Three Days After Divorce: He can't Stop Kissing Me

At the entrance of a luxury villa in Kingsward Fringe, Francesca Ward sat in the backseat of an expensive town car, her expression calm as she quietly watched her husband meet a woman in secret.

The girl was young—a vision in a simple white dress, the very picture of innocence and charm.

They held hands, their body language telling an intimate story. Lovers, unmistakably.

Francesca's husband, Julian Hale, had a softness in his eyes she hadn't seen in years.

The girl tilted her delicate face up at him, her tone almost petulant. “My feet hurt, Julian. Carry me!”

Francesca braced herself, certain that Julian would refuse. He was notorious for his aloof demeanor, his temper as cold and sharp as glass. No matter how favored a new lover might be, she couldn’t imagine him indulging such childish whims.

But in the next moment, Francesca’s certainty shattered.

Julian brushed his finger gently against the girl’s small nose, an oddly restrained tenderness in his movement. Without a word, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

She nestled into him, her pale hands finding their place at the back of his neck, her touch tracing lazily down the dark strands of his hair.

Francesca’s gaze snagged on the faint red mark at the nape of Julian’s neck. A birthmark—a blood-red freckle more sensual in its placement than it should have been. She remembered the heat of his reaction the single time she’d grazed it unintentionally, his frustration and control unraveling into something harsh, something unyielding.

Now that same man leaned against the pillar of the garden pavilion with this girl cradled against him, his eyes lit with undisguised desire.

Francesca drew her own eyes shut. She didn’t want to see anymore.

Julian was an image of reckless passion she had never known. This wasn’t the man she had married.

When she opened her eyes again, there was no trace of emotion—no anger, no affection, no pain. Just a void where feeling used to be.

Love, after all, could disappear. And when it did, only practicalities remained.

The villa where Julian whispered sweet nothings to his mistress? That, Francesca noted dryly, was marital property. Jointly owned.

She wouldn’t let a pair of shameless lovers make a mockery of her. Speaking calmly, she addressed her secretary in the front seat. “Annie, has he been with her consistently these last three months?”

Annie’s reply was brisk and certain. “The girl’s name is Beatrice Caldwell. She’s something of a childhood sweetheart. Three months ago, Mr. Hale pulled strings to place her in the company, and since then, he’s been exceptionally protective of her.”

She handed Francesca a thick dossier. Francesca leafed through it languidly. She supposed she could grant their wish for legitimacy.

But Julian would need to pay. Half the marital property, nothing less. Francesca would take the money and the shares, walk away—clean, decisive.

Outside, the autumn leaves gleamed golden under the glow of a sinking sun. The light spangled its edges, dazzling, almost unbearably bright.

Francesca composed herself, then dialed Julian’s number.

It rang several times before he picked up, his voice clipped and cold. “What is it?”

She lowered her lashes. “It’s my birthday today. Will you be coming home for dinner?”

A pause. Brief, but telling. A hesitant silence where Julian undoubtedly calculated excuses. Business dinners, unavoidable appointments—he had an arsenal of justifications ready.

But Francesca caught the faintest echo of a girl’s voice in the background, sweet and coy. “Julian, are you done yet? You’re not allowed to talk to her anymore…”

The line faltered. Julian cleared his throat, his tone colder when he spoke again. “If there’s nothing urgent, I’ll hang up now.”

The low buzz of a disconnected call. Francesca wasn’t surprised; Julian had always been brisk, efficient, immune to unnecessary sentiment.

Annie fumed from the front seat. “That man! He’s—unbelievable! He even forgot—”

Francesca gave the briefest pause but wasn’t perturbed. Instead, a sardonic thought flickered in her mind: Apologies for interrupting Mr. Hale’s courtship of his young mistress. What else could she do? As the legal Mrs. Hale, she was feeling decidedly displeased tonight.

She let a faint smile ghost across her lips. “He hasn’t forgotten. He simply doesn’t care. Annie, contact the utilities and have the water, electricity, and gas to this villa shut off. Let’s see if that brings him home.”

Annie gave a low laugh, unable to suppress her admiration. “You’re brilliant, Mrs. Hale.”

Francesca didn’t reply. Her gaze drifted to the car window, to the tapestry of the twilight—molten light spilling into the seams of gathering clouds.

She remembered another sunset, years ago. A night washed in gold and promises. She had asked Julian then, playfully but earnestly: Do you think our marriage will last forever?

And he’d kissed her temple, his voice warm—almost solemn. Of course, Fran. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.

Most important, she mused bitterly now, until she’d become expendable. The value of things became clearer with time—and it appeared the only thing worth holding onto was money.

A single tear slid down her face, silent and unwelcome.

*****

When Francesca returned to their marital home at Crowncrest Court, sunset fully bled into dusk. Half an hour later, Annie delivered the divorce papers.

Francesca’s demands were simple: half of everything.

She slipped into the bath, letting warmth ease into her bones. Afterward, dressed and ready to move on with the evening, she hesitated. Something idle and unbidden propelled her back to the full-length mirror. She let the crisp white bathrobe slide off her shoulders until her reflection stared back, bare and unflinchingly honest beneath the gleam of the chandelier.

Years of strain marked her body with an elegance that was lean but unforgiving. Her ivory skin retained a cool, refined beauty, but the softer curves had given way to the demands of time, effort, and endurance.

