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-

his book. But instead, he took a casual sip of red wine, caught her wrist in his hand, and gestured for

an angle, letting her veil shield her face, and watched

Dressed in her gauzy white gown, Mila lay motionless on the chair, lost in sleep until the

dozed off

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

closer and, with her back to him, lifted the edge of

She stared, surprised.

her features, lending her an enigmatic beauty. But Mila couldn't shake

his breath tinged with the scent of wine and roses as

He really was drunk.

speak, and even if she could, she wouldn't have. Instead, she

often rejected him. He didn't get angry. Instead, he took her by the wrist

Mila followed obediently.

where her own room was, to an upper level she'd

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

capture you," he murmured. "You always refused to sit for me. You said you never painted portraits,

that, he whisked

but she could make out bold, dramatic strokes and dark,

A portrait?

painted portraits. At least,

bench. The man helped Mila sit, and together they gazed in silence at

Time stretched on, wordless.

her left shoulder. The man, who had been quietly studying the painting, leaned down and