Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 334

He wasn’t wrong.

Lysander’s eyes were bloodshot as he struggled to restrain the girl, who had become almost wild in her frenzy. He held her tightly, refusing to let go.

This was only the beginning—he couldn’t afford to show mercy.

“Don’t be afraid. It’ll get better. Just be good, listen to me.”

His voice was gentle, meant to soothe her.

But the girl in his arms wouldn’t listen. She sobbed uncontrollably, the force of it stealing her breath. Couldn’t he see? Things would never be better—never, ever again!

She couldn’t understand.

What had she done to deserve this?

Was it all because of that drink?

But Lysander had been the one to snatch the glass—she’d never wanted him to drink it. So why was she the one paying the price?

Why?

Eventually, Mila cried herself into unconsciousness and slumped against him.

Hearing the commotion, Leonard entered the room.

The dim light revealed a young man clutching the girl, who had fainted from crying. He stood amid the wreckage of the bathroom, blood trickling down his temple. His eyes were red, his expression frozen and lost, a rare look of confusion flickering in his typically sharp gaze.

“Leonard, did I do something wrong?”

Leonard’s eyes lowered; his face was unreadable. “You are the only heir of the Montgomery family, sir. You’re the pillar of the house. You can’t be wrong.”

He must not be wrong.

He couldn’t waver, couldn’t show weakness, couldn’t afford to have a soft heart. And above all, he could not have any weaknesses.

——

Later, a doctor was called to examine Mila.

She’d only fainted from emotional distress—no real harm done. After that, Lysander held her through the night, neither of them stirring from sleep.

The next morning, as he stepped outside, his eyes had regained their old resolve. The confusion and vulnerability of the night before had vanished, as if it were nothing more than a bad dream.

The car pulled out from the villa and stopped in front of a warehouse.

One of the men stuffed a rag into Forrest’s mouth, clamping it firmly shut. Others pinned down his arms and legs, stretching his hands out in front of Lysander.

“These are the hands that played piano that night, aren’t they?”

“So unbearably arrogant.”

Still smiling, Lysander slowly raised the hammer. As terror widened Forrest’s eyes, Lysander brought it down with brutal force.

Blood splattered.

The man pinned to the floor couldn’t make a sound, the rag choking any scream, but his limbs convulsed with agony. Cold sweat broke over his skin.

Three savage blows later, Forrest lay limp, his body twitching in shock, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

His once-elegant hands were now a grotesque ruin—blood streaming from shattered, twisted bones, all beauty obliterated.

Someone ripped the rag from his mouth.

His ragged, gasping breaths echoed through the warehouse, punctuated by choked sobs of pain.

Lysander dropped the hammer and planted his foot on Forrest’s ruined hand. As Forrest’s whole body trembled with agony, Lysander spoke, his tone almost casual.