The heavy crystal chandeliers of the Kirkland estate's main banquet hall cast a blinding, unforgiving light.

It was the second night of the family gathering. Francesca stepped into the noisy room alone, wearing a conservative, high-necked couture gown that felt more like armor than clothing.

She scanned the sea of tailored suits and glittering diamonds, searching for Emery.

He was nowhere to be found.

"Well, look who finally decided to join us."

Francesca stiffened. She turned to see Marion Kirkland, her stepmother-in-law, marching toward her with a flute of champagne and a trailing entourage of wealthy matrons.

Marion's sharp eyes raked up and down Francesca's dress. She let out a soft, incredibly grating scoff.

"Tell me, Francesca," Marion projected her voice, ensuring the surrounding guests could hear. "How are those dry, boring numbers doing in your little MIT lab? Have you discovered a formula for basic social etiquette yet?"

The women behind Marion erupted into a chorus of synchronized, mocking giggles.

Francesca gripped her silk clutch so tightly her knuckles turned white. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a polite, rigid smile.

"The lab is doing well, Marion. Thank you for asking," Francesca said, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.

Marion took a step closer, invading Francesca's personal space.

"It's a shame you spend so much time with machines," Marion sneered. "Catalina's engagement is approaching. She has such an exquisite eye for Renaissance art. She knows exactly how to host a proper Kirkland event. You could learn a thing or two from her, instead of embarrassing us with your lack of charm."

Heat rushed to Francesca's cheeks. The humiliation burned in her throat.

She opened her mouth to defend herself, but the massive carved wooden doors of the banquet hall suddenly swung open.

Emery strode into the room.

He brought a freezing, unapproachable aura with him. The chatter near the doors died down instantly as he walked straight toward Francesca.

He didn't hesitate. He reached out, his large hand wrapping firmly around her waist, and pulled her flush against his side.

Francesca's body went completely rigid at the sudden, unexpected contact.

Emery's dark eyes locked onto Marion. They were devoid of any warmth.

"The hostess of the Kirkland family does not need to memorize a few old paintings to prove her worth," Emery's voice was a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the silence.

Marion's face drained of color, then flushed a mottled red. Faced with the absolute authority of the CEO, she forced a tight smile and quickly retreated with her friends.

The surrounding whispers ceased entirely.

For a split second, a tiny, foolish spark of gratitude flared in Francesca's chest. He had defended her.

She tilted her head up, parting her lips to thank him.

Her eyes met his.

They were completely empty. There was no affection, no protective warmth. Just a cold, calculating void.

Emery leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear.

"Do not embarrass this family in public again," he whispered, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "Keep your head up and act like you belong here."

The spark of gratitude froze, shattering into a million pieces of ice.

He didn't care about her feelings. He only cared about the pristine image of the Kirkland conglomerate.

"Emery!"

A sweet, melodic voice floated over the music.

Catalina, wearing a stunning, deep burgundy gown that clung to her curves, drifted toward them like a butterfly. She had her arm looped intimately through Hudson's.

The moment Catalina approached, the hand resting on Francesca's waist suddenly tightened.

Emery's grip was so forceful that Francesca almost gasped. His fingers dug painfully into her ribs.

Francesca bit the inside of her cheek to mask the pain, watching in horror as the cold mask on Emery's face melted away.

"Catalina," Emery said. His voice was entirely different now. It was soft, accommodating, and stripped of all its sharp edges. "Are you getting used to the food here? If the chef isn't to your liking, I can have them fly someone in."

The contrast was a physical blow. It felt like a backhand across Francesca's face.

"Oh, everything is perfect, Emery," Catalina smiled brightly.

As she spoke, Catalina's gaze shifted. She looked right over Emery's shoulder and locked eyes with Francesca. The triumphant, gloating look was back, clear as day.

Bile rose in the back of Francesca's throat. The hypocrisy of the two men and this woman was making her physically sick.

"Excuse me," Francesca muttered.

She didn't wait for a response. She forcefully twisted her body, breaking free from Emery's iron grip, and practically ran toward the hallway.

She pushed through the heavy doors of the women's restroom and locked herself in the furthest stall.

Her chest heaved as she dragged in ragged breaths.

