Francesca stepped into the parking lot and found herself face-to-face with Grant.

He seemed just as surprised to see her. After a moment's thought, he closed the distance between them, his gaze piercing. "You’re really leaving Rowan?"

She gave a faint nod. "I am. I’m ready to go."

Lifting the suitcase in her hands, she swung it into the trunk of her car. Once the lid was shut, she turned to Grant, her tone light, almost detached. "About that night—thank you."

Grant studied her face.

Her expression was composed, neutral, giving away nothing—exactly the Francesca he knew. Unreadable, untouchable.

But that night... that night she had been fragile, almost otherworldly in her beauty. A fleeting dream, delicate as morning mist.

Something stirred in Grant's eyes. He acknowledged her thanks with a restrained nod. "It was nothing."

Though his answer was cool, as Francesca’s car eased out of the lot, Grant stayed rooted in place, watching her go. He remained there long after she had disappeared, deep in thought, his face shadowed with something unspoken.

...

By the time Francesca returned to Crowncrest Court, it was eight in the evening.

As soon as she stepped out of the car, a breeze carried the scent of osmanthus blossoms, rich and sweet, wrapping itself around her.

The household staff met her at the front steps. One of them approached eagerly, deferential. "Madam, will you be having dinner alone tonight, or should we wait for the mister to return? Everything’s prepped in the kitchen—just a quick stir-fry and it’ll be ready."

Francesca paused, considering for only a moment. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, distant. "Starting tonight, there’s no need to prepare my meals anymore."

The servant’s face fell, stunned. She opened her mouth as if to ask something, but Francesca had already turned away, crossing the threshold into the house. Her steps were unhurried yet deliberate as she ascended the staircase, disappearing into the glow of the upstairs hall.

On the second floor, the lights cast a warm, gilded sheen over the opulent hallway.

Her pace slowed. Silently, Francesca took it all in—the details of the space, the memories embedded in the walls. Each step forward triggered a flood of recollection: the shared struggles, the victories carved out of pain, the unwavering belief she had once held in Julian.

Julian, you wanted power—I gave it to you.

Julian, we won’t always have to fight like this, will we?

Julian, it hurts—it hurts so much.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Hale. After the tests, we’ve concluded that your chances of conceiving are slim. You may want to consider adoption.

The corridor stretched no more than ten paces, but walking it felt like traversing her entire life. It marked the end of something she had given herself over to—a love so sharp it had left her raw. And now, it was done.

The night wind slipped through an open window, brushing against her cheeks, cool as ice.

Francesca pushed open the bedroom door. She flicked on the wall lamp with a gentle touch, and its soft light enveloped the space, soothing yet relentless in its clarity.

For four years, her world had revolved around Julian. Her life and her identity had been swallowed up in his orbit. She had stood beside him as he climbed to the pinnacle of power, watched him bask in triumph. Yet somewhere in that ascent, Francesca had lost herself.

But now—finally—she was free.

Francesca stepped into the walk-in closet, dragged out several large suitcases, and began packing. Every dress she normally wore, every piece of jewelry she owned—she took them all. Nothing would be left behind for Julian.

When her packing was done, she straightened and her gaze accidentally fell on the oil painting hanging on the wall.

It was her creation: a portrait of Julian in his youth.

A bright, carefree young man.

Love was gone. The painting had no reason to remain.

Francesca rummaged through her handbag and produced a tube of lipstick. With ferocious strokes, she slashed vivid red streaks across the canvas. Bold, violent scars tore through the image, obscuring Julian's once-radiant visage.

Quickly, the painting was unrecognizable. Quickly, Julian's face was no more.

The love Francesca had once poured into the brushstrokes, she now wielded as hatred.

Not just the oil painting—heaped in her fury, their wedding photo did not escape her wrath. She found a blade and slashed it to ribbons.

The glass shattered. Their bond severed.

The smiles frozen in time, brimming with innocent happiness, were gone—impossible to piece back together.

The knife slipped from her trembling hand. Her arms quaked uncontrollably. Suddenly, she raised a hand to shield her eyes, though nothing could block the sting. The pain swelled behind her lids, fiery and raw—so much like the years of youth now lost, so much like the stabbing ache in her womb that night…

Francesca left, not a trace of hesitation in her stride.

The bedroom, stripped of its mistress, felt cavernous and hollow. On the nightstand, her abandoned engagement ring caught the light—a diamond glinting with cold, unyielding brilliance…

In the parking lot, the house staff tried to stop Francesca, pleading. But she brushed them aside and drove off.

By the time they recovered from the shock, one of them scrambled to call Julian.

