Chapter 301 I Really Hate You
In a flash, it felt like déjà vu.
Francis's throat tightened as old memories rushed back.
Five years ago, it was the same—one wanted a divorce, the other wanted to hold on.
Just then, a waiter walked by with dishes.
Francis noticed and, worried the waiter might bump into Harper, quickly reached out to pull her aside.
Harper saw his hand and instinctively dodged back, hitting her waist on the table corner. She frowned and let out a low groan.
Francis's breath caught, and his hand froze mid-air. He lowered it, swallowing his bitterness, and asked, "Do you hate me that much?"
She hated him so much she'd rather hurt herself than be touched by him.
Francis's eyes reddened slightly, his hurt expression striking.
Harper looked up and said coldly, "Of course, Mr. Getty, I hate you more than you can imagine."
Her words and the disgust in her eyes cut deep into Francis.
Harper didn't care about his feelings and said, "Since we're done, please move and let me go."
Francis's gaze darkened as he stood firm, blocking her way.
"Mr. Getty?" Harper called again.
"Why?" Francis's voice was icy.
Harper asked, "What?"
"Why do you hate me so much?" Francis's face was cold and stern. Since Harper's return, he'd only seen her a few times. She had no memory of him, so why the hate? He even wondered if her amnesia was a ruse to avoid him.
Harper thought Francis's mind worked differently, too straightforward.
She said helplessly, "I don't like being forced, and I hated you from the first moment I saw you."
Maybe, even though she lost her memory, the deep-seated rejection of Francis remained. Jasper hadn't told her much about her past.
Harper vaguely knew she hadn't had a good time and had suffered a lot because of Francis.
Francis's eyes were filled with suppressed pain, and the veins on his hands bulged from clenching his fists.
He stated with restraint, "I am your husband."
Francis meant his touch and intimacy were justified; Harper was his wife. How could it be called forcing?
"Mr. Getty, don't you know I have amnesia?" Harper pointed to the busy waiters and said, "To me, you're no different from a passing stranger, understand?"
Francis's lips pressed into a thin line. Suddenly, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her aside.
Francis was too quick; she was pushed into a private room.
The door slammed shut and locked with a thud.
Harper was pinned against the wall by Francis, one hand gripping her waist, the other propped against the wall by her ear. She was cornered.
The small space filled with Francis's cold scent, suffocating Harper.
Harper suddenly woke up, her breathing quickened. She pushed him and shouted, "Francis, what are you trying to do?"
Francis was extraordinarily strong. His right hand around her waist was like iron.
Harper felt tightly controlled and glared at him angrily. "Let me go!"
Francis looked down at her, his tone dangerous, "I'm a stranger?"
Harper was fed up. She didn't want to explain, but he wouldn't let go.
His grip on her waist tightened, forcing her to speak.
In pain, Harper frowned and snapped, "Francis, are you crazy?"
Anger flared up inside her. She wished she could bite him to vent her frustration.
Francis stared at her for a long time, his voice suddenly soft. "Am I really just a stranger to you?"
His question sounded so hurt.
Harper couldn't break free, a fire burning inside her. She said sternly, "I'll say it a hundred times. You're still a stranger."
The room fell silent. Francis's dark eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Please let go of me," Harper took a deep breath to calm herself.
Now calm, she knew getting angrier would only play into Francis's hands. "You wouldn't want to kiss me again, would you?"
She smiled mockingly, "Mr. Getty, are you so desperate for a woman? I can call a prostitute for you tonight."
She knew Francis's pride would make him back off after hearing this.
As expected, his eyes turned cold, and his grip loosened.
"You think I'm desperate for a woman?" His voice was icy, clearly suppressing his anger.
Harper's racing heart slowed. She knew she had hit the mark.
She said nonchalantly, "No, I barely know you. But anyone could tell from your actions that you're desperate."
To her, he was nothing.
"Mr. Getty, please move." Harper rubbed her sore wrist, impatiently.
Francis looked at her with deep, unreadable eyes.
Harper didn't care what he was thinking. She turned to leave, but he pressed her against the wall again, his cold lips covering hers.
Francis's lips pressed firmly, invading with a force that felt possessive, as if reclaiming something he believed was his
Harper's eyes widened, seeing only his cold, handsome face up close.
Realizing what was happening, she turned furious. How dare he act like this again!
His kiss wasn't satisfied with just the surface; it delved deeper. Harper bit down on his tongue.
Instantly, the taste of blood filled her mouth.
A loud slap followed, the smack of flesh echoing, freezing everything around them.
Still not satisfied, Harper stomped hard on Francis's shoe. Unfortunately, it didn't do much damage; his expression didn't change.
She regretted not wearing high heels to really hurt him.
"Mr. Getty, if you want a woman, go find your first love. Leave me alone, okay?"
Francis's face bore a clear handprint; his tongue tasted of iron.
His dark eyes narrowed, and he said, his voice hoarse with anger, "I don't want anyone else, only you."
"But I don't want you. I don't like you. I don't know you. I hate you. Isn't that clear enough?"
Harper's eyes were filled with disgust and annoyance, devoid of any other emotion.
Francis's heart felt like it was being struck by a heavy blow.
Those eyes of Harper's that once held joy now held only hatred.
Harper's right hand was still tightly held by him.
She said fiercely, "Will you let go, or should I call the police?"
Francis's heart burned with pain, and he laughed angrily, "Go ahead and call the police."
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