Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 399

Especially that portrait in front of her.

Mila could see it instantly—the woman who painted it must have been on the edge of madness. The canvas was saturated with intense, almost hysterical emotion; every brushstroke screamed with frenzied hatred. The woman in the painting must have desperately wanted to drive a steak knife into the man’s throat, but she couldn’t do it. All that rage and bitterness could only spill out onto the canvas.

Now, at last, Mila understood.

This was why, in seven years with the Montgomery family, she’d never once seen Felicity paint a portrait. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe it was fear. Whatever it was, the woman never again put a human figure to canvas.

This was the first time Mila had seen someone painted by Felicity’s hand: vivid, strange, taken to the absolute extreme—a work of undeniable genius.

She’d always known Felicity had a gift for painting people.

Mila felt herself drawn in by the painting’s raw emotion. Without thinking, she reached out to touch it—when suddenly, a sharp weight pressed down on her shoulder. She cried out in pain, feeling something warm and wet. The wound must have reopened.

And she felt as if she might come apart, too.

…

Cossio had woken up.

Hearing her cry, he quickly apologized. “Sorry, I forgot about your shoulder. Does it hurt?”

His innocent tone only made Mila angrier. If she weren’t so afraid, she’d have snarled right back—Why don’t you try shooting yourself and see how it feels, you two-faced bastard! She wished, not for the first time, that he’d just drop dead.

But of course, that was impossible.

She knew, with icy clarity, that the man before her was as beautiful and deadly as a poisonous flower.

Touch him, and you die.

Her shoulder bleeding heavily again, Mila was half-carried into the room next door—a bedroom adjacent to the studio.

The wolf was there, too.

As soon as she entered, the wolf caught the scent of blood and immediately tensed, growling and ready to pounce, until Cossio barked a command in Italian. The animal flattened itself against the ground, keeping its distance, not daring to move closer.

Mila sat down on the sofa.

A maid came forward to tend her wound while Cossio took a seat across from her, his gaze fixed on the blood soaking through her bandages. He spoke softly, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to press on your shoulder. Why didn’t you say something?”

Mila glared at him. Get lost!

She really… had nothing left to say.

Once her wound was cleaned and redressed, the heady scent of roses filling the room, exhaustion finally overtook her. She lay back on the sofa and drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

When she woke,

The room was pitch black. She blinked, disoriented, then sat up with a start. How could she have fallen asleep here?

Only then did she realize her heavy dress had been replaced with a light nightgown. By the faint moonlight, she glanced around, and her eyes caught on a painting she recognized hanging on the bedroom wall.

It was an oil painting of a faceless woman.

It looked eerily like the one from the hallway—both faceless, but this one was painted in brighter colors, strangely out of place in the lush, shadowy room.

Suddenly, it dawned on her:

She was probably in Cossio’s master bedroom.

…

Realizing where she was,

She wanted Cossio to remain lost in his dream, but she knew his patience had limits. When he finally realized the truth, when he woke up, that would be the start of real madness—and her situation would get even more dangerous.

The trouble was,

She had no idea when that moment would come.

As her thoughts raced through everything that had happened these past days, Mila suddenly reached out, gently taking his hand—the one holding the paintbrush.

The studio was utterly silent.

She waited, tense, but when he didn’t pull away, she let herself breathe again. Guiding his hand, she let the brush fall to the canvas.

With the veil over her eyes, she couldn’t see what she was painting—she had to rely on instinct alone.

But that was enough.

Moving his hand, she mimicked Felicity’s signature strokes, painting with wild, confident lines. In just a few bold sweeps, a raven sprang to life on the canvas—black wings outstretched, perched between life and death.

She felt it instantly—

Cossio’s breathing changed, deepening.

She couldn’t help but smile.

If the real, awake you is too dangerous, then please, stay lost in your dreams forever.

After all, no one knows better than an artist how to—

Create a dream.