Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 283

What’s there to learn, anyway?

He hadn’t had a chance to hang out with the guys in nearly three weeks!

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Lillian’s Manor, ground floor hall.

Mila sat at the table, her hand resting on the handle of a knife, waiting in silence while the rain outside battered the windows with restless impatience.

Moments later, the front door swung open.

A tall man stepped inside, rainwater still clinging to his tailored black suit. He carried himself with that effortless air of privilege, as if the world itself owed him respect.

“You asked to see me,” Lysander said, striding closer, his mood clearly good. “Does that mean you’ve finally come to your senses and you’re ready to—”

He stopped short when his eyes landed on the knife in Mila’s hand—and the scattered documents on the table. His brow furrowed.

Mila glanced up at him, her voice cool and steady. “Ready to do what, exactly?”

“My dear, that thing’s dangerous,” Lysander replied, frowning as he stepped forward, reaching to take the knife from her.

She was faster. The blade flashed between them, her grip steady. “Stay back.”

She retreated a pace, then tossed a stack of photos at him. Her tone was icy, demanding. “Did you do this?”

Lysander’s gaze dropped to the pictures—photos of a hand, battered and bruised, so mangled it was painful to look at. The color drained from his face; his sharp eyes became unreadable, dark as midnight.

He stared at Mila, who looked back with a chilling calm. His voice was cold, clipped. “Who gave you these?”

“Does it matter?” Mila’s lips curled into a bitter, mocking smile. “I’m only asking one thing—was it you? Was it you who destroyed Forrest’s hands?”

As her accusation rang out, Lysander’s hand fell away. The photos slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the floor, where he ground them underfoot.

He snorted, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “So what if I did? Frankly, I should’ve done worse. If he dares show his face to me again, I’ll make sure he can never use those hands at all.”

Mila’s hand trembled around the knife.

She grabbed the folder from the table and flung it at him, her voice shaking. “And these? All of these—did you do this too?”

Papers scattered everywhere, each page spelling out in stark black and white the ugly truth of their seven-year marriage—a beginning built on lies, ending in ashes.