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.

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

thick and heavy, plunging

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

didn't have to stick around with

...

a blond maid in stark black and white,

changed-fragrant, floral. She

call of birds and

on.

called out, "Hello? Is

herself, but got no reply. After a moment's

leather,

pair of polished black Oxfords and crisp, tailored black trousers. A man. His right hand,

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 one. Now, only the most traditional, aristocratic

this the master of

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

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

crimson, nearly black at the core. Sinister, strange-yet strikingly

held the

He sat beside her.