MTLNOVEL 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~
Standing before her was a middle-aged man with glasses, his hair greying at the temples and a permanent grumpy look etched onto his face. His posture was rigid, his sharp eyes scanning the space beyond her like he already expected something to go wrong.
This was the man who had once been the love of her life...Once.
But time and truth had stripped away the illusion she'd fallen for.
The charming, considerate man she'd believed him to be was nothing more than a façade. His true self—the man standing before her now—was someone who valued her not for who she was, but for what she represented.
A trophy wife to flaunt, a caretaker for their daughter, and a convenient figure to maintain the image of a perfect family.
For years, she had coped, forcing herself to endure for Bella's sake, convincing herself that she had no choice. She had buried her unhappiness, her resentment, and even her dreams beneath the weight of her responsibilities.
But then Kafka had come into her life.
He had shown her what it meant to live again, to dream, to feel love and respect. He had given her a second chance at happiness, something she had thought impossible. And with that second chance, the carefully maintained mask she had worn for so long had shattered.
What remained now was only contempt—for the man who had ruined so much of her life.
As she stood face to face with him, those feelings surged within her, and a flicker of disdain flashed in her eyes. It was brief, but it was enough.
Her husband's expression faltered, his usual grumpy confidence shaken for a moment. He looked at her, confused, almost wary, as though he didn't recognise the woman standing before him.
Camila quickly masked her emotions, knowing this wasn't the time or place to act out.
Kafka's unsettling silence in the other room and Bella's guarded tension all reminded her that she needed to keep her composure—for now.
"Welcome back." She said, her tone polite but devoid of warmth. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming?"
Her husband adjusted his glasses, clearly caught off guard by her straightforward tone. "I don't need to call ahead to visit my own home." He said sharply, his voice carrying an edge of irritation. "This is still my house, isn't it?"
Camila paused, forcing herself to maintain her composure. "Technically, this is my family home registered under my name...But I guess it's your house as well." She replied evenly, folding her arms across her chest. "But a little notice would've been nice. It's called courtesy. I'm sure you've heard of it."
The corners of his mouth twitched, clearly not expecting her directness. He opened his mouth to respond but stopped short, his gaze drifting over her shoulder.
"Is Bella here?" He asked, his tone softening slightly, though his expression remained tense.
"She's here." Camila replied calmly, stepping slightly to the side but still blocking the doorway with her hand on the frame. "Though I doubt she's going to be thrilled about this unexpected visit."
He frowned, his thick brows furrowing, but he didn't say anything right away. Instead, his eyes flicked back to hers, and for a moment, his expression softened, almost as if he were trying to gauge her reaction.
Camila resisted the urge to let her thoughts spill out. She had long since learnt to keep her feelings hidden, especially when it came to him.
Once, she had coped with his dismissive attitude because she thought she had no choice because of Bella, because of her own insecurities. But now, she wasn't the same woman she used to be.
Still, she wasn't here to pick a fight. She had to stay steady for Bella's sake and her own.
"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.