madnovel Chapter 526: Egotistical Husband
Chapter 526: Egotistical Husband
Bella hesitated again when she heard her mother asking about what happened, her face clouding with an emotion Camila couldn’t quite place—Shame? Fear? Disgust?
Finally, Bella shook her head, looking down at her hands. "There’s no way I can tell you the actual reason, Mom." She murmured. "It’s honestly revolting...You’d feel the same way he does if you knew."
Camila’s heart skipped a beat, her concern deepening. "Bella..." She said softly but firmly. "I’m your mother. If something’s happened—if it’s that serious—you need to tell me. I can’t help if I don’t know."
Bella glanced at her, her expression pained, and shook her head again. "I can’t, Mom. Not now. But I’ll say this..." She took a deep breath, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s the reason I ran back here. The reason I left and...why I started hating Dad."
Camila’s heart clenched at her daughter’s words, the weight of them heavy enough to make her chest ache. She opened her mouth to press for more, but Bella cut her off, her voice lowering further, almost as if she didn’t want Kafka to overhear.@@@@
"It’s so bad, Mom." Bella said, her hands gripping the fabric of her shirt tightly. "When I told Daddy about it one day offhandedly...He didn’t say anything at first, but I could see it in his face. He was gripping his hand so hard, he started bleeding. And the way he looked..."
Bella’s voice wavered, and her gaze flicked briefly toward Kafka, who still sat eerily still on the sofa.
"...He looked like he wanted blood."
Camila’s stomach dropped, her mind racing. The image Bella painted—Kafka, so enraged that he hurt himself, so controlled yet radiating that kind of terrifying anger—was almost unimaginable.
Yet, as she glanced at him now, seeing the blank expression on his face and the void in his eyes, she realised it wasn’t so far-fetched.
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"What did you tell him?" Camila asked, her voice quieter now, but no less firm. "Bella, whatever it is, I need to know. This is about your father. I—"
"I can’t tell you, Mom." Bella interrupted, her tone desperate. "I just...I can’t. Not now. It’s too much."
Camila wanted to push further, wanted to demand answers; this was her husband they were talking about, after all—but the look on Bella’s face stopped her. Her daughter looked shattered, raw in a way she hadn’t seen before.
After a long pause, Camila exhaled deeply, nodding reluctantly.
"Alright." She said softly. "Not now. But we’re going to talk about this, Bella. I need to know what’s going on."
Bella nodded silently, her gaze dropping to the floor.
Camila then turned her attention back to Kafka, who still hadn’t moved or spoken. His eerie stillness sent another shiver through her, but the incessant ringing of the doorbell pulled her focus. She straightened, her expression hardening as she turned toward the door.
Her husband was still out there, ringing the doorbell like a madman. Whatever this was, whatever chaos was about to unfold, she knew they couldn’t avoid it much longer.
Steeling herself, Camila took a deep breath, glancing back at her daughter. "Stay with him." She said quietly, nodding toward Kafka. "I’ll see what he wants."
Bella hesitated but nodded, moving closer to Kafka as Camila took a deep breath, steadying herself as she approached the door.
Her heart pounded, not from fear but from the sheer weight of what she was about to face. With a determined look on her face, she reached for the doorknob and pulled it open.
Open~
"Are you coming in or not?" She asked, tilting her head slightly, her tone casual but still a bit dry.
He stepped forward, muttering, "I didn’t realise I needed an invitation." as he crossed the threshold.
Camila didn’t respond, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. She kept her expression neutral, her posture calm, but her mind was already racing.
This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, and she could only hope the man in the other room wouldn’t escalate things further.
Her husband stepped into the house, his sharp eyes scanning the space with the same critical gaze she remembered from years ago. He adjusted his glasses and made a faint noise of disapproval in his throat.
"This place is dusty." He muttered, running a finger along the edge of a shelf and inspecting it like a disappointed schoolteacher. "Don’t you clean? It’s not like you’re doing anything else all day."
Camila bit back the first retort that sprang to her lips, keeping her tone level as she replied dryly, "I clean just fine. Maybe it’s your glasses that need cleaning."
He shot her a look but didn’t comment, instead glancing toward the window. "And that mailbox outside? It’s still broken. How long has it been like that? Months? Years? Do you even care about maintaining this place?"
Camila folded her arms, leaning against the doorway. "It’s functional. The postman doesn’t seem to mind."
He shook his head, muttering something under his breath, and continued his critique as his gaze swept the room. "And the smell in here..." He sniffed the air pointedly, wrinkling his nose. "It’s too floral. It’s overwhelming. Don’t you have something more...neutral? Something less cloying?"
"Maybe you’ve just been away too long to get used to it." Camila replied smoothly, though her nails dug into her palm behind her back.
His frown deepened as he walked further into the house, his hands in his pockets as if he were inspecting a hotel room he didn’t approve of. Finally, he turned to her, his tone brisk. "Is dinner ready?"
Camila exhaled through her nose, her patience already wearing thin. "I’m making pasta...It should be done soon." She said, thinking that it was for Kafka, who she had made the dish to commemorate telling him about the sauces.
At this, he stopped and turned to her fully, his brow furrowing in displeasure. "Pasta?" He repeated, his voice filled with distaste. "I don’t like pasta."
Camila pressed her lips together, her fingers tightening at her sides. "I’ve already started cooking it."
"That doesn’t matter. Just make something else. It’s not that hard." He waved a hand dismissively.
Her jaw tightened, but she forced herself to stay calm as she said, "It will take time. Dinner won’t be ready right away if I start over."
"Then take the time." He said, brushing past her as if the conversation were already over. "It’s not like I’m asking for much. Start over and make something I actually want."
Camila watched him walk toward the living room while feeling like she wanted to pull her one hair out.
For a split second, the mental image of a vase smashing against the back of his head flashed through her mind, and she almost smiled at the thought...Almost.
But she knew better.
With a sharp exhale, she turned and followed him, her steps quick but quiet. Her chest tightened as they neared the living room. Bella was in there. And so was Kafka.
As much as she wanted to let her frustration boil over, she couldn’t afford to lose control—not now, not when the man sitting in that room was the last person her husband should provoke.