At nine in the evening, they left Hale Residence.

As Julian buckled his seatbelt, he asked casually—too casually, “What were you and Jeremy talking about? Looked like you two were having a pretty good chat.”

Francesca gave a quiet hum. “Oh, just your childhood sweetheart.”

Julian: …

For a moment, silence filled the car. Then Julian reached out, his hand folding around Francesca’s. His voice softened—uncharacteristically gentle. “I never slept with her,” he said.

Francesca leaned back against the seat, her eyes glistening with unspilled tears.

She knew better. Julian’s tenderness was nothing more than a calculated move, timed perfectly with her most fertile days. It wasn’t love, not even lust, just a pragmatic strategy—a means to an end.

And that end had nothing to do with her. Francesca.

If he knew she couldn’t conceive anymore, would he still hold on to her? Or would he eagerly sign the divorce papers, moving on to find the next woman fit to become Mrs. Hale?

Tonight, Julian was playing all his cards. He leaned closer, his gestures intentional, gently coaxing her into responding to him as a wife might.

Francesca found the whole act miserably pathetic.

Her husband didn’t love her. To him, she was only a tool—a machine for closing deals, a vessel for producing children. He didn’t even seem to enjoy intimacy with her, except when the calendar dictated an obligation. Each month the cold routine repeated itself, an arrangement as devoid of emotion as two animals driven by base instinct.

When Julian tried to kiss her, Francesca turned her face away. Her voice was thin, rough, tinged with a sadness she couldn’t quite conceal. “Julian, when I said I wanted a divorce, I meant it. If you think my expectations are too high, we can negotiate.”

In the dim interior of the car, Julian’s gaze honed in on her face, as though trying to dissect every flicker of her expression. A tense silence followed, stretching unbearably long before he finally spoke, his voice harsh and frigid:

“I already told you—we are not getting a divorce.”

His words carried a note of icy finality. “Francesca, once we have a child, you'll stop thinking such nonsense.”

Francesca closed her eyes, her voice faint. “And what if I can’t get pregnant, Julian?”

Julian frowned, dismissive. “That’s not possible. We did all the tests before we got married, didn’t we?”

She let out a bitter laugh.

The premarital health checks from four years ago were as outdated as Julian’s long-forgotten vows. Long before those promises crumbled, fading into the haze of a sweeter, younger woman’s embrace.

When they returned to Crowncrest Court, it was nearly ten.

Julian showered in the guest room. He’d intended to persuade Francesca to share their bed, but before he could try, a phone call pulled him away.

Francesca suspected he’d gone to meet his mistress.

She didn’t care. At least tonight, she was spared the ordeal of dealing with him.

All night, the lights of Crowncrest Court stayed on, but Julian never returned.

Over the next week, he made his absences routine, disappearing nightly. He also made no move to discuss the divorce further.

And Francesca? Those cold autumn nights, she stood often at the floor-to-ceiling windows of their bedroom, watching the sycamore leaves yellow and drift to the ground. She thought, absently, how she might feel if she’d followed a different path. If she hadn’t given up painting. If she hadn’t married so young. If she’d never waded into the brutal currents of the business world. Would she have been happier?

As for Julian, she didn’t call him once. Let him waste away with his affairs, for all she cared. In her mind, he was as good as dead.

They didn’t see each other again until business brought them both to the same event.

The Hidehaven Club.

An institution of opulence—the most extravagant business club in Kingsward City.

Francesca stepped into the private suite to find Beatrice sitting pressed against Julian’s side, her demeanor a practiced blend of coy and demure. When she noticed Francesca’s arrival, the younger woman made no effort to move—instead, she merely lowered her head and began idly scrolling through her phone, as if Francesca were nothing more than a passing breeze.

Annie, Francesca’s assistant, bristled, ready to confront the girl.

Francesca raised a hand to stop her, her voice cool and even. “She’s Mr. Hale’s current obsession. Let her bask in it while it lasts.”

There wasn’t a seat beside Julian, and Francesca wasn’t about to place herself with the opposition. Excusing herself, she headed to the restroom, deliberately giving Julian time to sort out his little plaything.

In the restroom, she stood at the sink, the crystal chandelier above casting fractured light across her face.

The sound of heels on marble broke through her reverie.

She glanced up at the mirror and saw Beatrice approaching.

The younger woman came to stand beside her, her tone abruptly sharper, edged with a brazenness she never displayed before others. “I’ve moved back into the villa. Julian said I can stay as long as I like.”

Francesca shut off the faucet. Her gaze in the mirror settled on Beatrice’s face—a face brimming with youthful innocence, all rosy cheeks and untouched skin.