She stepped out of the stall and walked to the marble sink. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked pale, exhausted, and utterly pathetic.

She turned on the faucet, letting the freezing water run over her wrists. She splashed the icy liquid onto her face, shocking her system.

She looked at her reflection, her eyes hardening into dark stones.

She would not let him touch her tonight. Not after this.

The penthouse was suffocatingly quiet.

Francesca sat at the vanity in the master bedroom, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. She reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as she unclasped the heavy diamond earrings and dropped them onto the glass surface.

The bedroom door clicked open.

Emery walked in. He had loosened his silk tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. The faint, masculine scent of expensive cigars and aged bourbon drifted into the room.

He didn't head toward the bathroom. Instead, his heavy footsteps crossed the thick carpet, stopping directly behind her chair.

His large hands descended, resting heavily on her bare shoulders.

Even through the thin silk of her nightgown, Francesca could feel the scorching heat radiating from his palms. It burned her skin.

Emery leaned down. His hot, heavy breath brushed against the shell of her ear. His lips grazed her skin, a feather-light touch that sent a violent shudder down her spine.

Normally, she would close her eyes. She would lean back into his chest and accept whatever scraps of affection he was willing to give.

Not tonight.

The image of his soft, gentle eyes looking at Catalina flashed behind her eyelids.

Francesca jerked forward, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. She dodged his kiss entirely.

Emery's hands hung in the empty air.

In the reflection of the vanity mirror, Francesca saw his dark eyes narrow. A flash of genuine shock crossed his features, quickly replaced by a dark, brewing storm of displeasure.

His jaw clenched tight. He adjusted his right cuff, a telltale sign of his rising agitation.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register he used to command boardrooms.

Francesca stood up. She turned around, forcing herself to meet his furious gaze.

"I'm tired, Emery," she said, her voice flat and hard. "I want to sleep."

Emery took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He reached out and grabbed her wrist, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones.

"A shower will wake you up," he coaxed, pulling her toward his chest. His tone left no room for negotiation. It was a demand.

Francesca planted her feet. She yanked her arm back with all her strength.

Her wrist broke free, the friction leaving a bright red mark on her pale skin.

She took a large step backward, putting the vanity stool between them. "I said no. I don't want this tonight."

The temperature in the bedroom plummeted.

Emery's jaw was locked so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stared down at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Beneath the anger, there was a frantic, chaotic energy in his eyes-the raw panic of a man watching something precious slip through his fingers.

He let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

"Have you spent so much time in that damn lab that you've forgotten your basic duties as a wife?" he sneered.

The words hit her like a physical punch to the gut.

She had given up a fellowship with a Nobel laureate for this marriage. She had sacrificed her prime research years to play the perfect Kirkland wife, and he dared to reduce her to a duty.

Francesca's teeth ground together. "If you just need a machine to fulfill a duty, go find someone else."

She didn't stop there. The pain pushed her over the edge.

"Go find the woman you couldn't take your eyes off tonight. The one you treat like fragile glass while you treat me like garbage."

Emery's pupils dilated instantly. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking almost sickly under the bedroom lights.

He lunged forward.

Francesca stumbled backward until her hips hit the hard edge of the vanity table. There was nowhere left to run.

Emery slammed both hands onto the table, trapping her between his arms. His face was inches from hers, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.

"Do not bring Catalina into this," he hissed, his voice trembling with a rage so intense it felt like a physical weight pressing down on her. "She is Hudson's fiancée. Stop acting like a paranoid, jealous child."

Francesca stared into his furious eyes. He was so desperate to defend her. He was so terrified of his secret being exposed.

The fight drained out of Francesca, leaving only a hollow, echoing void.

She turned her head away, refusing to look at him anymore.

"Get out," she whispered. Her voice wasn't angry. It was completely, terrifyingly dead. "Please, just get out."

Emery stared at her rigid profile. His chest heaved as he dragged in a ragged breath.

He pushed off the table violently.

He spun around and kicked the velvet vanity stool with his leather dress shoe. The heavy stool flew across the room, crashing into the wall.

Emery stormed out of the bedroom.

The heavy oak door slammed shut with a deafening crack that rattled the picture frames.

