Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 390

“Phew…”

Mila pressed her back into the couch, keeping her breathing shallow and quiet. Her chest rose and fell ever so slightly, and beads of sweat dotted her forehead.

Had she been discovered?

She didn’t dare peek around the corner again, forced to wait in agonizing suspense for the worst to happen.

Every second crawled by like an eternity.

She held her breath for what felt like ages, but still, no footsteps approached. Instead, she heard a soft beep, followed by the creak of a door opening.

Had she managed to avoid being found?

After a few more moments, Mila cautiously poked her head out. The kitchen door down the hall was cracked open, but there was no one in sight—just a sliver of empty space. Whoever it was must have gone inside.

She let out a slow breath, relieved. But then a new wave of unease washed over her. Why would someone come to the kitchen in the dead of night? Surely, she wasn’t the only one hungry at this hour?

Just as she was pondering this, a sudden, thunderous noise shattered the silence.

BANG!

Mila jumped, her heart lurching.

The sound came from the kitchen. Once her initial shock faded, her years of culinary experience kicked in—she recognized the unmistakable thud of a heavy knife hitting a chopping board. Someone was… chopping something? Hard?

BANG!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The repeated, jarring noise made her heart pound even harder. She was genuinely startled.

Who on earth cooks at this hour? And why so violently?

Did the owner of this old mansion have a midnight cooking hobby?

And did it have to be so loud?

Suddenly, her appetite vanished. But driven by a mix of curiosity and nerves she couldn’t explain, Mila crept silently to the kitchen door and peered through the narrow gap.

The kitchen was spacious and dimly lit.

On the stove, a large pot simmered, sending up clouds of fragrant steam. A man in a red robe, his back to her, wielded a cleaver, hacking at a rack of raw lamb ribs with swift, practiced force. In no time, he separated the bones, rinsed the meat, and tossed it into the bubbling pot.

For some reason, Mila’s nerves eased a little.

So he was just making stew—lamb stew, by the looks of it.

Still, who makes stew in the middle of the night? What kind of person does that?

She was more convinced than ever that everyone in this place was strange. Not just the silent servants, but even the master of the manor himself—every one of them mute and mysterious.

Where on earth had she been brought? What kind of den of wolves was this?

Worry about her uncertain fate gnawed at her. Her hunger had evaporated, and with someone still in the kitchen, her plan to sneak a midnight snack was clearly dead.

She gave up on the wolf, too, slinking carefully from behind the table and chairs toward the stairs, hunched low and trying to stay invisible.

But as she reached the staircase, she collided headlong with the wolf and nearly screamed.