Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 472 The call ended.

Eugene sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, staring at nothing, until his phone buzzed again, snapping him out of his thoughts. He answered instinctively.

It was just the delivery he'd ordered.

He left his room, moving quietly past Mila's door, then headed downstairs. As he opened the front door and crossed the yard to the main gate, he expected to find a courier waiting, but instead, it was Leonard standing there.

The night was silent, save for the gentle hum of the streetlamps lining the road. Leonard stood at the gate, holding the bag of goods, watching Eugene without a word.

Eugene didn't speak either.

The iron gate of the villa was half-open, leaving them separated by just a few feet of cold air, staring each other down. Finally, Leonard broke the silence.

He held out the bag, his tone brooking no argument. "Pack your things and leave tomorrow. Don't cback." "It's my sister's decision. Stay out of it." Eugene snatched the bag and slammed the gate shut, not wasting a breath on pleasantries.

Leonard wasn't surprised.

If Eugene were the obedient, well-behaved type, Lysander wouldn't have had so many headaches over the years. Back when Leonard was around, he could keep Eugene in check, but he'd only been gone a year and the kid was already pushing boundaries again.

Still-it was nothing more than a nuisance.

After a moment's thought, Leonard pulled out his phone and dialed, his voice low and crisp. "Send a few people to keep an eye on Eugene. The moment he steps out of line, stop him." This was not the tfor Eugene to cause trouble.

After confirming the arrangements, Leonard got into a car parked along the curb. He didn't drive far-just around the corner to another villa, where he decided to spend the night.

He had made a promise, after all. He would stay close and keep watch.

Around midnight, Eugene slipped into the bathroom, a bag of toiletries in hand. He peeled off his sweat-soaked T-shirt and shorts, reeking of alcohol, and stood before the mirror, slowly removing his colored contact lenses. His real eyes-a striking shade of green, bloodshot from exhaustion-stared back at him.

He soaked a cotton pad in remover and wiped away the subtle, nearly imperceptible makeup that masked his features. When he looked up again, his reflection was sharper, more angular, the traces of mixed heritage more obvious.

If Mila had walked in at that moment, she would have seen it clearly: Eugene was the spitting image of their father-almost unnaturally beautiful.

But the resemblance stopped at the surface.

Where Coswas all dominance and wild, predatory charm with a hint of aristocratic arrogance, Eugene seemed perpetually shrouded in gloom-a snake lying in wait, calculating and cold. And yet, at seventeen, there was still a trace of youthful awkwardness in his features, a softness that blurred the darkness in his eyes.

He stared at himself, lips pressed into a thin line, before turning away and stepping into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the night's excesses. Afterward, he dried his hair, then straightened it with practiced ease. Next cthe hair dye-he worked the black cream through the faded brown, restoring its inky sheen. Then he reapplied his makeup, each step as methodical as a ritual. He'd done this for years; his hands moved without thinking, and soon his face was once again an expressionless, flawless mask.

His own features faded from recognition. He looked like a mannequin-beautiful, but empty.

Only then did he return to his bedroom and crawl into bed.

The next morning, Mila woke to a disaster.

Her throat was worse-so swollen she could barely swallow, let alone speak.

In the kitchen, she accepted a glass of warm water from Eugene and struggled to swallow her medicine, her face flushing with the effort. Inside, she was fuming. Damn you, Sophia! Breakfast was out of the question. She didn't have the appetite, and even if she did, her throat wouldn't allow it. All she could do was watch Eugene eat his bowl of ravioli, longing written all over her face.

"Are you okay?" Eugene asked, pausing mid-bite when he caught her glare, both concerned and amused.

Mila just typed on her phone: I'll just smell it while you eat.

She held the screen up for him to see, resigned.

She'd always loved to eat, and after that bout of starvation at the manor a couple years ago, she valued food even more. Missing one breakfast shouldn't matter, but with her throat in this state, who knew how many meals she'd have to forgo? Damn you, Sophia! Why couldn't the lunatics just stay out of her life? As she stewed in silent frustration, her phone suddenly rang. Eugene caught the caller ID first, his hand freezing mid-scoop, eyes darkening. Johnnie? Mila saw it too.

It took her a moment to remember-Johnnie was the man her great-aunt had tried to set her up with. Neither of them was interested in romance, and their conversations had turned into business talks instead.

She couldn't talk, so she declined the call and sent a message explaining her throat was acting up and she couldn't speak.

Johnnie responded with understanding, politely checking in and mentioning that the "Lash M Dream"perfhe'd told her about-the one made by his mentor- could be her gift for their first meeting, as promised.

Mila hurried to refuse. The perfwas famous, crafted from a rare rose the kind with a story behind it. It was e of thing people would kill for, she couldn't just accept it as a gift. She offered to buy it or trade for it instead. But Johnnie insisted: "This isn't for sale. If we talk about payment, it loses its meaning." Mila had to let it go.

She knew the type-artists or those

in the creative world always had their quirks, and strange little rules She m didn't push it. With her throat in this condition, meeting up was out of the question anyway. She suggested they wait until she was better.