Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 412 On the night boat, Music drifted through the air-soft, haunting, full of hidden longing and desire. In the dim, shadowy cabin, a man and a woman faced each other: she stood, cool and aloof; he sat, silent, head bowed.

They stayed locked in that uneasy stillness for a long moment.

Then Lysander suddenly gave a low laugh. He slowly lifted his head, and the lamplight caught the raw redness in his eyes. His gaze burned with a desperate restraint. Mila's icy detachment seemed unbearable to him, tearing open something deep inside, exposing the raw, fragile flesh beneath his hardened shell.

The sensation of being so vulnerable, so exposed, filled him with shame-a darkness washed over his face.

He stood up and took a hesitant step toward Mila.

Then he stopped.

Her voice broke the silence, low and hard to read, as if stating a fact: "Lysander, you love me." A few seconds passed before she repeated herself, this twith a hint of confusion-almost a question: "You love me?" He looked down, his expression unreadable.

"You actually love me?" It was almost a joke—a stray, curious provocation that, against all odds, seemed to have landed on the truth. A complex surge of emotion left her wanting to laugh, but the sound refused to come. All she felt was bitter irony.

He loved her? What a joke.

An absolutely ridiculous joke.

She nearly burst out laughing, but when she opened her mouth, all that cout was silence. Her lips moved, parted, closed again, and finally she managed a single sentence. "So, Lysander, did you know that I—" Before she could finish, his hand closed around her throat.

He pressed her back against the wall, his bloodshot eyes burning into hers. He was smiling, but his voice was dark and low, trembling with pain and finality. "Mila, I don't want to hear it." Despite his grip, Mila laughed.

She clutched his hand at her neck, feeling the way his fingers shook. For a moment, she tried to pry them away, gasping for breath.

Then, with sudden clarity, she said, "I hate you." His hand tightened, and the redness in his eyes deepened he stared at her, jaw clenched, voice barely above a whisper, wild and broken: "I don't love you, Mila. I don't love you. I never have, and I never will..." He repeated the words, desperate, as if saying them could numb the pain squeezing his heart, could protect him from being hurt.

But the more he said it, the more his wavering voice cracked, choked with tears, his vision blurring.

-You're always this cruel to me.

He wouldn't love her. He couldn't.

Anger drowned out all reason.

Mila's breath grew shallow, her face flushed. Her grip on his hand weakened, slipping away.

Madman.

Suddenly, he felt her body go limp beneath his hands. The haze of rage fell away and panic crashed in. He let go, catching her as she crumpled to the floor, frantically pressing his ear to her chest for a heartbeat, searching for a pulse, fumbling with trembling hands to dial for a doctor-only to have his wrist seized in a sudden grip.

She coughed, violent and ragged.

After a moment, Mila caught her breath. Still clutching his hand, she met his desperate, averted gaze and managed a faint smile.

"I believe you." "Lysander-" She coughed again, her voice hoarse. "I believe you now. You don't love me. You never will. I believe it." "If you really loved me," Mila's gaze locked on his, her words as heavy as blows, "If you truly loved me, Lysander, I think I'd be sick to my stomach. That kind of love... it's revolting." If love meant this kind of pain, she wanted none of it.

"This is better." "Let there be nothing between us but hatred. Forever. Nothing else, ever again." Her words struck like arrows.

In the dim cabin, Lysander sat on the floor, holding her in his arms. Their bodies were close, but he felt only cold, as if he'd fallen into a frozen lake.

The phone slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

When her breathing finally calmed and her strength returned, Mila pushed herself out of his arms and rose to her feet.

Lysander remained motionless.

She didn't care. She dragged a chair closer and sat, rubbing her aching throat. She poured herself a glass of water, letting the coolness ease the burning in her throat.

She'd had enough-enough of this endless, bitter entanglement.m Tonight that would say everything needed saying. After this, there would be nothing left between them. No more pain.

The music still played softly. Mila set down her glass, turning her head away from Lysander, her eyes fixed on spoint in the void.

"Lysander," Her voice was rough at first. She paused, swallowed, and went on.

"All these days locked away in that old manor, I was nothing but a masked puppet please, to satisfy.

someone meant to The master of the house didn't want to see my face, didn't want to hear my voice. No one spoke to me." "In that place, I was a lie. Everything Cossaw was a lie. It was all fake... Do you know what that remindedof?" She gave a rueful laugh.

"Our marriage is just like that-filled with empty lies. Everyone wears a mask, playing out s I can't even understand." "I can't see the truth, Lysander." She sighed, her sore throat making her voice drop. "Do you? Can you see it any better than I can?" Lysander slowly rose and sat beside her, silently refilling her glass.

The water was warm in her hands.

Mila didn't move. She just traced the rim of the glass and continued, "I've thought and thought, stuck in that still don't understand why, Lysander? Why did the mess of our marriage end with manor, but my aunt in the hospital, fighting for her life and still not waking up?"