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-

red wine, caught her wrist in his hand,

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,

through the quiet garden. Dressed in her gauzy white gown, Mila lay motionless on the chair, lost in sleep until the afternoon sun blazed overhead. She woke with a start, suddenly remembering where she was-and

she dozed off too

In a gentle voice, he called, "Come

her limbs, Mila stepped closer and, with her back to him, lifted the edge of her veil to peer at

She stared, surprised.

obscured her features, lending her an enigmatic beauty. But

came the man's low, slightly hoarse whisper, his breath tinged with the scent of wine and roses

He really was drunk.

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

him. He didn't get angry. Instead,

Mila followed obediently.

where her own room was, to an upper level

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

You said you never painted portraits, but in the

that, he whisked away the

clearly, but she could make out

A portrait?

portraits. At least, Mila had never seen

then, a servant quietly set down a bench. The man helped Mila sit, and together they gazed in silence at the

Time stretched on, wordless.

The man, who had been quietly studying the painting, leaned down and rested his head against her shoulder, unmoving. Pain