Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 425

Mila pressed her lips together and ignored the man beside her. She dropped her gaze, picked up her fork and knife, and carefully cut a piece from her plate. The slow-cooked beef was tender, infused with a subtle hint of lemon that cut through the richness, melting on her tongue with a freshness that kept it from feeling heavy.

It really was delicious.

After a few bites, she set her utensils aside.

Lysander, seated next to her, raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He simply finished off the rest of the beef tenderloin without fuss.

Every course after that followed suit.

There was a wide array of dishes, all made from familiar ingredients but prepared in creative ways—small, artfully presented, the kind you’d find in a modern European bistro. Mila, though, had little appetite; she sampled only a bite or two of each, just enough to keep hunger at bay, then left the rest untouched.

Once dinner was over,

Leonard met them and drove them to the hotel he’d booked in advance. Finally, Mila didn’t have to spend another night on a boat. She washed away the exhaustion of the day, intending to get some much-needed sleep, when faint voices drifted in from the hallway outside her bedroom—

Lysander and Leonard.

...

In the living room of their luxurious suite,

Lysander lounged on the sofa, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand as he glanced at Leonard in the seat beside him. His tone was cool and even. “Is everything ready?”

“All taken care of,” Leonard replied calmly.

As soon as Lysander learned Mila was trapped on the island, he’d sent Leonard ahead to Rome to start preparations. When the plan changed, Leonard—who knew the operation best—had adapted in record time.

But...

“Sir, are you sure you want to bring her along?” Leonard frowned, concern etched on his face. “It’s dangerous. She’ll be a sitting target. If anything goes wrong…”

“We’ve taken every precaution.”

Under the dim golden light, Lysander’s fox-like eyes glinted with a cold, steely edge. “As long as we keep her under close watch, nothing will happen. This is the best possible strategy.”

He clearly didn’t want to dwell on it any longer. “And the others?”

Leonard understood he meant Cossio’s people. He schooled his features into a blank mask and answered, “Everyone’s here. Cossio arrived too. His people are already moving; we should hear something from them in the next day or two.”

“Good. Keep close tabs.”

A slow, almost mocking smile curved Lysander’s lips as he set down his half-finished wine with a sharp clink. The crimson liquid swirled inside the glass—dark and vivid, just like blood.

“He’ll come to us on his own.”

...

Once everything was in order, Lysander returned to the bedroom.

He glanced at the woman curled beneath the blanket, lying on her side, sound asleep. His face finally relaxed into a gentle smile. After a quick shower, he slipped into bed, wrapped an arm around her, tucked his chin against her shoulder, and let himself drift off to sleep.

His breathing soon grew steady.

But in his arms, the woman he thought was sleeping slowly opened her eyes. A storm of ice and fury churned in her gaze.

She replayed the conversation she’d overheard outside—

A sitting target?

Lysander, of all people, feeling something as inconvenient as guilt?

What a joke.

The memories of the past few days flitted through her mind in sharp fragments: his gentle words, the romance of the underwater ruins, the birthday cake beneath the stars, the heady scent of lemon blossoms, love songs whispered on moonlit nights, and the moment he carried her off the island in his arms… All of it shattered and scattered, a beautiful illusion broken.

Of course.

Now she saw it clearly—he’d risked everything to rescue her from that island, not for love, but because the plan needed her. She was essential as bait to lure Cossio. How could he not save her? Without her, none of this would work.

Mila almost wanted to laugh. She wanted to tell him, why bother with all the theatrics? He could have forced her, just like before. Did he really think she could refuse? Did he think she had a choice?

Why bother with this farce of affection, this act of devotion, pretending she mattered?

It was just insulting.

The thought left her sick to her stomach. She pressed her lips together, fighting the wave of nausea, her emotions churning until her eyes burned with unshed tears and rage finally broke through.

For a moment,

She wanted to reach out and strangle the man beside her.

Why did he always have to be in control?

Why was he always able to stand above it all, pulling the strings, watching the drama from his high and mighty perch, doing whatever he pleased?

Why?