Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 407

Chapter 400

The paintbrush danced across the canvas.

Crows scattered through the sky, gnarled branches clawed at the darkness, and the moon was devoured by thick clouds-on the canvas, a landscape shrouded in the gloom of night.

It was a landscape born from Felicity's brush.

All Mila could do was imagine Felicity's inner world, slipping into her state of mind, mimicking every stroke and style. She poured out the despair and terror buried deep in Felicity's soul, capturing it again, line by line, for Cossio to see.

Sometimes-

Art speaks to the soul more deeply than words ever could.

In the dimly lit studio, a woman veiled in gold released the man's hand from the brush. She stood as motionless as a marionette, her gaze fixed silently on the man beside her.

His breathing grew heavier.

He reached out with a trembling hand, his fingers hovering above the crows struggling to take flight on the canvas. For a long time, he was silent. Then, his voice broke the stillness, low and hoarse with pain.

"Darling, does it hurt that much?"

He understood the painting.

Mila said nothing.

She knew he wasn't speaking to her, and he didn't expect an answer. Still, just as he'd said... it did hurt.

From the day she married into the Montgomery family,

From the very first moment she saw Felicity-

She sensed immediately that beneath that gentle woman's exterior was a soul battered and bruised by pain.

Mila didn't understand. She

days here, she realized where Felicity's

thing she did

was undoubtedly at the heart of

up the

closed painfully around her wrist. Mila ignored the ache, pushing through the pain as she dragged

-Severed.

might snap. The brush fell to the floor with a

a long while, the pressure on her wrist

rubbing her bruised skin, even lowering his head to kiss it softly, blowing a

you're with me?

voice was full of

around hers, he guided her to the wound on the crow's neck, quickly painting a few bright green leaves over the gash—startling and out of

Now,

beheading, looked almost like a few

Behind the veil,

were

still a wound. Hiding it doesn't make

cover it up,

didn't even have the courage to face the pain he'd caused. What a

abruptly, and walked straight

stay in the

tore off her veil and hurried downstairs to her room. She made straight for the bathroom, clutching her chest as she retched over the sink, fighting the wave of nausea and pain, finally sliding

couldn't keep up the act

about emotion-and stepping into someone else's pain

those feelings weren't as foreign as

brushstroke, every emotional replay, was like carving a fresh wound in her own

It was suffocating.

finally snapping her back to reality. She had to keep up the pretense, no matter

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