Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 324

“Mila, honey, your father and I have already picked out a few good matches for you. These men are successful, come from wealthy families—marrying any of them, you’d be set for life.”

Gaye slid a handful of photographs across the table.

Mila barely glanced at them. The youngest of the bunch looked well past thirty, his hair slicked back, a chunky gold chain gleaming against his neck—every inch the stereotype of a nouveau riche braggart.

“Set for life?” she echoed, voice dry.

“More like you’re the ones cashing in,” Mila shot back, her gaze cool and detached. “How much did these men offer you? What favors did you get? Is that why you’re so eager to sell me off?”

She didn’t even bother with anger anymore. It was almost funny—her parents’ willingness to sell their daughter out couldn’t have been more obvious.

“Insolent girl! Is that any way to speak to your parents?” her uncle barked, his tone sharp and angry.

Mila shot him a cold, steely look. The blood-streaked porcelain shard twisting between her fingers said enough. He fell silent.

Gaye, face flushed with rage, jabbed a finger at her. “You’re quitting school and coming home with us—today! Big city life has made you wild, heartless!”

“I’m not going back. And I’m not getting married,” Mila said flatly.

“You don’t get to decide!” Gaye fumed.

Simon, who’d been quietly watching the entire exchange, finally spoke up, his face set in stern lines. “If you refuse to come home, your mother will be outside your school tomorrow—on her knees, holding a sign, letting the whole world see what an ungrateful daughter you are. Abandoning your parents, driving them to such extremes—is this what a daughter does?”

“That’s right!” Gaye chimed in, voice shrill. “If you don’t listen, we’ll put you on the news—let everyone see how you treat your own family! Since when do children get to live comfortably while their parents suffer?”

Each word was a dagger, sharp and deliberate.

Mila stared at the faces twisted with anger before her. It felt like she was watching some kind of grotesque play—one she’d seen performed countless times over the last eighteen years.

Now, as the curtain rose again, the anger and bitterness she once felt had faded, replaced by a cold detachment. She felt as if she were hovering outside herself, watching the absurdity unfold with grim amusement.

Never before had she felt so—

Calm.

She lifted her hand and slammed it down on the table—once, twice, three times. The harsh sound echoed through the room, like a war drum announcing battle, each blow more forceful than the last.

The porcelain shard sliced open her palm. Blood smeared across the wood, bright and vivid.

A stunned hush fell.

A few droplets splattered onto their faces. Gaye shrieked, staring at her like she was insane.

But Mila’s expression didn’t change. She pressed her bleeding hand firmly against the table, her gaze as icy as her voice:

“One month.”

She’d barely stepped out the door when she froze.

Her younger brother, Hugo Sutherland, was waiting outside, crouched on the curb. When he saw her, his eyes lit up. He stood and hurried over, holding out a candied apple.

“Hey, sis. It’s sweet,” he said, hopeful.

Smack.

Mila slapped the candy to the ground, her face twisted with contempt. “Hugo, don’t try to play nice. You know exactly why I’m in this mess, don’t you?”

This forced marriage, every desperate escape—none of it would have happened if not for him. Her parents had always squeezed every drop of value out of her for Hugo’s sake, for his future.

The better his life got, the worse hers became.

She’d been born first—healthy, strong. Hugo came later, frail and sickly, always falling ill, sometimes seizing so badly he’d lose consciousness.

Her parents resented her for “stealing” his strength, convinced she was some sort of curse. They’d kept her hungry, slapped her if she so much as glanced at meat on the table.

At home, her only rule was silence. If she coughed or made noise, at best she’d get yelled at. If her parents were in a foul mood, they’d beat her—once, they’d even smashed a heavy wooden chair over her, the stains on it growing darker, deeper with her blood, year after year.

She didn’t have a room of her own. Where she slept depended on her parents’ mood. If they were especially angry, she’d spend the night on her knees in the hallway.