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!

made her heart pound even harder. She was genuinely

on earth cooks at this hour? And why

this old

it have to be

her appetite vanished. But driven by a mix of curiosity and nerves she couldn't explain, Mila crept silently to the kitchen door and

was spacious and

of fragrant steam. A man in a red robe, his back to her, wielded a cleaver, hacking at a rack of raw lamb ribs

Mila's

making stew-lamb stew, by the looks

of the night? What kind

this place was strange. Not just the silent servants, but even the

been brought? What kind of den of wolves

with someone still in the kitchen, her plan

carefully from behind the table and

as she reached the staircase, she collided headlong with the wolf and

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

Impossible, she told herself.

wolf-what could it

glanced nervously back toward the kitchen, an uneasy thought surfacing-if even the wolf was afraid

she hurried up the stairs without daring

was drawn, as always, to the first painting—a faceless woman with

painting, it felt like déjà

it somewhere before, but

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

the rest of

fear gnawed at

until dawn, at which point the maid arrived as usual to feed the wolf and lead Mila to her bath. This time, however, her clothes had changed a pure white dress of delicate