So young. So unmarked by the world. Not worn thin by years in the trenches of corporate warfare.

It struck her, suddenly, that she herself was only twenty-six.

She lowered her eyes, her thumb absently twisting the six-carat wedding ring on her finger. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, calm, and void of warmth. “Ms. Caldwell, if I were you, I’d settle for being the songbird in a golden cage. Don’t scream. Don’t stir the waters. Just hook his neck and wring him for money. And, above all, don’t parade the filthy details of what you both do in the dark. Especially somewhere like this—a place far beyond your station.”

Beatrice’s lips curved into a smile, but her voice betrayed her. “Julian protects me. He wouldn’t let me drink, much less—”

“Oh, really?” Francesca interrupted, her smile faint but her words razor-sharp. “Ms. Caldwell, you clearly don’t understand. To Julian, money is paramount—everything else comes second, women included. Frankly, if it served his purposes, he’d hand you a glass laced with poison and expect you to swallow it without hesitation.”

By the time Francesca finished, Beatrice’s face had gone stark white. “I don’t believe you.”

Francesca’s smile only grew fainter.

When Beatrice left, Francesca stared at her reflection in the mirror. For a long moment, she simply stood there, unmoving, a shadow of disbelief flickering across her face.

All that bluster, all her vain posturing—it felt like a bad joke even to herself. She knew, with a bit of effort, she could silence all the others and ensure she remained Mrs. Hale forever.

But that wasn’t the life she wanted.

Not this marriage. Not this man.

She was done. Tired—so tired—and ready to walk away from the table, no matter what was left undone.

When Francesca returned to the private room, the seat beside Julian had already been vacated. With a composed demeanor that betrayed nothing, she slid into the chair and resumed, without effort, her familiar role as Julian’s devoted wife. Their seamless act of marital affection was as polished as ever.

Beatrice, on the other hand, sat far off, her face clouded with woeful indignation, her eyes teetering on the verge of tears.

“Why do you have to make things so difficult for the poor girl?” Julian muttered, his voice tinged with disapproval.

Francesca didn’t reply. She wouldn’t dignify it. Julian, oblivious as ever, failed to grasp that every word of his defense for Beatrice felt like a dagger twisting into her. He could feel for Beatrice—but what about her? What, exactly, were the years of loyalty Francesca had given him worth? The battles they fought together, side by side—what were they worth to him now?

What, indeed?

Her heart bled silently, yet her face remained a mask of serene calm. Smiling faintly, Francesca invited Beatrice to join a prospective client from the opposing company for a drink. It was obvious the man had a keen eye for Beatrice’s innocent, lily-like charm.

But Beatrice—ever clinging to her role as Julian’s favorite—fought the suggestion, clumsily attempting to excuse herself.

Under the crystalline glow of the chandelier, Julian’s striking features—a portrait of cultured arrogance—darkened with a quiet storm. He wasn’t blind. He knew exactly what Francesca was doing.

Lifting his glass with a deliberate slowness, Julian shifted his eyes to her but spoke to Beatrice: “The Meridian deal is a multi-billion-dollar collaboration. Like it or not, Ms. Caldwell, you need to honor Mr. Leonard’s goodwill.”

Beatrice, lips trembling, dared not push back further. She relented with a fragile compliance that would seem pitiable to any observer.

As Beatrice debased herself over drinks with Mr. Leonard, Francesca remained poised, seated beside Julian like his equal, though the silence between them swelled with the weight of a thousand unsaid things. Julian gave no outward sign of emotion, but Francesca felt like a vile villainess—an archetypal wicked stepmother—destroying her husband’s precious illusion of love.

For this moment, they both seemed to have forgotten. Forgotten that they’d once been young, foolish teenagers who’d chosen to marry too soon.

*****

Night settled over the parking garage, its oppressive emptiness magnifying the coldness in the air.

Annie, Francesca’s efficient and ever-dutiful assistant, supported her by the elbow, guiding her unsteadily towards the car’s backseat. “Mind your head, Ms. Ward,” Annie said gently as she opened the door. “You’ve had a bit too much to drink tonight.”

Francesca rested her fingers against her temple, murmuring softly, “My head’s fine. My mood isn’t.”

Annie understood perfectly. Mr. Hale had crossed a line today.

From the very beginning, The Meridian Project had been Francesca’s labor of love—her ideas, her contacts, her brilliance had built it from the ground up. And yet tonight, Julian had arrived with Beatrice trailing at his side like some prized decoration. Had she been in Francesca’s shoes, she’d be furious too.

