off anymore.

The mask had fused with his skin and bone.

He couldn’t remove it.

Eugene staggered to his feet, blinking hard to keep the tears from spilling over. His voice came out rough but steady. “I don’t need a family.”

It wasn’t that no one offered.

He was the one who refused.

He walked toward the door. As he pulled it open, Johnnie’s voice sounded behind him, flat but unwavering. “Eugene, no matter what you think, your mentor will always wait for you to come home. If you want it, our strength is your strength. We support you—no matter what.”

Eugene stepped out the door.

...

Outside, he wandered through the crowd, finally stopping on the bustling sidewalk outside the club, staring at the endless stream of cars sliding past.

For a moment, he stood there, lost.

He realized he had nowhere to go.

His mind was blank.

When he came to, he was already standing in front of Mila’s apartment. Without thinking, he pressed his finger to the digital lock. A soft beep sounded. The door unlocked—it recognized his print.

Right. He remembered, a little dazed—after New Year’s, Mila had added his fingerprint to the lock. She’d told him he could come by whenever he wanted.

Come by whenever.

He stepped inside on autopilot, opened the living room door, and was immediately hit by the rich aroma of simmering meat. He followed the smell to the dining room but stopped short at the threshold, for some reason unable to bring himself to go in.

He looked inside.

A large pot sat in the middle of the table, filled to the brim with hearty ribs. Mila, in a cozy knit dress, her dark hair lazily twisted up, was cradling a bowl of broth, sipping with a frown—each sip made her wince, but her face shone with quiet satisfaction.

He couldn’t help but think: Even with a sore throat, she can’t resist. She can’t eat a proper meal, so she drinks the soup instead.

Adorable.

The thought softened his eyes, and some of the numbness in his expression faded away. He unconsciously took a step forward.