The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Genius Comeback

The wind off Massachusetts Bay whipped through the shadows of the Kirkland estate porch, carrying the bitter bite of late autumn.

Francesca stood pressed against the cold stone pillar, her bare arms covered in goosebumps. She pulled her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders, shivering violently.

Her phone screen illuminated the darkness in her palm. The notification read that her private driver was three minutes away.

Three minutes. She just had to survive the freezing temperature for three minutes.

A low murmur of voices suddenly broke through the rhythmic splashing of the courtyard fountain.

Francesca froze. She turned her head, her eyes tracking the sound through the meticulously manicured boxwood maze.

The estate was supposed to be empty outside. The main party had moved indoors hours ago.

Through a gap in the tall green hedges, illuminated by the pale glow of a wrought-iron streetlamp, she saw him.

Emery.

Her husband's tall, broad-shouldered silhouette stood with his back to the light. Even in the shadows, his posture carried that rigid, untouchable authority of a corporate CEO.

Standing directly across from him was Catalina Witt.

Catalina, the beloved daughter of a family friend. Catalina, the woman who was about to marry Emery's younger brother, Hudson.

Catalina wore a flimsy, backless silk evening gown. She had her arms wrapped tightly around her own torso, her shoulders trembling as she practically shrank into the cold air.

Francesca watched, her breath catching in her throat, as Emery moved.

He didn't hesitate. He unbuttoned his custom Savile Row suit jacket with swift, practiced movements. He slipped it off his broad shoulders, the expensive fabric catching the dim light.

With a gentleness Francesca had never experienced in their three years of marriage, Emery draped the heavy jacket over Catalina's bare shoulders.

Catalina tilted her head up. Her eyes were slightly red, and she offered Emery a smile that was so incredibly fragile and wronged it made Francesca's stomach turn.

Emery slowly raised his right hand. His long fingers hovered in the air, inching toward Catalina's cheek.

He stopped. His hand remained suspended, a millimeter away from her skin, a picture of absolute, agonizing restraint.

He murmured something low. The wind snatched the words away before they could reach Francesca's ears.

But she didn't need to hear the words. The look on Emery's face was enough.

The sharp angles of his jaw were softened by a rare, devastating tenderness. It was a look of pure, undivided devotion. A look that sliced through Francesca's chest like a dull, rusted blade.

He had never looked at her like that. Not on their wedding day. Not in their bed. Never.

Francesca's fingers curled inward. Her perfectly manicured nails dug so fiercely into her palms that the skin threatened to split. The physical pain in her hands was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Two blinding headlights suddenly swept across the circular driveway.

The Maybach tires crunched against the gravel, the bright beams slicing through the darkness and hitting the fountain.

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