Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 287

He searched all night.

In the end, it was a call from his father, Conrad Montgomery, that forced Lysander to return to the old estate.

"Have you lost your mind?"

Conrad's face was thunderous as he confronted his son in the study.

Last night, Lysander had sent out so many people, causing quite a commotion. The whole social circle was abuzz, watching from the sidelines, eager for gossip. Even Conrad-who hadn't involved himself in family affairs for years had been dragged in by the uproar.

Lysander, having been caught in the rain all night, looked pale, but he didn't seem to care. "I don't have time to think about appearances. She needs to be found as soon as possible."

A vein throbbed on Conrad's temple; he was so furious, he hurled the mug on his desk across the room. "Now you remember to worry, do you?"

He was about to launch into another tirade when a knock came at the door. Adrian, who'd been staying at the estate lately, slipped in.

"Adrian, it's early-why aren't you getting some more sleep?" Conrad's stiff expression softened at the sight of his grandson, and his voice gentled.

looking pale and uneasy. "I had another nightmare. I dreamed about Mom-she was underwater, crying and

coming back? I promise I won't make her mad again. Can you ask her to come

replied quietly, then strode out of

gathering the trembling Adrian into his arms, comforting him, coaxing him to try

barely dawn, after all. Five, maybe

into his car, ready to search the Willow Lane neighborhood

waiting for you at Crimson

How convenient.

grey eyes narrowed, cold and calculating. He told the driver to head to Crimson Gardens

Lysander climbed out, striding toward the lounge. As he walked, he shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it to Harper, then unfastened the top buttons of his black shirt, rolling up

waited, dressed in immaculate white,

these two men last stood face to face. And yet, when they finally did, both

spoke first.

what

between them. They stared each other down, both searching the other's eyes for any hint of deception. In the end, it was clear: neither was

men's fists clenched, knuckles white. They lunged at each other, punches

time, every punch fueled by raw hatred.