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

heavy,

and the silent maid led her forward. Mila

have to stick around

...

blond maid in stark black and white, drifted through

could barely make out anything, but she sensed they'd left the building. The air changed-fragrant, floral. She caught glimpses of bright blooms, realized they'd entered a garden. Then, suddenly,

of birds and

on.

tentatively called

repeating herself, but got no reply. After a moment's hesitation, she reached for the veil, only for her

hand-black leather, not tight, but

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

never for walking, but for power, privilege, and old money. In early twentieth-century

the master of the castle? Her

only a vague silhouette-shoulder-length, slightly

watched as the man bent to pluck a flower from a nearby bed, then took her gloved hand

black at the core. Sinister, strange-yet

the ringleader, Mila held the rose obediently, letting him guide her to a

He sat beside her.