Francesca felt nothing but loathing.

When a woman turns cold, the man inevitably grows disenchanted.

—How disappointing.

Julian's dark hair glistened with sweat, his face tinged with a thin flush. His voice, husky and restrained, carried a trace of disbelief. "Why won't you?"

Francesca lay on the pristine white pillow, her head tilted back to study him—the man she had pursued for four relentless years.

She was tired; tired to her core. And for once, she wanted to live for herself.

But Julian, oblivious to the weight of her exhaustion, pressed on. He demanded to know why she refused to fulfill her conjugal duties, why she wouldn't cooperate to bear him a legitimate heir, an instrument for consolidating his endless pursuit of power.

She reached out, her fingers grazing his cheek with a gentleness at odds with the words she spoke. "Julian, let's get divorced."

His expression darkened.

Still, he reined in his temper and spoke calmly, as if negotiating terms. "This is because of Beatrice, isn't it? I've told you—she's just a distant relative. If her presence in the house bothers you, I've already made arrangements to move her elsewhere."

Francesca's lips curled into a bitter smile. A distant relative? Yet she deserved her own villa? And walking arm-in-arm had become a norm?

She didn't voice these thoughts. Dignity forbade her from stooping that low.

Instead, she opened the small drawer beside the bed, pulling out a prepared divorce agreement and sliding it into his hands with deliberate ease. Her tone was light, almost casual. "I’ll take half of your savings, the properties—and half of the Rowan shares."

Julian's brows furrowed deeply. "Half of Rowan? Your appetite is excessive, Mrs. Hale."

His words were laced with mockery, the quintessential tone of a man pondering profit margins. That calculating edge, so characteristic of him, struck her through.

Francesca felt as though ice had settled in her chest.

But she didn’t regret her demand.

She’d given all she could to this mirage of a marriage. And now? She could let it all go.

Suppressing her frustration, she opted for measured reasoning. She even framed her argument from his perspective. "Once we're divorced, you can give your heart’s desire a proper title. As for me—I’ll walk away with my share of Rowan. We both get what we want. Isn’t that ideal?"

Her demeanor carried the weight of absolute conviction.

Julian gazed back at her, his dark eyes fathomless, as if they could consume her entirely.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, his voice emerged cold, serrated with finality. "Rid yourself of this notion. Francesca, there will be no divorce. We’re business partners—it’s that simple. This should be perfectly clear to you."

Of course it was clear.

But clarity had soured into disgust.

Her silence stretched, a quiet refusal that stoked his irritation. In a sharp gesture, he grabbed a robe from the foot of the bed and stalked toward the guest room.

She needed time to reconsider. That stubborn woman, he thought. By tomorrow, Francesca would remember how much she enjoyed being Mrs. Hale—reigning one step beneath him at Rowan, basking in that heady aura of control.

He smirked. Francesca was always like this.

Behind him, her voice floated in the dim space, unbearably soft, almost reminiscent of the Francesca he’d married four long years ago. "Julian, can’t we part on good terms? I don’t want to do this anymore."

His body stiffened mid-step.

For the first time in years, he returned to the bedside. Standing over her, he said evenly, "From the day you married me, you knew there would be no room for love in the Hale family. You won’t get it from me, Francesca, and you’d be a fool to want it. Chasing illusions will only make your life harder."

He swept his hand toward the bed.

The thick stack of papers scattered like snowflakes, fluttering to the carpet below.

*****

At precisely eight in the morning, Julian descended the staircase, cutting an impeccable figure in a black-and-white suit that fit him like a second skin, every line tailored to his lean form. He looked—imposingly—perfect.

He was in fine spirits until he entered the silent, empty dining room.

Picking up his coffee, he took a slow sip before asking, seemingly offhand, "Where’s the madam?"

The staff, all too aware of last night’s heated argument, tread carefully. One ventured an answer, voice subdued, "The madam left for the office early. Didn’t eat breakfast. She drove herself—refused the chauffeur."

The coffee cup hit the saucer with a sharp clink.

Suddenly, he found himself entirely devoid of appetite.

*****

Thirty minutes later, Julian arrived at Rowan Group headquarters.

His secretary, Laura, was already waiting in the parking garage, poised and efficient. She stepped forward to open his car door as he came to a smooth stop.

Julian stepped out, his long fingers deftly buttoning his suit jacket as he strode toward the elevator. Every movement exuded understated authority, his presence drawing covert glances from several female employees loitering nearby.

Once inside the private elevator, Laura lowered her voice as the doors slid closed. "Regarding the Meridian project—Ms. Ward has inserted one of her own into the team."

Julian’s gaze remained fixed on the glowing red numbers climbing upward.

After a moment, he chuckled, a sharp, biting sound. "She’s learning to play the game. Interesting."

