Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 397

Her heart clenched, tight with pain.

Instinctively, she wanted to curl up, to shield herself from the ache, but her injured shoulder left her flat on her back, unable to move. After a long moment, she carefully inched her hand along the mattress until her fingers brushed against that half piece of chocolate she'd stashed away. Everything else she'd managed to sneak from the kitchen was gone-confiscated. Only this sliver remained.

She slipped it into her mouth and let it melt slowly.

Sweetness.

The sugar dulled the raw edge of her pain. With her good hand, she pressed her palm over her eyes, but the tears still seeped through her fingers, leaving a dark stain on the pillow beneath her.

It hurt. God, it hurt so badly.

She lay there, whispering into the stillness, voice raw and choked with tears. "But, Mom...the chocolate is sweet."

So sweet.

She would have given anything for more. But there was only this one piece left. Just one.

...

Kingsford Estate, the old manor.

Felicity jolted awake from her afternoon nap in the conservatory, one hand clutching her chest as she gasped for breath, tears streaming down her cheeks before she even understood why.

Conrad, who'd been dozing beside her, immediately pulled her into his arms, stroking her back in gentle reassurance. He murmured softly, "Hey, sweetheart, what's wrong? Don't be scared, I'm right here. I'm here..."

Felicity's breathing slowly steadied, but she shook her head, dazed and lost. She couldn't explain it—just a sudden, overwhelming sadness. It happened sometimes, striking out of nowhere. After a long silence, she finally spoke, almost on instinct: "Where's Mila? She hasn't been by in ages. I miss her."

his worry.

"Lysander's with her?"

his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. Her eyelids

pale, exhausted features, concern etched deep in

relapsed again-maybe the medication was at fault, maybe not. She was sleeping more and more, her energy fading day by day. The doctors had warned them:

many years of medication,

that

quiet sigh, Conrad pulled out his phone and messaged Lysander overseas, urging him to hurry. Then he cradled Felicity

her injuries, Mila wasn't

matter how much she hurt or how exhausted she felt, she

part of his perfect "doll"-wearing ill-fitting dresses, sampling

She'd learned her lesson.

veil she wore at least hid her expressions, and Cossio's obsession with cleanliness meant he rarely touched her. She told herself she was just an actress on stage, silently

least,

was in a good mood, he let her eat a little more. Sometimes,

Mila found herself fantasizing about flipping the whole thing

He was vile. Despicable.

no choice but to

didn't. She never wanted to go through that again.

demanded she feed him again. This time, Mila ignored him, refusing to play along. He grabbed her wrist, trying to bring the forkful of chicken to his mouth, but she jerked free and both fork and meat clattered to

pounded. She

garden was silent. Then Cossio gave a low, rough laugh. He wasn't angry; in fact, he seemed

pan-seared veal in front of her-a

a slow

him—always resisting, always pulling away. He'd grown used to chasing, to being refused. It was a pattern, a twisted game, right up