Hearthborne Hospital. Private ward.

At the end of the corridor, a floor-to-ceiling window stood open, letting in the cool night breeze. Julian stood there, tall and statuesque, his posture effortlessly poised. He was on the phone when the call from Crowncrest Court came through. On the other end, the housekeeper’s voice trembled with urgency: "Sir, Madam has left."

Julian's brows knit slightly, a faint impatience flickering across his face. "Did she say where she was going?"

He didn’t take it seriously. In his mind, Francesca was simply in one of her moods and needed to blow off steam. Hadn’t she gone out drinking just a few days before?

He scolded the housekeeper for overreacting.

After a brief silence, the housekeeper spoke again, this time in a hushed, faltering tone: "Madam didn’t say. But she took several large suitcases. When we went to check upstairs, her clothes and jewelry—all her personal belongings—were gone. And, sir, the bedroom…she left it in ruins. Please, come back and see for yourself."

A chill pricked at Julian's chest, sharp and sudden. He held the phone to his ear, unmoving, for several long moments. Then, without a word, he ended the call and strode towards the elevator with quick, purposeful steps. The overhead lights cast shadows along his jawline, highlighting the perfect yet stern profile of his face. His lashes quivered almost imperceptibly—an echo of the unease stirring in his depths.

By the time Julian arrived at Crowncrest Court, night had fallen.

He ascended the stairs to the second floor, his footsteps measured yet heavy with dread. When he opened the door to their shared bedroom, it swung softly inward, revealing utter chaos.

The wedding photo that had once hung above the headboard lay shattered on the floor. Jagged shards of glass glinted amidst the wreckage. The image of them laughing, caught unknowingly in a fleeting, tender gaze, had been shredded beyond recognition, gouged to pieces by a vicious blade.

Further into the adjoining walk-in closet, Francesca's wardrobe stood ajar, gaping like a cavity left after a siege. Every garment, every jewel that had once adorned her—it was all gone.

His gaze caught on the wall. The oil painting. That masterpiece Francesca had cherished above all else. She had begged him for weeks after their wedding to sit as her model, coaxing an indulgent smile from him during a rare moment of peace. In that painting lived one of the very few remnants of joy their marriage had known.

Julian stared at its disfigured remains and found he couldn’t understand—not why she had left, not why she was this distant despite the empire they had built together. Weren’t they standing at the pinnacle, their union unassailable?

The title of "Mrs. Hale"—was it not the aspiration of every woman dreaming of wealth and power?

And she had cast it all aside.

It defied belief.

He stood amid the ruin, shards crunching beneath his polished shoes, and dialed Francesca’s number.

He thought it was simply a stunt. Surely she was trying to draw his attention, to make him chase her. But to his surprise, the call connected. And she picked up almost immediately.

Julian wasted no time, his tone clipped with restrained anger. He warned her of the implications her actions would have, the rumors that would swirl, the questions that would arise. "The shareholders," he stressed. "The Rowan Corporation’s stock price will suffer. You’re stirring trouble, Francesca. Enough is enough. Come home."

"You need to know when to stop," he demanded. "Francesca, think about the bigger picture."

The night stretched quiet and still except for the faint rustle of wind. Francesca’s voice, when it came through the line, was calm, drained of heat or affection. "There’s no big picture left, Julian. I’ve already instructed my lawyers to draft the divorce papers. You’ll receive the summons soon enough."

His throat tightened, the words caught between disbelief and a rising dread. Finally, he managed to croak, "What are you saying?"

After a beat, Francesca's voice turned icy, resolute. "Exactly what it sounds like, Julian. We’re done."

The line went dead.

He called her again, and again. Each attempt was met with the same monotone voice from the operator: "We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service…"

Julian remained there for what felt like hours. Still. Silent.

At the doorway, a staff member hesitated before interrupting, her voice trembling with caution. "Ms. Caldwell called, sir. She wishes to speak with you."

Veins pulsing at his temple, Julian snapped, his voice brittle with fury: "Tell her to leave me alone!"

Francesca was gone.

She didn’t want him anymore. His Fran didn’t want him anymore. She’d once sworn they’d face life together, his shadow her only companion, through storms and calm alike. But now…

His breath came shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling with muted, stifled anger. He struggled for composure, but as his eyes scanned the devastation Francesca had left behind, something caught his notice.

A single piece of paper peeked out from beneath the bed, overlooked amidst the wreckage. It was faintly yellowed, the edges soft with age.

Julian frowned and bent to pick it up. The moment his eyes landed on the text, he froze.

It was an obstetrics report.

Patient Name: Francesca.