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.

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

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

the path ahead. Swaddled in silk gloves, her hand was taken, and the silent maid led her forward. Mila had no idea

to stick around

...

and white, drifted through the old stone

she sensed they'd left the building. The air changed-fragrant, floral. She caught glimpses of bright blooms, realized

distant call of birds and

on.

then tentatively called out, "Hello? Is

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

hand-black leather, not tight,

edge, she glimpsed a pair of polished black Oxfords and crisp, tailored black trousers. A man. His right

walking, but for power, privilege, and old money. In early twentieth-century Europe, every gentleman had one. Now, only the most traditional, aristocratic types kept up

this the master of the castle?

through the veil, seeing only

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

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

style. Guessing he was the ringleader, Mila held the rose obediently, letting him guide her to a white wrought-iron bench twined with

He sat beside her.