Chapter 11
Francis ignored him, lifting his glass and downing the contents.
Wesley poured him another, his voice laden with implication, "Think it through, don't end up full of regrets like me."
Francis's sharp gaze deepened. His elegant fingers gripped the glass, and he swallowed another mouthful.
"You planning on getting smashed? Need me to drop you off somewhere later?" Wesley teased with a smile.
"Your place."
Francis downed his drink—no more soft-heartedness.
...
After some rest, Harper returned to her duties, and her composure regained.
With Francis's intentions made crystal clear, she was determined not to cling to hope. Being that vulnerable once was enough.
She wouldn't lose herself to despair.
She wasn't alone. She had her baby and grandmother. No matter what the future held, she'd face it with strength.
Monday was bustling at the office.
After wrapping up her work, Harper carved out half an hour before the end of the day to brief Assistant Sunny White from her team about the CEO's routines.
Sunny listened, utterly perplexed.
All these tasks had always been Harper's domain. Why was she handing them over to him? He was just an intern!
Just as Sunny was about to question her, the intercom buzzed.
Francis wanted to see her.
Harper pulled an envelope from her drawer and headed to his office.
She waited silently by the doorway as a marketing executive gave a report.
Once the exec was gone, Francis looked up. "Come here."
She approached, and he retrieved some papers from his drawer, sliding them across the desk toward her with his long fingers.
"Take a look. Let me know if there's anything you're not okay with."
Her eyes lifted to the document. The title "Divorce Agreement" stung, even though she was prepared. It was really over between them.
"Sit down and read," he instructed.
Obediently, she sat and flicked through the papers rapidly, blinking hard to dispel the sting of impending tears.
Francis was being generous—two luxurious homes and a check for fifty million.
To secure a swift divorce and to demonstrate his sincerity, he had made sure to lay all his cards on the table.
Francis, annoyed by Harper’s concentration on the documents, casually unbuttoned his top two buttons while explaining, "Chloe’s health isn’t great. She can’t wait too long…"
"I understand," Harper cut in, her eyes lifting to meet his, clear and pure. "But I can't sign this agreement."
For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Francis felt a sudden relief, like a knot in his chest had loosened.
His posture relaxed, his slender, attractive fingers drummed lightly on the table as he probed gently, "What’s not to your satisfaction?"
Harper mustered a forced smile, striving to maintain her composure. "I agree to the divorce. I just don't need any compensation."
Handing over the divorce papers she had already signed, they were decidedly uncluttered by conditions. In essence, they encapsulated a simple message. Walk away with nothing, no strings attached.
She wasn’t acting out of pride. She held their marriage in high regard and refused to treat it as a mere transaction. Besides, she had a good job with decent pay, a mortgaged apartment to her name, and enough savings to cover her grandmother's medical expenses.
The frustration that Francis had just subdued flared up again, leaving him unexpectedly panicked. "Are you sure about this?"
His expression hardened, his piercing gaze accentuating each word as if grinding them out with clenched teeth.
Harper perceived his discontent but recognized it was no longer her place to worry. Gently, she proposed, "Mr. Getty, the courthouse closes in forty minutes. We can still make it if we leave now."
"…"
Francis’s frown deepened, troubled by her eagerness. ‘Was she really in such a hurry to leave?’
He glanced at the woman before him, who just the other night lay in his arms, alluring and radiant. Yet now she looked distant and detached, like a stranger with no remaining ties.
Francis retorted, his voice icy. "I'm meeting with Mr. Hanson shortly!"
"If I may, Mr. Getty, you might be mistaken. Mr. Hanson's appointment is scheduled for tomorrow evening."
Harper even flipped open her tablet, showing him the schedule and inviting him to take a look.
Francis felt an itch at the root of his teeth, barely concealing his annoyance as he gritted out, "No mistake. He called to confirm!"
"Fine, then."
"If that's all, you can go now!"
The unchecked disarray in his heart made Francis unable to bear her presence any longer.
Harper felt an unintended tug at her heart at his resentful demeanor but consoled herself with the thought that it wouldn't be long before he would see her again.
Rising, she handed him an envelope she’d kept close, her voice soft. "Mr. Getty, this is my letter of resignation."
"Harper, who was it that insisted on this job? Now you just walk away like it's nothing—do you think the workplace is some sort of playground?" Francis's handsome face darkened with fury, confronting her. Without waiting for an answer, he waved dismissively, "Leave."
He obviously didn't want to see her.
Harper remained silent and obediently left the room. Behind her, the sound of something shattering came from the closed office, crisp and distinct.
She couldn't figure out what kind of quirk Francis had—who in their right mind would want their ex-wife as an assistant?
...
The next day, Francis became unexpectedly busy. An overseas subsidiary review, previously on the back burner, was suddenly moved up, taking him away for a hectic four days until his return on Friday. Harper agonized over these days, finally seizing a chance in the afternoon to visit the office.
Just as she was about to speak, Victor barged in, announcing there was urgent business to report. Harper had no choice but to turn around to leave, but Francis called out to her, forcing her to stop in her tracks and wait quietly to the side.
Harper appeared distant, her mind elsewhere, as she hadn’t seen him in days, in contrast, Francis seemed composed and stylish, dressed in a white shirt with black tie and dark trousers, exuding an air of allure.
While Harper was observing him, he suddenly looked up. Feeling his intense gaze, she quickly diverted her eyes, hanging her head low to regain her composure.
The room was silent except for Victor’s voice.
Victor himself didn't understand why the boss had suddenly asked for a report on a failed project, unprepared as he was. He had to wing it, spouting a mix of coherent and incoherent statements, surprisingly serious to Francis, who seemed to detect no flaws.
...
When the grueling report finally ended, Victor swiftly exited. Francis tossed the report onto the desk, his tone icy as he pressed his brows together, "What is it?"
Harper checked the time, figuring it was tight but not necessarily too late. She respectfully asked, “Mr. Getty, do you have time to go to the Courthouse now?”
At her words, a frown creased Francis' forehead even deeper. He should've just left her hanging, not allowed her to speak.
"No time."
With that, he rose, snatched his coat from the back of his chair, and prepared to leave. As he passed by, he bent down—a handsome face shadowed with cold intent, an invisible weight pressing down.
He looked into her eyes, his voice chillingly sharp, “Is that how much you want this divorce?”
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