Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 472

The call ended.

Eugene sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, staring at nothing, until his phone buzzed again, snapping him out of his thoughts. He answered instinctively.

It was just the delivery he'd ordered.

He left his room, moving quietly past Mila's door, then headed downstairs. As he opened the front door and crossed the yard to the main gate, he expected to find a courier waiting, but instead, it was Leonard standing there.

The night was silent, save for the gentle hum of the streetlamps lining the road. Leonard stood at the gate, holding the bag of goods, watching Eugene without a word.

Eugene didn't speak either.

The iron gate of the villa was half-open, leaving them separated by just a few feet of cold air, staring each other down. Finally, Leonard broke the silence.

He held out the bag, his tone brooking no argument. "Pack your things and leave tomorrow. Don't come back."

"It's my sister's decision. Stay out of it." Eugene snatched the bag and slammed the gate shut, not wasting a breath on pleasantries.

Leonard wasn't surprised.

If Eugene were the obedient, well-behaved type, Lysander wouldn't have had so many headaches over the years. Back when Leonard was around, he could keep Eugene in check, but he'd only been gone a year and the kid was already pushing boundaries again.

Still-it was nothing more than a nuisance.

a few people to keep an eye on Eugene. The moment

not the time for Eugene to cause

curb. He didn't drive far-just around the corner to another villa,

a promise, after all. He would

midnight, Eugene slipped into the bathroom, a bag of toiletries in hand. He peeled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and shorts, reeking of alcohol, and stood before the mirror, slowly removing his colored contact lenses. His real eyes-a striking shade

that masked his features. When he looked up again, his reflection was sharper,

she would have seen it clearly:

the resemblance stopped

Cossio was all dominance and wild, predatory charm with a hint of aristocratic arrogance, Eugene seemed perpetually shrouded in gloom—a snake lying in wait, calculating and cold. And yet, at seventeen, there was still a trace of youthful awkwardness in his features, a softness that blurred the darkness in his

himself, lips pressed into a thin line, before turning away and stepping into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the night's excesses. Afterward, he dried his hair, then straightened it with practiced ease. Next came the hair dye-he worked the black cream through the faded brown, restoring its inky sheen. Then he reapplied his makeup, each step as methodical as a ritual. He'd done this for years; his hands

faded from recognition. He

but empty.

then did he return to his bedroom

Mila woke to

was worse-so swollen she could barely swallow,

to swallow her medicine, her face flushing with the effort. Inside, she was

have the appetite, and even if she did, her throat wouldn't allow it. All she could do was watch Eugene eat his bowl of ravioli, longing written all

when he caught

her phone: I'll just

the screen up for him

couple years ago, she valued food even more. Missing one breakfast shouldn't