Mr. Warner, Your Wife is Running Away Again!-Chapter 140: Her Birthday

Vanessa Sterling trembled slightly as she looked at him, unsure what he was searching for.

Miles Sterling’s gaze fell on the bed. There was clearly no one there, but the quilt was puffed up very high. He immediately walked over and lifted the quilt to reveal a pillow hidden underneath, letting out a cold laugh.

Vanessa hurriedly explained in a soft voice: "...It was given to me by Audrey."

"You think I don’t know?" Miles’ smile became increasingly menacing, "Who’s the man in your comic?"

Vanessa swallowed nervously, too scared to speak under his gaze.

"Hmm?" Miles coldly pressed, striding toward the desk as he said, "Why are you so cheap? What are you fantasizing about holding that pillow? Hmm?"

Watching him take a pair of scissors from the pen holder on the desk and ruthlessly stab and cut the pillow into pieces.

Until the image printed on the pillow was unrecognizable.

The white stuffing inside scattered all over the room.

He wasn’t satisfied yet, heading for the wardrobe with scissors in hand, opening another door of the wardrobe, taking out her hanging clothes one by one.

The ones he had bought for her he threw directly on the floor; everything else he didn’t know the origin of, he cut to shreds.

Vanessa watched the scattered clothes and shredded fabric, watching the man who had lost his sanity with scissors in hand like a demon, too afraid to speak or go closer.

She was terrified that if she angered him, those scissors might land on her...

"Which one did he buy for you? Hmm?"

"You think meeting him secretly without me knowing? Still daring to bring things he gave you into the house? Vanessa Sterling, you’ve grown bold."

After rambling to himself, he suddenly turned and shouted at her: "Bring out the stuff!"

Vanessa shuddered at the sound of his voice, looking at his grimly contorted face as he tightly gripped the scissors, trembling hands lowering to open the drawer behind her, nervously taking out the paper bag with the dress.

Miles gave a cold laugh, reaching out and snatching the bag from her hand, then discarded the scissors onto the bed, dumping out the dress from the bag before ripping the paper bag in half and throwing it to the ground.

He lifted the dress, examining it while saying: "Want to hide it away quietly as a keepsake, is that it?"

Though he spoke while smiling, and his tone was light, it terrified Vanessa.

"You hid it because you know I’ll be angry if I find it, right?"

Smiling, pretending to pause, he moved closer to Vanessa holding the dress, continuing: "Knowing full well I’ll be angry, yet you dared accept the gift he gave you. Do you still hope I won’t see it, and everything will be fine?"

"Hmm?"

Seeing her shivering body and bowed head, he softly commanded: "Speak."

Her voice quivered, but she only managed three words: "...I’m sorry."

The words came from her mouth but carried no sense of apology.

To Vanessa, these words were merely a way to soothe him when he was irrationally angry.

She had tried before to explain and reason with him when he was angry, believing he should not interfere so much in her life.

The result was him clamping down even tighter, with verbal and physical harassment.

So later, when he lost control, she dared not say a word anymore, only knowing that "I’m sorry" might slightly calm his fury.

Indeed, Miles did not continue with the sarcasm, yet neither did he let it go.

He reached out roughly to remove the bandage from Vanessa’s neck, shoved the dress into her hands, and ordered: "Put it on."

Vanessa stared at him blankly, not moving.

Miles lacked the patience to wait, disregarding Vanessa’s injured hand, reaching to pull off her sweater and undershirt.

The pain in her hand made Vanessa frown with discomfort, instinctively covering her chest.

But Miles pulled her hand away, pushing the dress down over her head, forcing her arms into the sleeves, roughly putting the dress on her.

Zip the back and push her in front of the full-length mirror on the wardrobe’s side.

He stood behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror, a sinister smile as he asked her: "Does it look good? Do you like it?"

Vanessa swallowed in fear, too scared to move or speak, her expression panicking at his reflection in the mirror, unsure what he would do next.

He seemed like a stylist, content with the creation before him, even reaching out to arrange Vanessa’s long hair, the gesture seemingly gentle yet making Vanessa unable to relax even for a moment.

"I asked if you like it." After asking, he self-answered: "Your dear uncle gave it to you, you must like it, right?"

"You want to secretly hide it, wait until I’m out, wear it just like this, and imagine him beside you, yes?"

Vanessa instinctively shook her head lightly, watching him pick up the scissors he had tossed aside from the bed, again approaching her from behind.

He bent over to lift the hem of the ankle-length dark green dress, cutting down black utterance.

Cutting the skirt one slash at a time until it was in two halves.

The cold scissors reached her back as it cut the upper part, and Vanessa stiffened as goosebumps arose all over her skin.

She could feel the sharp tip puncturing her skin under his reckless snipping action, somewhat painful, and she bit her lip, crying in grievance, yet not daring to make a sound.

The dress was cut from bottom to top, utterly destroyed.

"Clang—" The scissors he tossed to the floor, as if disgusted, pulled a tissue to wipe his hands, nonchalantly leaving.

Looking around the disordered room, Vanessa inhaled deeply, forcing back her tears; her birthday turning out like this.

Sometimes she didn’t know what she had done wrong to deserve such inhuman treatment; he told her it was her fate.

She turned slightly to wipe the blood on her back with a tissue; fortunately, the wound wasn’t deep, and the bleeding quickly stopped.

She changed back to her pajamas, bent down to hang each still-intact clothing back into the wardrobe, stuffing the damaged ones into the trash bin.

Straightening the chaos left in the wake of his rage seemed like a habit now.

Miles stood in the living room, gazing at the cake he had prepared for her on the dining table.

His heart was heavy with frustration.

Originally intending to give her a good birthday, it had become a complete mess.

He turned to see the cutting board with tomatoes she had sliced, likely preparing to cook her own supper.

Her culinary skills were poor, only able to cook those simple dishes to fill her stomach.

Even birthdays were no exception.

He originally planned to come back for a nice dinner for her, but his mood was utterly ruined now.

Picking up the cake from the table, he directly threw it into the trash can in the hallway, went back into the room to grab his coat, changed his shoes, took the car keys, and left.