Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 390 "Phew..." Mila pressed her back into the couch, keeping her breathing shallow and quiet. Her chest rose and fell ever so slightly, and beads of sweat dotted her forehead.

Had she been discovered? She didn't dare peek around the corner again, forced to wait in agonizing suspense for the worst to happen. Every second crawled by like an eternity.

She held her breath for what felt like ages, but still, no footsteps approached. Instead, she heard a soft beep, followed by the creak of a door opening.

Had she managed to avoid being found? After a few more moments, Mila cautiously poked her head out. The kitchen door down the hall was cracked open, but there was no one in sight-just a sliver of empty space. Whoever it was must have gone inside.

She let out a slow breath, relieved. But then a new wave of unease washed over her. Why would someone cto the kitchen in the dead of night? Surely, she wasn't the only one hungry at this hour? Just as she was pondering this, a sudden, thunderous noise shattered the silence.

BANG! Mila jumped, her heart lurching.

The sound cfrom the kitchen. Once her initial shock faded, her years of culinary experience kicked in-she recognized the unmistakable thud of a heavy knife hitting a chopping board. Someone was... chopping something? Hard? BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! The repeated, jarring noise made her heart pound even harder. She was genuinely startled.

Who on earth cooks at this hour? And why so violently? Did the owner of this old mansion have a midnight cooking hobby? And did it have to be so loud? Suddenly, her appetite vanished. But driven by a mix of curiosity and nerves she couldn't explain, Mila crept silently to the kitchen door and peered through the narrow gap.

The kitchen was spacious and dimly lit.

On the stove, a large pot simmered, sending up clouds of fragrant steam. A man in a red robe, his back to her, wielded a cleaver, hacking at a rack of raw lamb ribs with swift, practiced force. In no time, he separated the bones, rinsed the meat, and tossed it into the bubbling pot.

For sreason, Mila's nerves eased a little.

So he was just making stew-lamb stew, by the looks of it.

Still, who makes stew in the middle of the night? What kind of person does that? She was more convinced than ever that everyone in this place was strange. Not just the silent servants, but even the master of the manor himself-every one of them mute and mysterious.

Where on earth had she been brought? What kind of den of wolves was this? Worry about her uncertain fate gnawed at her. Her hunger had evaporated, and with someone still in the kitchen, her plan to sneak a midnight snack was clearly dead.

She gave up on the wolf, too, slinking carefully from behind the table and chairs toward the stairs, hunched low and trying to stay invisible.

But as she reached the staircase, she collided headlong with the wolf and nearly screamed.

The wolf didn't even spare her a glance. It moved with a surprising lightness, bounding up the stairs as if running from something that terrified it. Mila could have sworn she saw... fear in the animal's hurried retreat. Impossible, she told herself.

It's a wolf-what could it possibly be afraid of? Still, despite her rationalization, a chill crept into her chest. She glanced nervously back toward the kitchen, an uneasy thought surfacing-if even the wolf was afraid of that man, what kind of person was he? Shivering, she hurried up the stairs without daring to look back.

On her way down the corridor, she passed a series of portraits. Her gaze was drawn, as always, to the first painting a faceless woman with long, dark hair. That disturbing sense of familiarity returned, stronger than ever. Every tshe saw that painting, it felt like déjà vu.

She was certain she'd seen it somewhere before, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't recall where.

Afraid of being noticed, she cast a final, uneasy glance at the faceless woman in the painting and hurried back to her room, the wolf close behind.

Mila barely slept for the rest of the night.

Hunger and fear gnawed at her.

She managed to hold out until dawn, at which point the maid arrived as usual to feed the wolf and lead Mila to her bath. This time, however, her clothes had changed a pure white dress of delicate chiffon.

It was, unfortunately, still too tight and uncomfortable.

As always, a veil was placed over her head, and Mila was escorted to the garden, There at a long table beneath the morning sun, the man was already seated, eating breakfast. She was led to sit across from him.

A bowl of steaming broth was set before her.

Mila's heart skipped a beat. What was this supposed to mean? Did he know she'd been sneaking around last night? Was this skind of warning? Her mind raced with anxious thoughts.

The maid standing nearby gestured for her to drink. Through the veil, Mila could see the man's gaze fixed on her.

She had no choice but to lift the bowl.

Nervous, she didn't sip immediately.

Instead, she brought the bowl to her nose and sniffed carefully. Relief swept through her-it was lamb stew. Only then did she dare to taste it.

To her surprise, it was delicious-rich, savory, with the meat cooked to perfect tenderness. The taste was so familiar... almost nostalgic.

Where had she tasted this before? As she chewed thoughtfully, the answer dawned on her.

Of course! She froze mid-bite.

She'd had this exact flavor at the Montgomery family estate, made by none other than Lysander's mother- Felicity.

Felicity rarely cooked, but every New Year's, she would make a huge pot of lamb stew using imported lamb ribs, simmered for hours until the meat was meltingly tender and fragrant. Mila always had several bowls and had even tried to learn the recipe from Felicity, but never managed to recreate that unique flavor.