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.

were these people who'd captured her? Every servant in this

thick and heavy, plunging her

hand was taken, and the silent maid led her forward. Mila had no idea where they were going,

she didn't have to stick around with

...

gold, led by a blond maid in stark black and white, drifted through the old stone castle. Down to the

changed-fragrant, floral. She caught glimpses of

the distant call of birds and insects—a hush that

on.

tentatively called out, "Hello? Is anyone

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

leather, not

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

and old money. In early twentieth-century Europe, every gentleman had one. Now, only the most traditional, aristocratic types

of the

through the veil, seeing only a vague

from a nearby bed, then took her gloved

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

her abductor had a sense of style. Guessing he was the ringleader, Mila held the rose obediently, letting him guide

He sat beside her.