On an autumn night, the warmth inside the car was almost springlike.

Francesca caught the scent of fresh tobacco on the man's body. The brand Grant smoked was the same as Julian's. For a moment, disoriented and adrift, she found herself believing that the man beside her was Julian.

She closed her eyes, reached out, and gently held the man’s hand. "Julian," she whispered.

Half-conscious, her mind wandered, pulling her back to the past.

To her and Julian’s past…

Grant didn’t pull his hand away, nor did he speak. He turned his head instead and looked out through the windshield, into the impenetrable blackness of the night beyond. The night seemed like silk in the rain—soft, wet, and strangely akin to the heaviness settling in his chest.

Grant had known women before.

But those were pragmatic, no-strings situations where both parties took what they needed without burdening each other. He’d never experienced emotions as vivid or consuming as Francesca seemed capable of. For the first time, he wondered what it might feel like to be loved by her—really loved.

In the distance, fireworks began to burst, painting vibrant blossoms across the sky. The night turned as bright as day.

The figure in the passenger seat shifted slightly, just enough for Grant to notice. He glanced over, his dark eyes probing. “Awake?”

Francesca’s limbs felt boneless, her strength sapped. Slowly, her lucidity began to reemerge.

She had drunk too much, but she could vaguely recall that it was Grant who had taken her out of the bar. The details beyond that were a blur.

Her voice was hoarse. “What time is it?”

“Just past one-thirty in the morning,” he replied.

She gazed out at the fireworks, her eyes glistening. There was an uncanny stillness about her, an air of resignation.

After a long silence, she spoke, her voice barely more than a murmur.

“I once saw the most dazzling fireworks in the world. I thought they’d always belong to me. But I forgot… no matter how beautiful they are, fireworks disappear in an instant.”

She laughed softly, with a bitterness that cut through the night. “Just like Julian and me. I thought that if I gave up everything, I could have forever with him. And now I understand. Maybe Julian imagined love once, but the woman in his heart was never me—never Francesca.”

The smile on her lips twisted, as if mocking herself. “Grant, do you think I’m a failure?”

“No,” he said flatly.

His tone carried an unequivocal certainty. “If you want it, Francesca, you’ll always be Mrs. Hale.”

Grant wasn’t indulging in empty comfort. A man of Julian’s standing wasn’t likely to divorce and replace his wife easily. The young girls he entertained were fleeting distractions at best. To be Mrs. Hale required someone like Francesca—poised, capable, irreplaceable.

Francesca gave him a faint smile but said nothing. She returned her gaze to the lingering fireworks, watching them fade into the horizon.

By the time Grant pulled up in front of Crowncrest Court, it was well past two in the morning.

The car came to a stop, and Francesca turned to him. Quietly, she thanked him before slipping off his suit jacket to hand it back.

Grant shook his head. “Keep it on for now. It’s cold out.”

Francesca hesitated, then decided it was better to return it cleaned, so she didn’t insist. Grasping the jacket, she stepped out of the car, offered him a polite farewell, and disappeared toward the house. Grant stayed long enough to give a restrained nod before accelerating away from the villa.

The moonlight was pale and cold. The night wind carried a chill that cut to the bone. Francesca pressed her fingers against her temple as a dull ache flared in her head.

The housekeeper came out to meet her.

As she approached, the subtle scent of wine on Francesca’s clothes didn’t escape her notice. Yet she left it unspoken. Instead, with gentle concern, she asked, “Madam, you’ve had some wine? Sir just called earlier—he’ll be by later to pick up some clothes. Would you like to gather them yourself, or shall I take care of it?”

Intending to proceed with the divorce, Francesca found herself less concerned about Julian’s affairs.

“Go ahead and pack them,” she said coolly, brushing past the housekeeper with Grant’s coat draped casually over one arm. She climbed the stairs to the bedroom. The moment her body touched the oversized bed, exhaustion claimed her, and she drifted into a deep sleep.

A night breeze stirred the white curtains, moonlight spilling through the open windows. It bathed the woman on the bed in a faint, ethereal glow, making her appear soft and otherworldly.

The black suit jacket lay discarded at the foot of the bed.

Sometime after midnight, the distant purr of a car engine broke the silence of the estate.

Julian had returned.

He didn’t immediately exit the car, leaving the door to his sleek black Bentley ajar instead.

Tonight had been unpleasant, a crescendo of tension between him and Francesca. Complicating matters, Beatrice’s condition was deteriorating. He had come for his change of clothes, intent on leaving again right after.

Hearing the commotion, the housekeeper appeared and promptly handed him a garment bag with the requested items. She hesitated just a moment before adding, “Madam only just returned. She seemed to have had quite a bit to drink, but Attorney Jenkins was kind enough to make sure she got home safely.”

Julian froze mid-step. Francesca had been drinking?

After a brief pause, he decided to go up and take a look at her.

Moments later, Julian stood outside the master bedroom, pushing open the door.

The room was dim, shadows pooling languidly in the corners. The faint aroma of wine still lingered in the air, mingling with the rhythmic sound of Francesca’s soft breathing.

Julian reached for the switch, and the bedside lamps cast a sudden warm glow across the room.

He took in the sight of his wife sprawled on the bed. Her disheveled hair cascaded over her shoulders, her silk blouse undone just enough to reveal the smooth, pale skin of her collarbone. The hem of her black dress had hitched up slightly, accentuating the delicate curves of her body.

Francesca’s figure had always been exquisite.

Julian knew this better than anyone—he was her husband, after all. Yet she was perpetually reserved. In their marital bed, her demeanor was often so detached that she’d once tried to discuss business with him mid-act. Over time, his desire had waned.

But now, as he sat on the edge of the bed, the image before him stirred something primal. Perhaps it had simply been too long since he’d sought release; he didn’t know why, but in this moment, he found himself wanting her—this woman who hardly ever melted into his embrace.

She slept soundly, though her brows were knit together, as if troubled even in her dreams.

Julian knew Francesca loved him. He had always known. But he couldn’t love her in return. The most he could offer her was the title of Mrs. Hale. Love—the kind she desired—had never been on the table.

Raising a hand, he gently brushed his fingers against her cheek. Her skin was cool to the touch, sending a strange pang through him. His dark gaze deepened as he murmured, “Isn’t the title of Mrs. Hale enough? Francesca, love that burns too fiercely only consumes in the end. I thought you’d seen enough of the world to understand and let go.”

His words vanished into the soft rhythm of her breathing.

As he turned to leave, his eyes caught something at the foot of the bed—the forgotten garment. He bent down and retrieved it. A designer label caught his eye—a brand he often favored himself—but this jacket wasn't his.

It had to be Grant’s.

A sudden wave of unease rippled through him. Rationally, he knew there was no reason to suspect anything improper between Francesca and Grant. Yet a territorial instinct, one that defied logic, roiled within him.

Francesca was his wife.

Downstairs, light spilled across the grand hallway, illuminating the housekeeper waiting obediently for Julian’s descent. His footfalls echoed sharply as he came down the stairs, irritation etched into his face. Without a word, he handed her the jacket. “Have it dry-cleaned,” he ordered. “Then personally deliver it to Grant’s firm.”

The housekeeper bowed her head, clutching the garment to her chest, and chose silence over questions.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of his Bentley, Julian set his sights on the hospital. He started the ignition but hesitated before pulling away. His thoughts lingered on the second-floor bedroom, where Francesca lay asleep.

They’d argued tonight, harsh words exchanged. Yet earlier, she had said she had something important to tell him. What had it been?