Julian inclined his head slightly, a gesture so restrained it felt more like a dismissal than an acknowledgment.

Grant responded with a faint smile, a courteous retreat following, leaving the room to the couple whose marriage was a taut balancing act on the edge of collapse.

As soon as the door shut behind Grant, Julian turned to Francesca, his sharp features shadowed by the faintest frown of disapproval as his gaze swept over her attire. "Why are you dressed like this? Go change. We’re going to the family estate for dinner later."

Francesca knew perfectly well what dinner at the Hale estate meant. A curated performance—a demonstration of affection staged solely for Sir Hale’s benefit.

For the sake of securing his shares.

Sometimes, she found Julian absurdly contradictory. He wore the guise of a refined, self-possessed gentleman, but beneath that polished surface lay the cold, calculating heart of a man who worshipped ambition and profit. He belonged in the cutthroat arenas of power and privilege.

She would play along. Until the assets were divided, her priority was simple: protect her interests.

Back in her office, Francesca switched out her outfit for a tailored suit. Composed and professional, she joined Julian in their private elevator for the descent to the parking garage.

The elevator doors slid shut. Inside, it was just the two of them—husband and wife.

Julian glanced at his watch, his tone calm, almost detached. "After my conversation with Grant, I assume you’ve reconsidered the idea of divorce. Today is still one of your fertile days. Once we’re home, prepare yourself. If it bothers you, I’ll finish quickly."

Francesca’s lips curled into a self-mocking smile. The way Julian discussed having a child was clinical, devoid of even the faintest warmth.

She had endured this marriage for four long years.

Her voice was even colder. "I’ll say it again: half of everything, and I’ll set you free."

Julian’s jaw tensed. Irritation flickered in his eyes, just as he was about to speak, but the elevator abruptly halted, interrupting him.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

Standing there was a young woman in a flowing white dress, her face a study in guileless sweetness.

Beatrice.

Beatrice stepped lightly into the elevator. Her expression was tentative, almost pleading. "The employee elevator’s out of service," she explained softly, her gaze flicking toward Francesca. "Ms. Ward, may I use this one just this once?"

Three people in the elevator, yet the tension was a jagged, unbearable thing—an unspoken battle waged between two.

Francesca pressed the door’s open/close button wordlessly, her silence a clear rejection. Her intentions could not have been more evident.

Beatrice froze. Indignation and embarrassment turned her face a furious shade of crimson. Her teeth caught her lower lip as she glanced to Julian, silently beseeching him to intercede.

But Julian spoke with effortless grace. "You’ll follow Ms. Ward’s decision," he said, voice calm, clipped, utterly final.

Beatrice hesitated, then retreated reluctantly, humiliation and frustration warring across her delicate features as the elevator doors clicked shut in her face.

The minor disruption left Francesca feeling nauseous. The charade, the implied intimacy, the pretense—she could stomach none of it.

She didn’t speak again until they reached the garage. Even then, it was Julian who broke the silence. Buckling his seatbelt, he commented with nonchalance, "There’s nothing between me and her. Don’t overthink it."

Francesca turned her head, fixing him with a look so measured it made her disdain unmistakable. "Feeling guilty?"

Julian raised his brows, misinterpreting her as he so often did. "You mean about conceiving our child? Francesca, I’ve told you—I’m in perfect health. There’s no issue with my fertility."

She let out a hollow laugh, sharp with derision. "I didn’t mean that. I meant you should get yourself checked out—by a specialist. Make sure you’re still clean."

That pushed Julian too far.

In one fluid motion, he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for her. Before she could react, he’d pulled her into his lap, his grip iron-clad, his presence overwhelmingly close. The Bentley’s spacious driver’s seat gave him room to maneuver, his overpowering energy filling the suddenly confined space.

Her back pressed against the steering wheel, unyielding and unforgiving. Pain shot through her side as she struggled against him. "Julian, have you lost your mind?"

Her once-distant husband—aloof and untouchable as a mountain peak—now stooped to desecrate every boundary with a fervor that felt both foreign and unbearable. His hands roved without hesitation, infuriating and affronting her. Desperate, Francesca fought, her nails clawing into his scalp, wishing she could tear out every jet-black strand.

At last, Julian paused, lifting his head to study her face.

With the dim, fluorescent light of the garage illuminating his features, his elegant visage—usually so coolly indifferent—softened, an unexpected tenderness flickering in his expression. It stopped her mid-struggle, caught off guard by the fragile intimacy of the moment.

The illusion shattered in a heartbeat. He grasped the back of her neck with unrelenting force, capturing her lips in a kiss that was neither gentle nor forgiving. His teeth found her lower lip, biting down until the metallic tang of blood filled their mouths.

Their blood mingled.

Francesca froze, her wide eyes locking on his. Her revulsion was unhidden, plain and sharp like a blade between them. Julian’s lips lingered inches from hers, his voice low, rugged from exertion, each syllable heavy with tension.

"Mrs. Hale," he rasped, his breath mingling with hers. "Am I clean?"

With a violent shove, Francesca broke free.

