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At the entrance of a luxury villa in Kingsward Fringe, Francesca Ward sat in the backseat of an expensive town car, her expression calm as she quietly watched her husband meet a woman in secret. The girl was young—a vision in a simple white dress, the very picture of innocence and charm. They held hands, their body language telling an intimate story. Lovers, unmistakably. Francesca's husband, Julian Hale, had a softness in his eyes she hadn't seen in years. The girl tilted her delicate face up at him, her tone almost petulant. “My feet hurt, Julian. Carry me!” Francesca braced herself, certain that Julian would refuse. He was notorious for his aloof demeanor, his temper as cold and sharp as glass. No matter how favored a new lover might be, she couldn’t imagine him indulging such childish whims. But in the next moment, Francesca’s certainty shattered. Julian brushed his finger gently against the girl’s small nose, an oddly restrained tenderness in his movement. Without a word, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms. She nestled into him, her pale hands finding their place at the back of his neck, her touch tracing lazily down the dark strands of his hair. Francesca’s gaze snagged on the faint red mark at the nape of Julian’s neck. A birthmark—a blood-red freckle more sensual in its placement than it should have been. She remembered the heat of his reaction the single time she’d grazed it unintentionally, his frustration and control unraveling into something harsh, something unyielding. Now that same man leaned against the pillar of the garden pavilion with this girl cradled against him, his eyes lit with undisguised desire. Francesca drew her own eyes shut. She didn’t want to see anymore. Julian was an image of reckless passion she had never known. This wasn’t the man she had married. When she opened her eyes again, there was no trace of emotion—no anger, no affection, no pain. Just a void where feeling used to be. Love, after all, could disappear. And when
