Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 528

In a daze, Mila seemed to hear a thousand voices and flashes of memory ricocheting through her mind, each one making her hand tremble harder around the knife.

—Mom, I’m sorry.

—Mom, I’ll be good.

—Mom, you smell so nice. Did you make something delicious for me?

—I understand, Mom.

—I love your spicy chicken the most, Mom!

—Wow!

...

—Mila! Stay calm, be careful!

—Mila!

At the end of it all, she saw Jade’s face, eyes fierce with authority, a sharp command slicing through the cold, endless dark—snapping her awake.

What had she done?

The knife slipped from her grasp and clattered away. Her hands, still shaking, reached for Sophia’s damp, sticky neck. Maybe she’d been out of her mind, because the cut was shallow, just a thin line of blood seeping slowly out. Realizing Sophia’s life wasn’t in danger, Mila collapsed, drained, and sank to her knees on top of her, arms falling limp to her sides.

She gasped for breath, lungs burning.

Her thoughts were still muddled, children’s voices echoing in her ears: laughter and tears—baby talk in a cradle, a soft bundle giggling, that first wailing cry at birth—each memory rattling her chest.

Her child might make mistakes, be imperfect, stubborn, and difficult, but he would never be cruel enough to treat life as nothing. He’d promised her that much.

“It’s not like that.” As her senses finally began to return, Mila spoke, her voice hoarse and raw in the darkness. “It’s not your word I care about. I want to hear it from my son.”

She honestly couldn’t say whether she believed any of it, because she knew Lysander—and using their child as a pawn was exactly the kind of thing he’d do. So she couldn’t be wholly sure Adrian was innocent, either.

But she had to hear it from Adrian himself.

If he really had taken part, then he should bear the responsibility, and she would stand beside him to face it. But whether he was involved or not, before any judgment was passed, she owed it to him—to herself as a mother—to be the last one to decide, even if the rest of the world had already condemned him.

She needed to hear Adrian say it.

Clarity dawned, and she became aware of the violent coughing beneath her. Reality pressed in hard, and shame swept over her.

What had she done?

She’d nearly—

She’d nearly made a terrible mistake.

She’d almost ruined her whole life.

The harsh white light overhead illuminated her reflection in the polished floor—her battered, swollen face, reddened eyes, hair wild and tangled, the angry red gash on her throat.

There wasn’t a trace of dignity left.

Bloodied fingers slowly covered her eyes. As Mila’s last words echoed in her mind, Sophia let out a cold, brittle laugh. “Mila, do you pity me?” Who do you think you are?

Her voice was icy, sharp enough to freeze bone.

The hand supporting her on the floor curled into a fist, knuckles pale and taut.

Just then, the door at the end of the corridor swung open. Sophia dropped her hand and looked up with narrowed eyes. Leonard stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the cut at her neck, his expression unreadable.

“Do you need me to call a doctor?”

“Don’t you think I do?” Sophia shot back, her voice rough, pointing at the blood still smeared across her throat.

...

“The wound’s bandaged. Just be careful when you wash up—keep it dry and change the dressing often. As for your face, use an ice pack; the swelling will go down.”

The doctor finished tending her neck and, after a few words of advice, left the room.

When he was gone, Sophia grabbed an ice pack and pressed it to her face. With her other hand, she picked up the knife from the floor and tossed it toward Leonard, her voice raspy. “Whose lousy, blunt knife is this? Yours?”

“Be glad it was blunt.”