Forrest gave a wry smile, I can’t face them.
Mila was taken aback, a mix of emotions churning within her. I’m the one who should be apologizing, she murmured, feeling it should be her avoiding the confrontation.
Forrest shook his head gently. Mimi, it’s all in the past now.
Seeing her hesitation, Forrest suddenly spoke up, You’re in a tough spot right now. Once things settle down, I can help you move abroad. How does that sound?
…
Abroad.
Mila’s heart skipped a beat.
Her current situation was indeed precarious. She wasn’t sure if Lysander would wake up, or what would happen if he did. All her documents were confiscated.
She needed a safe space to escape all this turmoil.
Miranda had mentioned before that Forrest’s team was collaborating with the Lockwood family, a project of national significance, which could potentially help her hold off Lysander’s side, giving her a chance to divorce and leave the country.
She asked, How long will it take?
I’m not certain, but it shouldn’t be too long.
Mila decided to seize the opportunity. Alright, I’ll need to gather a few things.
She headed to Lillian’s Manor.
The design project assigned by her grandaunt had been on hold due to her recent confinement.
Now that she was free, she needed to act quickly. There were less than three months left until the international fashion week in June or July, a rare opportunity to showcase her work on a global stage. Time was tight, and she couldn’t afford any more delays.
Her luggage was still confiscated, so she couldn’t access her original sketches. Fortunately, she had a habit of backing up work on cloud storage, and the villa had all the computers, equipment, and materials she needed to start afresh.
She locked the door and, after tidying up her things, quickly washed up and changed into pajamas she brought from Lillian’s Manor, collapsing into bed, utterly exhausted.
She slept fitfully, half-awake, half-dreaming. In her hazy state, she thought she heard someone calling her, a voice she recognized all too well.
Mila, Mila…
In a daze, she sat up. In the dim room, a man stood by her bedside, blood trickling down his head, his silhouette barely discernible, eyes filled with hatred.
It was Lysander!
Mila’s face turned ghostly pale. She wanted to run, but her limbs were frozen, unable to move. She could only watch as the man opened his mouth, his voice filled with resentment.
Mila, you killed me!
She awoke with a start, her hands trembling as she switched on the bedside lamp, her face ashen, drenched in sweat.