Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

Chapter 505 She had no idea who the man was.

But one thing was certain-he wasn't Forrest.

Mila's first thought was that he was probably another one of the young men her great-aunt had invited, hoping to set her up. Whoever he was, his presence was unsettling. Without hesitation, she shook her head in refusal. But as soon as she did, a hand closed tightly around hers.

In the next instant, the stranger yanked her into his arms and swept her straight onto the dance floor, sending a flurry of rose petals skittering across the polished wood.

Mila's eyes went wide in shock.

She could hardly believe someone could be so brazen at a formal ball. Hadn't he seen her refuse? How could her great-aunt possibly think this man was suitable? Her body responded out of habit, following the first few steps of the waltz so she wouldn't embarrass herself in front of the crowd, but as soon as her mind caught up, she began to struggle. It was useless-the man's grip was unyielding, his strength almost frightening. Gritting her teeth, she hissed in a voice only the two of them could hear: "Letgo!" Couldn't he tell she didn't want to dance? But the man said nothing. His gloved hand settled firmly at her waist, guiding her through the music as if her resistance meant nothing.

Enough was enough. Mila stopped caring whether she made a scene. She slammed her heel down onto his foot and ground it in, her voice icy and low: "Letgo!" But before she could react, his hand tightened around her waist, and in a sudden, dizzying motion, he lifted her effortlessly off the ground, spinning her through the rest of the dance. Her black chiffon dress fluttered as though she weighed nothing at all he didn't even need her cooperation.

A chill shot through her.

She didn't know why, but a wave of panic crashed over her, a sharp sense of déjà vu that left her breathless. As her body pressed against his, she caught the overwhelming scent of roses in the air-but beneath it, so faint she almost doubted herself, was a trace of cold sandalwood.

Mila froze. Her heart hammered in her throat, her blood running cold.

Impossible.

There was no way he could be here.

No way.

Terror clawed at her chest, squeezing so tightly she could barely breathe. Her body was rigid against his, ice creeping into her veins. All the half-formed suspicions she'd forced herself to ignore suddenly crashed into reality, shattering every defense she'd built.

Fear won out.

The music seemed to spin farther and farther away, leaving only the ghastly white mask before her-a mask streaked with blood-red tears. The empty, hollow eyes gaped at her like a bottomless pit, swallowing her whole.

She couldn't move.

By the tthe music faded, Mila was slick with cold sweat, her back damp and sticky.

She barely registered the masked man leading her off the dance floor before panic jolted her awake. Her hand, clammy with sweat, wrenched back in resistance.

Whoever he was, she couldn't let him take her anywhere.

The man stopped and glanced back at her. Beneath his mask, Mila's face was just as pale, but she forced herself not to look away, staring straight into those abyssal eyeholes, fighting down the terror and confusion churning inside her.

Is it you? For a moment, they stood locked in silent challenge. Then, the man tilted his head, as if glancing past her. Suddenly, he raised her hand, lifted the edge of his mask to reveal a sharp jaw and cool, thin lips, and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand-a kiss as cold and soft as ice.

Mila's scalp prickled. That kiss-down to the exact spot-was identical to the one Forrest had given her at the estate earlier that day.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her temples throbbing. The possibility hammered at her so hard she nearly lost her grip on reality. An overwhelming urge seized her to rip off his mask and see for herself.

Is it you? But before she could act, the man released her hand, reached up, and plucked the pink-and-white rose from beside her mask. Without another word, he turned and walked away from the floor.

Mila took an involuntary step after him-then froze, rooted to the spot. Just then, a hand seized her wrist from behind.

"Mimi?" Even through the ringing in her ears, she heard the gentle voice.

Stunned, she turned.

Before her stood a man in a jet-black suit embroidered with silver thread, a vivid red tie at his throat, and a black mask edged in gold. The colors were so striking they made her eyes ache.

The blood-red tie made her shrink back instinctively.

But the man spoke again, his voice tender, cutting through the static in her head. "Mimi, it's me." Forrest.

It was Forrest.

She moved closer without thinking, gripping his outstretched hand with desperate Strength. She tried to speak, but only managed a few ot

broken sobs. It was a long moment before her voice low, so quiet the turned, shaky and had to lean in to catch her words- "He's here!" "He's watching me!" "He's watching everything!" "He knows everything!" Her words dissolved into panicked, broken whimpers. Forrest's heart clenched at the sight. Remembering the masked figure who'd stood before Mimi earlier, he immediately scanned the room.

The dance floor was crowded with swirling figures.

But the man in the cloak had vanished.

There was no tto dwell on it.

Seeing how shaken Mila was, Forrest didn't hesitate. He swept her up into his arms and pushed through the crowd, striding quickly out of the ballroom, past the near-empty rose garden, and into a quiet lounge on the first floor. He closed the door behind them with a firm click.