Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel 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 come back.”

“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 time for 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 Cossio was 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.