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 handsman, 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, lethelp 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 makeangry," 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 tin days, Mila felt a flicker of life return.

After breakfast- She 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 to bring out an easel. He announced he would paint her portrait.

She was used to his whims by now. Without protest, 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 Cosset up his canvas a short distance away. The sound of his brush on canvas soon faded into the background as Mila drifted off, her body craving rest after days of pain.

The gentle rustle of his brushwork echoed 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 froze.

Had she dozed off too long? To her relief, the man didn't scold her. In a gentle voice, he called, "Chere. Take a look." Working the stiffness from her limbs, Mila stepped closer and, with her back to him, lifted the edge of her veil to peer at the painting.

She stared, surprised.

On the canvas, a mysterious woman reclined 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 painting was somehow different-delicater, almost fragile.

"Do you like it?" cthe man's low, slightly hoarse whisper, his breath tinged with the scent of wine and roses as he leaned close behind her.

He really was drunk.

Mila didn't answer. She couldn't speak, and even if she could, she wouldn't have. Instead, she let her silence speak for her.

Perhaps, in his drunken haze, he mistook her for someone 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 the portrait.

Mila followed obediently.

He guided her up the winding staircase, past the floor where her own room was, to an upper level she'd never seen a stufilled with easels.

Every painting was veiled in white cloth. The largest canvas stood in the center, over a meter tall. He brought her before it, his voice soft and secretive.

"My paintings never capture you," he murmured. "You always refused to sit for me. You said you never painted portraits, but in the end, you gaveone anyway." With that, he whisked away the cloth.

Mila's veil prevented her from seeing the picture clearly, but she could make out bold, tic strokes and dark, intense colors.

A portrait? She recalled-Felicity never painted portraits. At least, Mila had never seen one.

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

Tstretched on, wordless.

Suddenly, Mila felt a weight on her left shoulder. The man, who had been quietly studying the painting, leaned down and rested his head against her shoulder, unmoving. Pain shot through her he was pressing right on her injury.

Damn him! She dared not resist, forced to endure. He didn't stir, whether fallen asleep or lost in a drunken daze.

He stayed still.

After a while, as his breathing evened out, Mila gathered her courage and lifted the edge of her veil, finally seeing the portrait in full.

Her eyes widened in shock.

On the canvas-

A mass of black and crimson roses surrounded a young man at the center. He was devastatingly handsome, with golden brown curls tumblinglover his shoulders and sharply defined features. His eyes, lazy and half-lidded, glimmered emerald green. Blood-red lips curved in a half-smile as he bit down on a single dark rose, a look of both charm. and danger.

He radiated a strange mix of elegance and menace, like a fallen a fallen angel carved from marble, beautiful Arved and deadly. His skin was pale as alabaster, his beauty edged with a decadent, sinful allure. But what chilled her most-

A silver table knife was plunged into the man's neck, blood spilling down to stain his black clothes. Still, he smiled, emerald eyes fixed in an intense gaze-filled with longing, and just a touch of madness. Stunned, Mila understood at last.

The foreign beauty people whispered about, the woman who had been at Cossio's side more than twenty years ago, must have been Felicity.

Mila had never seen Felicity paint a portrait, but the style-the haunting, almost suffocating sense of death-was unmistakable. It was Felicity's work.