Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 291

Mila’s head throbbed, thick with dizziness.

Voices around her sounded distant, muffled, indistinct, and even her vision blurred at the edges. Her body burned with fever, leaving her weak and limp, every movement a struggle.

Noticing her flushed cheeks and the sweat beading on her forehead, Archie grew alarmed. He pressed a hand to her skin—she was burning up. Without hesitation, he hurried out to fetch the lady of the house.

Mila was running a high fever.

There was a flurry of activity—medicine was administered, cool cloths pressed to her brow—and soon she drifted back into a fitful, feverish sleep.

It was a restless night. Half-aware, Mila tumbled into a dream that swept her far into the past.

She dreamed of the very first time she met Lysander.

Longer ago than seven years—back in university. She and Miranda had been walking along a woodland path blanketed in frost, snowflakes swirling in the air, catching in Mila’s hair. They laughed, teasing each other, warmth and cheer lighting up the cold afternoon.

Mila turned her head, laughter still on her lips, and her gaze landed on a figure standing in the stone corridor of a nearby building.

A group of students lingered there, but Lysander stood out instantly—impossibly poised, an easy confidence about him that drew the eye. Even at a distance, something magnetic flashed in his sharp, fox-like eyes as he looked right at her—straight into her soul.

Across the falling snow, their eyes met.

A gust of wind scattered the flakes, swirling between them. Mila’s heart skipped, fluttering out of rhythm. She quickly looked away.

“Huff… huff…”

Suddenly, Mila woke, drenched in sweat, heart pounding. The room was dark, shadows pressing in from all sides.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, unsettled.

Why had she dreamed of that moment from so long ago?

Now she understood—how a single glance, that split-second of helpless longing, had pulled her into a spiral she couldn’t escape.

And at the bottom of that spiral—hell awaited.

———

Night clung heavily to Crimson Gardens. In the library, the only light came from a solitary desk lamp, its glow dim and yellow, barely illuminating the room.

Lysander sat behind his desk, half-swallowed by shadow. His head was bowed, gaze fixed on a photograph before him, his dark eyes unreadable.

It was a picture of Mila at nineteen.

In a snowy woodland, she stood radiant in a white winter coat, her smile bright enough to rival the morning sun. Snowflakes crowned her hair, turning her into something ethereal—a woodland sprite, alive and lovely.

He hadn’t taken the photo himself.