Francesca stood alone in the dead silence of the room, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she finally let the tears fall.

The long, mahogany dining table at the Kirkland coastal estate felt like an executioner's block.

It was the formal weekend family dinner. Francesca was seated at the very end of the table, isolated between two distant, lower-tier relatives who pointedly ignored her presence, their hushed conversations entirely excluding her.

Catalina, the glowing bride-to-be, was seated at the opposite end, placed in the seat of honor directly to Emery's right.

Francesca stared down at the plate of raw oysters resting on crushed ice in front of her. The briny, metallic smell hit her nose, and her stomach immediately rolled in protest. She kept her hands folded in her lap, refusing to touch her fork.

From the other end of the table, Catalina's eyes locked onto Francesca's untouched plate.

"Oh my goodness, Francesca," Catalina's voice pitched up, dripping with exaggerated, syrupy concern. "Are you not eating? Do you think the estate's chef didn't source the seafood fresh enough?"

The clinking of silverware stopped. The low hum of conversation died instantly.

Every single elder at the table turned their heads, their sharp, judgmental eyes pinning Francesca to her chair.

Arthur Kirkland, the family patriarch, frowned deeply, his wrinkles deepening with displeasure at the perceived insult to his household.

Francesca took a slow, shallow breath, trying to calm the nervous fluttering in her stomach.

"The food is lovely," Francesca explained softly. "I've just been having some stomach issues lately. Raw, cold food isn't sitting well with me."

Catalina immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes widening in mock horror.

"Oh! I am so sorry, I shouldn't have said anything," Catalina gasped. Then, she tilted her head, her voice carrying clearly down the table. "I suppose growing up in your old neighborhood, you probably weren't accustomed to eating things like raw oysters anyway. It must be hard to adjust to our diet."

The insult was wrapped in a bow of fake sympathy. It was a direct, brutal strike at Francesca's middle-class background.

Several aunts sitting nearby let out muffled, condescending snickers.

The humiliation burned the back of Francesca's neck. She instinctively turned her head, her eyes seeking out the man sitting at the head of the table.

She just needed one word from him. One look of support.

Emery was looking down at his plate. He held a silver knife in his right hand, slowly and methodically slicing through a piece of Beef Wellington.

He didn't blink. He didn't look up. His perfect, chiseled profile was as cold and unmoving as a marble statue. He was completely ignoring his wife's public execution.

Francesca's heart plummeted, hitting the floor of her stomach. The fallout from their argument last night was bleeding into today. He was punishing her.

Seeing Emery's silence, Catalina's smile grew sharper. She picked up her crystal flute filled with chilled champagne.

"Well, let's not let my clumsiness ruin the mood!" Catalina announced cheerfully. "I want to propose a toast to my upcoming engagement. Francesca, you simply must drink to this."

Catalina stared down the length of the table, her eyes locking onto Francesca with a vicious, daring glare.

Francesca looked at the glass of ice-cold champagne sitting next to her plate. The condensation was dripping down the stem. If she drank that on an empty, irritated stomach, the pain would be excruciating.

But if she refused, she would be branded as the jealous, bitter woman trying to ruin the family celebration.

She looked at Emery again.

This time, Emery raised his head.

His dark eyes met hers through the flickering light of the candelabras. There was no sympathy in his gaze. Only a cold, calculating judgment.

"It's Catalina's toast," Emery said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Just drink it, Francesca."

The words struck her chest like a physical blow. It was a death sentence delivered by her own husband.

Francesca's hand trembled as she reached out. Her cold fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass.

She tilted her head back and downed the freezing liquid in one go.

The icy champagne slid down her throat and hit her stomach like a ball of lead.

Almost instantly, a sharp, violent cramp seized her abdomen. It felt like a fist twisting her insides.

Francesca slammed the glass back onto the table. Her face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ashen white. She bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out, her teeth leaving deep, red indentations in the soft flesh.

Catalina smiled in deep satisfaction, turning back to Hudson to resume her lively chatter.

Francesca sat frozen in her chair, clutching her stomach under the table. Surrounded by the laughter and clinking glasses of the Kirkland family, she had never felt more entirely, hopelessly alone.