Chapter 24
Francis tipped her chin up, adjusting their angle with a turn of his head, sealing their lips seamlessly—no room for dissent.
His kiss was like always. It was calm and composed yet charged with an indomitable will.
Patiently, he coaxed her mouth open until his rich, masculine scent enveloped her entirely.
Leaning against the icy wall, Harper's lips tingled numbly from his scorching kiss—a stark contrast of ice and fire.
Her body trembled involuntarily, which only fueled the intensity of his advances as if he wished to devour her whole.
Terrified, Harper burst into tears.
'Why is he doing this? Doesn't he have feelings for Chloe?
'Why is he flirting with me, kissing me?'
The taste of salty tears slowed Francis's kiss, yet their lips remained locked together.
He shifted his focus to her earlobe, exhaling a hot breath. His voice was strained and husky as he uttered, "Harper."
His voice was a rough rasp.
Harper's toes curled, and she felt an overwhelming urge to cry.
She recognized the signal—he wanted to get intimate.
"Are you going to fight me?" he asked in a gravelly voice.
With tear-streaked cheeks, Harper nodded, not daring to incite him for fear of being tossed onto the bed the next second.
"Don't make me angry again," he warned her.
Like a marionette, Harper kept nodding without looking at him.
But the man before her wasn't satisfied. He grasped her chin firmly, his dark eyes piercing as he commanded, "Look at me."
Forced by his insistent fingers, Harper could do nothing but meet his gaze.
Her lips, recently ravaged, were red and swollen, glistening enticingly, which deepened the intensity in Francis's eyes.
Her usual compliance and gentleness had always made her easy to please, fulfilling his desires without question. But her sudden defiance ignited a primal urge within him, stirring the desire to conquer and dominate.
The thought of her with another man ignited a fierce jealousy in him, a desire to possess her harshly, to imprint on her who she truly belonged to.
His predatory gaze frightened Harper.
Suddenly, Francis's phone vibrated in his pocket.
Harper exhaled a sigh of relief, secretly thankful to the caller. Seeing that he was still and unmoved, she couldn't help but remind him, "Answer the phone. It could be Chloe."
Mentioning Chloe was her way to shift his attention and a reminder that his affections were supposed to lie with someone else.
Although both knew the truth, it still felt like a sting to her heart, bittersweet and slightly painful.
Francis tightened his grip on her chin, his voice low, "Do you want me to go to Chloe?"
A woman pushing a man away said more than words ever could.
The thought drove him wild.
His Adam's apple bobbed heavily, his gaze settling on the delicate swan-like curve of her neck. In a swift motion, he held her up and flung her onto the soft expanse of the bed.
Harper lay there dazed, her voice trembling with panic, "Francis, what are you doing?"
He chuckled, a sound devoid of any real amusement, "What do you think I'm going to do?"
The next second, his expensive suit jacket hit the floor.
Harper's face flushed crimson at his gesture.
Stammering, she pleaded, "I—I'm injured."
She had forgotten his fearsome possessiveness, his intolerance for challenge.
If only she had known what reckless defiance would cost her at a time like this, she wouldn't have challenged him. With her hand out of commission, escape wasn't even an option.
"Don't bother."
Francis's voice was casual, but the dark undertones in his eyes were unmistakable.
He was still dressed in his crisp white shirt and tie, an epitome of elegance, yet his words bore an undeniable vulgarity.
As Francis leaned in with intent to kiss her, Harper turned her face away.
Undeterred, he grasped her cheeks, his fingertips pressing heavily against her lips, his voice a raspy whisper, "We're not divorced yet. I have every right."
Tears pooled in the corners of Harper's eyes, spilling down her cheeks like pearls slipping off a string.
Gasping for air between sobs, she still found the resolve to curse, "Francis, you're inhumane, a total bastard, always bullying me."
At her words, Francis's resolve softened, and he tenderly kissed away her tears.
This only incensed Harper further.
'What does he take me for?
'Why do this if he doesn't love me?'
Resentment, rage, and a sense of betrayal surged within her.
Choking on her sobs, she asked, "Do you love me?"
Francis's kiss halted for a second before he pulled away, offering no reply.
Silence said it all.
Harper felt a searing pain in her heart as if it were about to burst. She had loved him for ten years, yet he couldn't spare her a moment's affection.
Incapable of exerting any strength due to her injured hand and unable to vent her frustration, Harper bit into his chiseled jawline with a ferocity that surprised even herself.
"Hiss—"
The sudden pain drew a hiss from Francis, who tightened his grip on her chin and issued a warning in a low voice, "Let go."
After Harper released him, she turned away, tears still flowing endlessly, her heartbreak unconstrained.
To Francis, her resistance appeared to stem from fidelity to another man.
Enraged but somehow amused, he scoffed, "Stop crying. I won't touch you."
Then he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
The sound of the door closing felt like an emptiness excavated from her very being, an unbearable discomfort.
Compelled by nausea, Harper stumbled to the restroom and began to retch.
It felt as though a hand was churning violently inside her stomach, the agony causing her to vomit repeatedly.
He was probably off to see Chloe... The one he truly loved...
All she ever meant to him was her body, which he'd enjoyed for two years.
Harper fought to stay quiet, tears cascading down in silence.
She shouldn't have asked and shouldn't have humiliated herself by confirming what she already knew.
'Let go,' she told herself over and over. Never again.
...
In the bar.
A group of men gathered, their presence accentuated by a couple of glamorous women.
Shadows partially obscured Francis's handsome features, but even the dim light couldn't conceal his brilliance.
The woman in the white dress felt a flirtatious itch as she picked up the bottle to pour Francis a drink, cooing, "Mr. Getty, please have a drink."
As she spoke, her hand wandered toward Francis's thigh, but before she could get close, Francis kicked out, knocking the chair from under her with a swift move.
She landed on the floor with a thud.
Francis's voice was icy as it cut through the air, "Get out."
Cradling her face, she whimpered and scurried away.
Robert, ever the peacemaker, stopped her with one hand, flipping a wad of bills her way with a mischievous grin, "Picked the wrong guy, sweetheart. Next time, come to me—I'll show you some real excitement."
Wesley's eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, "Exactly. Francis is quite the connoisseur—top-notch expertise."
The woman stuffed the bills into her cleavage and shot Robert a sultry smile, "I'll be waiting for you then."
After she left, Wesley shivered as if to shake off the heebie-jeebies, then glanced sideways at Francis, who was fiercely lighting cigarette after cigarette. Wesley couldn't help but ask, "What's gotten into you?"
He then observed Francis with the fascination of someone discovering a new world, his lips curving up.
Robert, catching on, took a closer look as well.
On Francis's stunning face was a distinct bite mark, coincidentally right on his jawline.
At that moment, the reactions around them were a mix of surprise and curiosity.
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