And wasn’t that the difference. Wasn’t she the difference. Her gaze turned darker as fleeting images of Julian and Beatrice—Julian’s hands on her, their fevered, unrestrained intimacy—played cruelly in her mind.

It had to be different with her. Rawer, wilder—more alive than the measured, tempered rhythm she and Julian had fallen into long ago.

A flicker of shame passed over her face, and she frowned, disgusted by her own willingness to compare.

Francesca tightened the robe across her chest, turned from the mirror, and left the room without looking back.

The door to the walk-in closet creaked open—softly, deliberately.

Julian was back.

He stood there at the threshold, his presence filling the space with quiet authority. The tailored black shirt and sharp slacks sculpted his tall, lean frame, the sleek fabric hinting at power without showiness. In the bright, diffused light, the angular contours of his face exuded the intoxicating allure of a man who had long since mastered the art of unobtainable charm.

Francesca couldn't help but think: Even without the billions to his name, Julian alone—just looking like that—would draw a legion of women ready to lose themselves in him, no questions asked.

She had shared his bed for four years. That alone, she thought dryly, wasn’t the worst bargain.

Their eyes met with uncanny precision, a brief, wordless transaction. Something passed between them, something neither bothered to say aloud.

Julian stepped further into the room. His movements were unhurried, the predator’s deliberate grace. Soon, he came to a halt behind Francesca, close enough for their reflections to mingle in the full-length mirror. She had finished dressing—her robe smoothed and fastened with clinical perfection, her cascading black hair now swept into an immaculate twist. Even fresh out of the shower, she emanated the steel veneer of a woman impossible to unsettle. A queen armored in surface poise.

Yet Julian’s gaze lingered, his silence thick with some ineffable tension. He remembered—vividly—how different she’d been on their wedding night. Slightly vulnerable, delicate even.

Vulnerable enough to tremble under his gaze, as if proximity alone left her skimming the edge of fear.

That night, nothing had happened between them.

Two weeks later, when a business crisis had blindsided him, it was Francesca who had lain trembling in his arms, whispering his name. He’d held her tightly, ferociously, that night, and it was then they had consummated their marriage—truly become husband and wife.

They had, each of them, been the other’s first.

But in the years since, those moments of intimacy had grown scarce. Rarer still was anything resembling surrender from her. At home, she was the unassailable Mrs. Hale; at Rowan Group, she was the unflinching Ms. Ward, wielding authority with a deftness few dared to challenge. And on the rare nights when their hours converged, and they were close enough for such entanglements—bed was no different. Francesca remained distant, remote, disciplined. Even there, she held herself. Julian could swear she had never once let go—not fully, not utterly. Forget abandon; she hadn’t dared to indulge, even passingly.

Over time, he had grown bored of it.

Now, a faint smile pulled at his lips—a flicker of sardonic humor, of provocation. “You’re the one who had the power shut off at the villa, right?” he murmured, the teasing lightness edged with taunt. He stepped closer, his reflection beside hers in the glass. “Just because I gave a little attention to the daughter of a… mentor figure—’care and concern for the younger generation,’ that’s all it was—and suddenly I’ve disgraced you?”

Francesca didn’t flinch. Her gaze held Julian’s in the mirror, cool and immovable.

He let the silence stretch long enough to savor. Then, his mind caught onto something else. He traced the dates in his head, calculating quickly. A knowing glimmer lit his eyes.

Her ovulation period.

Julian leaned in, close enough that the heat of his breath brushed the curve of her ear. Lightly, his fingers grazed the slope of her earlobe before his lips followed with a whispered tease: “Is this celebration really about my birthday? Or is it about… another need? Mrs. Hale, is it that strong at twenty-six?” His voice dipped, ridded with wicked amusement.

The words were insolent, but Francesca didn’t need him to clarify his intent. She knew exactly what he wanted.

A child.

The patriarch of the Hale family still controlled ten percent of Rowan Group shares. A grandchild would cement Julian’s position, solidify his hand.

But what Julian didn’t know… was how unlikely a child was for them now.

She looked down, her lashes casting shadows against her cheekbones. Pain flickered briefly across her features—a private ache buried quickly, masked behind cool composure.

Julian’s interest, however, had shifted unmistakably. He leaned in closer now, his intentions unmistakable, his hands anchoring her waist with ease. Before Francesca could withdraw, he scooped her into his arms.

She stiffened instantly as he carried her with practiced strength into their bedroom, laying her atop the impossibly soft sheets of their sprawling bed. His weight pressed down with deliberate purpose, a predator’s focus.

But she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

Her breaths quickened, chest rising and falling, but not with surrender. Bracing herself against the headboard, she pressed her small hands into his chest, halting him just inches away. Her hair, freshly bound but now half-loosened, spilled ink-like across the white expanse of the pillows. Her robe, loosened from the struggle, teased at revealing what lay beneath.

“Julian!” Her voice sliced through, sharp and poised but tinged with alarm.

Julian’s gaze burned as it locked onto her face. Whatever he saw there—defiance, resistance, something more—only spurred him on. His mouth found hers in a kiss like a storm’s first strike, insistent and impossible to ignore. His body, taut with coiled energy, pressed down. The air between them crackled with perilous intensity.

Julian was a man too far gone to back away now.