Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 269

Will you ever come back after going abroad?

Mila didn't even have to think about it-her first instinct was to shake her head. But then she worried it sounded too final, so she gave a little nod as well.

After everything that had happened last time, the trauma was still fresh.

Unless the legal team or Charlotte found some irrefutable evidence-something that could really turn the case around-she wasn't planning on coming back. If no new evidence came to light, she could always choose to file for separation after two years instead.

Even though she hadn't said a word, Forrest could read her thoughts just by the look on her face. He smiled and said, "Then I'll just have to visit you overseas as often as I can."

Mila parted her lips, wanting to tell him he didn't need to go through all that trouble. But then she thought about everything he'd done for her, all the ways he'd helped. In the end, she couldn't bring herself to refuse.

She wanted to excuse herself and go rest, but as she glanced down, her eyes caught on Forrest's elegant hands, resting quietly on his lap. Suddenly, she remembered what he'd said to Giselle at the party earlier that evening.

*Sorry, it's been years since I played. My hands are out of practice.*

The thought nagged at her. She couldn't help but ask, "You don't play piano anymore?"

his gaze, the reflection off his glasses hiding his eyes, though he still

been a long time,"

not to press. She started to get up, but just then,

in his eyes, though his voice was soft and steady. "If you ever want to hear me play,

heart skipped

hand, turning his face away as he spoke in a rough, quiet voice. “It's

had just happened, but her heart was suddenly racing. She nodded quickly and

door closed

so tightly on his knees that the veins stood out, trembling with the effort. For a long moment, he just sat there,

staggered over to the desk. It took several tries before he managed to open a drawer. He fumbled inside, pulling out a white bottle

He grabbed a few tablets, shoved them in his mouth, and swallowed them dry. Then,

to ebb that he took off his glasses,

still-trembling hand. Memories from seven years ago crashed over him

in a cramped, dim

the dirty floor. One of his bloodied hands was pinned beneath a spotless white sneaker. Next to his outstretched fingers, a small hammer lay,

eyes, though his voice was slow and even. "Remember this. If you ever play that damned piano