Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 390

"Phew..."

Mila pressed her back into the couch, keeping her breathing shallow and quiet. Her chest rose and fell ever so slightly, and beads of sweat dotted her forehead.

Had she been discovered?

She didn't dare peek around the corner again, forced to wait in agonizing suspense for the worst to happen.

Every second crawled by like an eternity.

She held her breath for what felt like ages, but still, no footsteps approached. Instead, she heard a soft beep, followed by the creak of a door opening.

Had she managed to avoid being found?

After a few more moments, Mila cautiously poked her head out. The kitchen door down the hall was cracked open, but there was no one in sight-just a sliver of empty space. Whoever it was must have gone inside.

She let out a slow breath, relieved. But then a new wave of unease washed over her. Why would someone come to the kitchen in the dead of night? Surely, she wasn't the only one hungry at this hour?

Just as she was pondering this, a sudden, thunderous noise shattered the silence.

BANG!

Mila jumped, her heart lurching.

The sound came from the kitchen. Once her initial shock faded, her years of culinary experience kicked in-she recognized the unmistakable thud of a heavy knife hitting a chopping board. Someone was... chopping something? Hard?

BANG!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

repeated, jarring noise made her heart pound even harder.

cooks at this hour? And why so

old mansion have a midnight cooking

it have

couldn't explain, Mila crept silently to the kitchen door

kitchen was spacious and

robe, his back to her, wielded a cleaver, hacking at a

some reason, Mila's nerves

making stew-lamb stew, by the looks of

who makes stew in the middle of the night? What kind of person does

that everyone in this place was strange. Not just the

she been brought? What kind of

Her hunger had evaporated, and with someone still in the kitchen, her plan to sneak

from behind the table and chairs toward the stairs, hunched

as she reached the staircase, she collided headlong with

didn't even spare her a glance. It moved with a surprising lightness, bounding up the stairs as if running from something that terrified it. Mila could have sworn she

Impossible, she told herself.

wolf-what could it possibly be

crept into her chest. She glanced nervously back toward the kitchen, an uneasy thought surfacing-if even the wolf was afraid of that man, what kind

she hurried up the stairs without

the corridor, she passed a series of portraits. Her gaze was drawn, as always, to the first painting—a faceless woman with long, dark hair. That

painting, it felt

before, but

being noticed, she cast a final, uneasy glance at the faceless woman in the painting

slept for the rest of

and fear gnawed at

arrived as usual to feed the wolf and lead Mila to her bath. This time, however, her clothes had changed