Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 398

In the garden-

A woman sat to the side, her figure draped in a veil of white lace. Beside her lounged a dangerously handsome man, his lips curling into a sly smile. With practiced elegance, he sliced the steak on his plate into bite-sized pieces.

"Eat properly," he murmured, his tone light but unyielding. "You'll heal faster that way."

Beneath the layers of her dress and veil, Mila clenched her fists, struggling not to lash out at him. After all, wasn't it his fault she was hurt in the first place?

What a fraud.

"Is it your shoulder that aches? Here, let me help you."

The man speared a tender piece of meat, lifted her veil with teasing fingers, and brought the fork toward her lips. Mila turned her face away.

"Don't make me angry," he said softly, laughter rumbling in his chest.

Apparently, his patience had its limits. Sensing he was about to lose it, Mila decided not to push him further. She reached out and gripped the fork, indicating she'd eat on her own.

He released it with a chuckle, letting her have her way.

Finally, she tasted hot, savory meat—a small portion, but enough to quiet the emptiness gnawing at her stomach.

For the first time in days, Mila felt a flicker of life return.

After breakfast-

instead, he took a casual sip of red wine, caught her wrist in his hand, and

whims by now. Without protest, Mila settled into a plush chair near the flowerbeds, careful not to put pressure on her injured left shoulder. She reclined at an angle, letting her veil shield her face, and watched as Cossio set up his canvas a short distance away. The sound of his brush on canvas soon faded into the background as Mila drifted off, her body craving rest after days

on the chair, lost in sleep until the afternoon sun blazed overhead. She woke with a start, suddenly remembering

dozed off

her relief, the man didn't scold her. In a gentle voice,

closer and, with her back to him, lifted the

She stared, surprised.

chair, her slender form draped in a sheer white dress. The veil obscured her features, lending her an enigmatic beauty. But Mila couldn't shake

hoarse whisper, his breath tinged with the scent of wine and roses as he leaned close behind

He really was drunk.

speak, and even if she could, she wouldn't

for someone else someone who often rejected him. He didn't get angry. Instead, he took her by the wrist and led her toward the old manor, the staff

Mila followed obediently.

guided her up the winding staircase, past the floor where her own room was,

cloth. The largest canvas stood in the center, over a meter tall. He brought her before it, his

you," he murmured. "You always refused to sit for me. You said you never painted portraits, but in the end, you

that, he whisked

seeing the picture clearly, but she could make out bold, dramatic strokes and dark, intense

A portrait?

recalled-Felicity never painted portraits. At least, Mila had never

The man helped Mila sit, and together

Time stretched on, wordless.

a weight on her left shoulder. The man, who had been quietly studying the painting, leaned down and rested his head against her shoulder, unmoving. Pain shot through her he was pressing right