Repositioning herself stiffly in the passenger seat, she fumbled to smooth her disheveled suit, though her chest rose and fell with each labored breath. The alien heat coursing through her left her both shaken and deeply unsettled. Yet she forced a calm exterior, meeting his gaze with a chilling detachment. "Don’t worry," she said. "I’ll have my secretary schedule a full physical for you."

Her words, so clinical in their precision, extinguished the embers of Julian’s smoldering desire. He buckled his seatbelt again, releasing a slow breath to dispel his own frustration, before flooring the accelerator.

The ride was tense, punctuated only by the occasional buzz of Julian’s phone. Missed call after missed call—Francesca counted at least a dozen. Most likely from Beatrice. She stared out of the window, resolute in her silence. Whatever he chose to do, it no longer concerned her. Divorce was inevitable, and she would not waver.

Julian glanced at her once, his expression unreadable.

…

Half an hour later, the sleek black Bentley glided through the gates of an imposing estate. The Hale family home loomed up ahead, a testament to their enduring legacy.

As the car rolled to a stop, Julian checked his phone again, his voice cool. "Work-related."

Francesca remained silent, her indifference cutting deeper than any remark could.

Irritated, Julian opened his mouth, intent on saying something, but was interrupted.

A servant from the Hale household appeared, opening the car door with a deferential smile. "The family banquet has already begun. Everyone’s eagerly waiting for the young master and his wife. Please, come in and join us."

Julian offered the man a curt nod, then extended his hand to Francesca with practiced ease. The perfect husband, attentive and poised, displaying precisely the kind of devotion expected in the presence of others.

Francesca slid her slender fingers into his, acutely aware of the farce they were both participating in. The hypocrisy felt suffocating.

Together, they stepped into the grand dining hall, assuming their roles in the elaborate charade of the Hale family’s dinner table.

Sir Hale had two sons: his eldest, Jonathan Hale, and the younger, Jeffrey Hale. Julian was the son of Jeffrey and his second wife.

The round dining table was crammed with people. Sir Hale, it seemed, had caught wind of Beatrice's existence. He directed a few veiled admonishments toward Julian and then turned to Francesca, offering her some platitudes about how taking a step back could lead to broader horizons.

But the subtext was clear: he wanted a great-grandchild.

Julian stole a glance at Francesca and grinned, his tone flippant. "Fran and I will put in the effort tonight," he teased.

The old man pulled a stern face. "Four years of marriage, and so far, your efforts have been in vain!"

With a few casual remarks, Julian deflected further interrogation.

Francesca remained quiet, her attention seemingly fixed on her meal. Her expression was calm, detached even. No one at the table could guess that she was nearly incapable of bearing children—

And all for Julian!

At that moment, Julian’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen before excusing himself to take the call in the front yard. It was unmistakably personal.

Meanwhile, a piece of West Lake vinegar fish was placed into Francesca’s bowl.

Sir Hale spoke with pointed deliberation. "Men are like cats—prone to the occasional dalliance—but eventually, they’ll settle down."

Francesca’s voice was cool, flat. "Maybe when they’re mounted on the wall."

A servant nearby stifled a laugh behind her hand.

The weight of the evening gnawed at Francesca. She left the table early, seeking solace in the gardens.

By the poolside, the moonlight spilled cold and pale across the water.

A tall, lean figure stepped into the light. He moved with a quiet confidence, his silhouette eerily reminiscent of Julian’s—but it wasn’t him. It was Jeremy Hale, Julian’s cousin.

Jeremy hated Francesca. Without her, he wouldn’t have lost so disastrously.

Julian had taken a lover, and Jeremy—ever the opportunist—delighted in throwing kindling onto the fire.

He held out a stack of photographs, handing them to Francesca. Each shot captured Julian and Beatrice entwined in moments better left unseen.

Jeremy’s lips curled into a cold, sharp smile.

"Do you know who she is?" he asked, his voice a blade.

"Her father is Brandon Caldwell, a renowned painter, respected, influential. Her mother was your husband's mother’s best friend. And you? A penniless orphan. Tell me, Francesca, what do you have to outmatch her? Watch yourself, or that wolfish cousin of mine will devour you until there’s not even a bone shard left. But if you side with me now, there’s still time to turn the game in your favor."

Francesca flipped through the photos without a flicker of emotion. Then, with quiet finality, she tossed them into a nearby trash can.

She lifted her eyes to Jeremy, her gaze steady, unflinching. This man, her enduring adversary, her rival in so many battles. Her voice was calm, her words laced with resolute scorn. "Thank you for the advice. Unfortunately, I don’t need it."

Jeremy sneered. "Fine. Then I’ll wait for the day Julian discards you."

Francesca smiled faintly, a subtle, knowing curve of her lips.

She didn’t care. Not anymore. Julian had no place in her future. She was only keeping up appearances until their deal was struck. Once the money and shares were hers, Julian would be nothing but a chapter closed, every passion and hurt reduced to ash in the wind.

Francesca left the garden, heading back toward the main hall.

When she looked up, she saw him: Julian.

He was standing quietly under the gallery’s eaves.

In the lamplight, he was an image of elegance, his features polished and refined, his figure exuding composed charm. He was beautiful in a way that once left Francesca utterly powerless, ensnared by the pull of his presence.

Now, his dark eyes held a depth that rivaled the night itself.