Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 407

A strange, inexplicable sorrow washed over her.

Mila walked down the flower-strewn aisle, the strains of wedding music swirling around her, the man’s hand trembling almost imperceptibly in hers. She let out a silent sigh, counting down in her mind.

Three.

Two.

A sudden, deafening blast thundered from the empty church at the end of the aisle. The floor lurched violently beneath their feet, and outside, the guests waiting to greet the newlyweds broke into panicked screams.

The man’s grip loosened, just enough. Before he could recover, Mila pulled free. In one swift motion, she tore off her veil, then yanked at the hidden fastenings at her waist. The heavy, star-strewn gown—so beautiful, yet so crushing—fell away, revealing a simple, flowing white dress underneath.

She stood face-to-face with the stunned man before her.

For the first time, she truly saw Cossio’s face. Time had left him untouched—he looked exactly like the man in Felicity’s paintings, almost inhumanly beautiful. No, even more beautiful now, somehow.

“My darling…” he began, voice rough with longing.

“I’m not her!” Mila cut him off sharply, glancing around at the wedding scene—every detail a perfect match to the oil paintings she knew so well. He’d put his heart into this, she could tell.

But it was all for the wrong person.

She drew a deep breath, remembering the haunted tears in Felicity’s eyes, the desperate agony captured on canvas. One by one, Mila shattered the dream he’d so painstakingly recreated.

“Cossio,” she said steadily, “look at me. I’m not the woman you want. I don’t know what happened between you two, but I see her pain. You are the reason for her suffering. She’s never coming back.”

“You don’t deserve her love.”

She looked up.

A line of luxury cars raced toward the church, headlights blazing. Atop the lead car—a flashy orange sports car—a band in outlandish costumes played an exuberant tune. And there, standing out front with a cocky grin and dark sunglasses, was the man she’d once sworn she’d never rely on, but who now was her only hope: Lysander.

This time, he’d kept his promise. He’d come for her.

Mila couldn’t name the feeling that surged inside her. She took a steadying breath, darted through the crowd—her white dress billowing, veil streaming behind her—and ran straight for the speeding car.

The car slowed, arced toward her. She leapt into Lysander’s waiting arms, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst. His low chuckle rumbled in her ear.

“My beautiful bride,” he drawled, “care to marry me all over again?”