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

cooks at this

old mansion have

did it have to be so

curiosity and nerves she couldn't explain, Mila crept silently to the kitchen

was spacious and dimly

man in a red robe, his back to her, wielded a cleaver, hacking at a rack of raw lamb ribs with swift, practiced force. In no time, he

some reason, Mila's nerves

was just making stew-lamb stew, by the

makes stew in the middle of the night? What kind

ever that everyone in this place was strange. Not just the silent servants, but even the master of the manor himself-every one

brought? What kind of den of

someone still in the

too, slinking carefully from behind the table and chairs toward the stairs, hunched

as she reached the staircase, she collided headlong with the

lightness, bounding up the stairs as if running from something that terrified it. Mila

Impossible, she told herself.

wolf-what could it possibly

toward the kitchen, an uneasy thought surfacing-if even

stairs

Her gaze was drawn, as always, to the first painting—a faceless woman with long, dark hair. That disturbing sense of familiarity returned, stronger

that painting, it felt

but no

at the faceless woman in the painting and hurried back to her room, the wolf

barely slept for the

and fear gnawed at

which point the maid arrived as usual to feed the wolf and lead Mila to