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-

garden while the man read his book. But instead, he took a casual sip of red wine, caught

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

his brushwork echoed through the quiet garden. Dressed in her gauzy white gown, Mila lay motionless on the chair, lost

dozed off too

scold her. In a gentle voice,

the stiffness from her limbs, Mila stepped closer and, with her back

She stared, surprised.

on the ornate 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 the feeling that the woman in the

the man's low, slightly hoarse whisper, his breath tinged with

He really was drunk.

and even if she could,

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 trailing behind with

Mila followed obediently.

winding staircase, past the floor where her own room was, to an upper level she'd never seen a

stood in the center,

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

that, he whisked

prevented her from seeing the picture clearly, but she could make out bold, dramatic strokes

A portrait?

At least, Mila had never seen

quietly set down a bench. The man helped Mila sit, and

Time stretched on, wordless.

leaned down and