Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 341

“Don’t be afraid.”

His lips pressed against hers, swallowing her trembling sobs with undeniable force.

In the empty music room, the broken, discordant notes of the piano echoed for what felt like forever. If you listened closely, you could still hear the girl’s shattered cries woven through the chaos.

Her pale, delicate skin was pressed against the black and white keys, the music dissolving into a wild tangle of sound. She was gasping, eyes glazed, as if something vital had been torn from her chest and cast into darkness, leaving her nothing but a blurry shadow of herself. She didn’t love the piano anymore.

After that day,

For a long time, Mila was afraid whenever she saw a piano. Even when the fear faded, she never touched the keys again. Her aversion was etched into her very bones.

...

And after that,

She stopped going to that dark room as often.

But in its place came something stranger—Lysander’s obsession. He’d press her up against familiar and unfamiliar places alike, chasing fleeting moments of pleasure.

On the balcony, in the kitchen… sometimes even in a private theater or an empty amusement park—places she and Forrest had once visited together.

Those pure, happy memories were overwritten, replaced by desire, until even recalling them left her feeling unspeakably ashamed.

She found herself recoiling from the memories they’d shared.

How humiliating.

Gradually, those days faded into the past.

Time slipped by in a blur of chaos, until New Year’s Eve arrived. Mila sat curled up on the window seat, staring blankly at the world outside.

Fireworks burst across the sky. Families gathered together, the world welcoming a new year.

A new beginning.

A new life.

And yet she had no family—only herself.

The room was warm, the heating turned high. She wore nothing but a sheer white dress, and without thinking pressed her hand to the cold glass, her breath fogging up a circle. She traced a smiley face in the haze, her eyes filled with something like longing—yet mostly just confusion.

Just then, a weight settled suddenly on her shoulders. Short, dark hair brushed her cheek, prickly and unexpected.

She froze.

Shouldn’t he be home for the holidays? Why was Lysander here, with her?

She started to turn, but his hand held her still. His voice was low, almost pleading. “Don’t move. Just… let me stay like this, for a minute.”

So she didn’t move.

Time passed. Then, all at once, Mila stiffened. She felt something hot and wet on her neck—tears. Was he crying?

...

Lysander was crying?

This man who always seemed in control, unshakable, relentless—was he really crying?