During the board meeting, Julian and Francesca clashed.

The two were husband and wife, and Francesca’s sharp business acumen was something Julian had meticulously mentored her in. Their quarrel played out like a theater piece—thrilling and impossible to look away from, leaving the mid- and upper-tier executives of Rowan Group thoroughly riveted.

By the time the meeting ended, dusk was settling in.

Francesca returned to her office, collapsing into the leather sofa with a deliberate heaviness. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging away the ache that had taken root there.

Annie entered quietly, setting a glass of water on the coffee table. “Mr. Hale’s personal attorney called,” she said softly. “He’d like to meet with you in the café on the first floor. Should I decline?”

Francesca’s brow arched, though her demeanor stayed composed. “Grant Jenkins?”

Grant Jenkins—a name that carried unmatched weight in legal circles, a towering figure in the profession.

His firm, Blackletter Law, ruled the field with its unshakable authority. But beyond his professional acclaim, Grant had another role: he was Julian’s shadow operative, someone who handled matters too delicate or unsavory for Julian to touch directly.

Their relationship was entrenched, a network of mutual benefit and loyalty too tangled to unravel.

To put it bluntly, Julian could divorce Francesca but would never sever ties with Grant. The fact that Julian had dispatched him now was clear—he wanted to keep their impending divorce out of the public eye.

Francesca mulled it over and finally agreed to the meeting.

Ten minutes later, she descended to the first floor via her private elevator and stepped into the café.

Grant was seated by the window, his figure poised in a tailored three-piece British suit. It wrapped around his athletic frame with a precision that suggested money well spent. His chiseled features radiated a habitual severity, his gaze sharp and assessing as it turned toward her arrival.

For a brief second, something flickered in the depths of his usually inscrutable dark eyes—surprise.

This wasn’t the Francesca he remembered.

In his mind, Francesca was always impeccably armoured in luxury suits, standing flawlessly beside Julian, matching him move for calculated move on the battlefield of business. But anyone in their circle knew the truth—Julian didn’t love Francesca. His heart belonged to someone else.

Today, though, Francesca seemed changed.

She wore a soft knit sweater, light and casually flattering, her black hair no longer sleek but touched with a bit of natural wave that fell loosely over her shoulders. It had an almost disarming softness to it, like it might melt between fingers.

Grant lingered a moment too long in his observation, lost in thought, until Francesca sat down opposite him. She cut through his musings with a voice as even as a perfectly drawn line. “Julian sent you to talk me out of it?”

Grant regained his customary composure almost instantly.

From his briefcase, he produced a document, sliding it neatly across the table toward her. “According to this prenuptial agreement, if Mrs. Hale insists on divorcing, the outcome… may not be in her favor.”

Francesca picked up the papers and flipped through them, her expression calm at first. But when she reached the final page, she froze—her fingers hovering over the inked lines as if the text itself had stung her.

Four years ago, Julian had outmaneuvered her, building himself an escape hatch she hadn’t seen coming.

For a long moment, she studied the document in silence before her voice, barely above a murmur, broke the tension. “Even if I come out on the losing end, I’m leaving. Attorney Jenkins, don’t call me Mrs. Hale anymore. Just Francesca will do.”

Grant, seasoned as he was in the cold theatre of high-profile divorces, was no stranger to women determined to forge a path through heartbreak. His heart, long trained against empathy, stayed cool.

He took a slow sip of his coffee, his tone deliberately casual. “Why now? You’re not known for being reckless, Francesca. You’ve always loved Julian, haven’t you? Besides, this isn’t exactly an anomaly in our world. Affairs, secrets—it’s all just… par for the course.”

Francesca turned her face slightly, her profile caught in a fleeting wash of sadness. Her lips curved into a bitter smile.

The world knew she loved Julian. Everyone did.

Except Julian himself.

Or perhaps he knew, but couldn’t be bothered to care.

In this vulnerable moment, Francesca’s beauty took on a fragile, heartrending quality—a certain raw magnetism that even a man like Grant, impervious as he claimed to be, couldn’t entirely dismiss. She was, by his reckoning, infinitely more captivating than Beatrice, who had always seemed somehow airbrushed. Francesca, on the other hand, was real, human, flawed.

Grant’s contemplation was interrupted by the sound of the café doors swinging open. Behind him, slow, deliberate footsteps neared, the kind weighed by presence alone.

Julian.

He stepped into view, tall and arresting, exuding an effortless refinement. As his gaze locked onto the scene—Grant sitting across from Francesca, his eyes unusually intent on her—something shifted in Julian.

A sensation stirred, uninvited, somewhere deep in the cavern of his chest.

Discomfort.

A feeling he couldn’t—wouldn’t—name.