Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 387

Alright, fine.

A prisoner should know their place.

Just like that, Mila fell in line.

Her nightgown was gently slipped off, and she was led-firmly, without any room for argument—toward a steaming bath. The maid fussed over her, scrubbing her clean with painstaking thoroughness. Mila was uncomfortable with the attention but knew better than to resist.

The bath didn't last long.

Afterward, the maid removed a brocade cloth from a silver tray, revealing an ornate golden gown-something straight out of a European fairy tale. She dressed Mila piece by piece, fastening layers of intricate fabric until Mila began to fidget, uneasy.

"This dress is too small," she finally blurted, frowning. The bodice pinched her ribs, squeezing her breath thin—it was at least a size too tight.

The maid ignored her, silently slipping golden silk gloves onto Mila's hands.

Seriously, was everyone here mute?

Aside from the blond man who'd fired at her yesterday, Mila hadn't heard a single word from anyone. The place was swarming with people, yet the silence was uncanny, almost eerie.

When the gown was finally in place, Mila thought she might be done. But then the maid produced a white veil from the tray and moved to drape it over Mila's head. Mila tried to stop her, but her hands were pinned-surprisingly strong for a woman; clearly, she'd been trained.

people who'd captured her? Every servant in this ancient castle seemed

veil came down, thick and heavy, plunging her world into a blurred

and the silent maid led her forward. Mila had no idea where they were going, but she knew she

she didn't have to

...

in gold, led by a blond maid in stark black and white, drifted through the old

make out anything, but she sensed they'd left the building. The air changed-fragrant, floral. She caught glimpses

birds and insects—a hush that stretched

on.

called

a moment's hesitation, she reached for

gloved hand-black leather, not tight, but

glimpsed a pair of polished black Oxfords and crisp, tailored black trousers. A man. His right hand, at his side, gripped

struck a memory-Lysander's grandfather. The cane was never for walking, but for power, privilege, and old money. In early twentieth-century Europe, every gentleman had

this the master of

the veil, seeing only a vague silhouette-shoulder-length, slightly

pluck a flower from a nearby bed, then took her gloved hand and placed

black at

the ringleader, Mila held the rose

He sat beside her.