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-

expected the usual routine: sitting in the garden while the man read his book. But instead, he took a casual sip of red wine, caught her wrist in his hand, and gestured for the staff

pressure on her injured left shoulder. She reclined at an angle, letting her veil shield her face, and watched

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

she dozed off

man didn't scold her. In a gentle voice, he called, "Come

her limbs, Mila stepped closer and, with her back to

She stared, surprised.

white dress. The veil obscured her features, lending her

like it?" came the man's low, slightly hoarse whisper, his breath tinged

He really was drunk.

even if she could, she wouldn't have.

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

Mila followed obediently.

her own room was, to an upper level she'd never seen a studio

center, over a meter tall. He brought her before it, his

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

whisked away

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

A portrait?

At least, Mila

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

Time stretched on, wordless.

leaned down and rested his head against her