Still, Annie couldn’t deny it was satisfying to watch Beatrice drink herself straight into a hospital trip.

But just as Francesca leaned down to slip into the car, a man’s hand seized her wrist, stopping her abruptly.

The sound of the impact when her body collided with the sleek black car was sharp—a cruel punctuation against the stillness of the garage. The cold, unyielding metal of the car’s body threw her unguarded frame into stark relief, fragile, vulnerable.

For a long, breathless moment, Francesca was too stunned by the pain to speak. When she finally looked up, Julian’s storm-gray eyes were bearing down on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

“Annie,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Wait in the lobby for a moment.”

Annie hesitated, her concern evident. “Ms. Ward, you’re not feeling well—”

“Annie.” The sharp edge in Francesca’s voice left no room for argument. She met her assistant’s eyes briefly before Annie, with a resigned nod, walked away, her footsteps swallowed by the cavernous space.

As soon as they were alone, Julian let the mask slip. His grip tightened, and his irritation boiled over. “Why did you have to humiliate her like that?” he demanded, cold fury etched into every line of his face. “Do you even know how sick she is right now? She’s in the hospital, Francesca. Pumping her stomach.”

Francesca let out a hollow laugh, the sound as bitter as glass breaking. “And this matters why? Children get over their tantrums, Julian, particularly cherished ones like her.”

“She’s just the daughter of an elder I respect!” Julian snapped, though the sharpness of his tone betrayed that he barely believed his own defense. “I’ve told you this before—I’m just looking out for her, nothing more!”

Francesca said nothing. Her response came instead in the crack of her palm landing against his face. The sharp whip of the slap echoed painfully in the enclosed space.

Her hand tingled with a numbing ache. Her whole body trembled uncontrollably. For too many years, she’d kept herself in check, but no more. She laughed again, low and bitter, through the tears forming in her eyes.

“Looking out for her? Is that what we’re calling it now? Or does ‘looking out’ extend as far as the bed in our villa? Tell me, Julian—are you that shameless or are you just hoping I’m that stupid?”

Julian’s head had turned from the force of the slap, but slowly, with a predator’s deliberateness, he looked back at her. His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek, as if testing the taste of his own restraint. When he finally leveled his gaze on her again, his calm was like ice—lethal, unyielding.

“Are you really so desperate for my love,” he asked quietly, “that you’d go this far?”

Francesca’s voice matched his coldness, biting and venomous. “Don’t flatter yourself. Your love’s worth less than nothing to me now.”

For a moment, his anger seemed to recede entirely, replaced by something quieter, almost calculating. He leaned closer, brushing the curve of her cheek with faint condescension. “This isn’t you, Fran. You used to be better than this—content to play your role as Mrs. Hale, to do it with grace. Why fight me? Why make it harder on yourself? You could just have my child. Solidify your position. Why can’t you let it be simple?”

Francesca’s tears finally spilled, her face a watery tableau of despair, though her voice remained steel-edged.

“‘Used to be,’ you say? Do you honestly believe we’re still who we used to be, Julian? Back then, there weren’t little girls clinging to you. Back then, you came home to me every night. Back then, you didn’t treat me like some incubator, tracking my ovulation as though I were livestock.”

“Tell me, Julian,” she whispered. “Have I truly changed—or have you?”

Four years. Four years they’d shared a bed and weathered the storms of their ambition. And now, the lies between them lay bare.

Julian’s expression hardened as he held her gaze, the weight of their shared history seemingly evaporating. Minutes passed before he finally spoke, his tone sharp and final, the sound of a guillotine. “Effective immediately, you’ll no longer oversee the Meridian project. Your position will be addressed during the upcoming shareholder meeting.”

Francesca smiled crisply, though it barely disguised the ache beneath. So, this was his first move—to cut her away from power, the first blow to cleanly sever her strings.

The truth burned in her chest. They both knew that Beatrice wasn’t the only crack in their marriage. Julian wasn’t interested in just another mistress. No—he was dismantling her life piece by piece, driving her back into the gilded cage he called a home. A Mrs. Hale with no leverage. A woman who bore him heirs. A woman trapped, wasting away in the shadow of what he called love.

“Love. Children.” The words soured in her mouth as her fury reached its zenith. In that moment, she felt the weight of every broken dream, every betrayal. It was as though her whole life had been a cruel farce.

No more. She couldn’t keep it buried. The truth clawed its way up her throat as trembling, blistering rage seized her resolve.

“Fine,” she said, her voice trembling yet resolute as she met Julian’s frigid stare. “If you want to know why, I’ll tell you everything. Let’s finally be honest with each other, Julian.

I can’t have children. I never could.”