The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Genius Comeback

The sun was already rising over the Boston skyline when Francesca's Uber pulled into the underground parking garage of her penthouse building.

Her body ached with the deep, bone-weary exhaustion of pulling an all-nighter, but her mind felt sharper than it had in years.

She stepped out of the car. As she walked toward the private elevator, the heel of her shoe caught the uneven edge of a yellow speed bump.

Her ankle twisted violently outward with a sickening pop.

A blinding flash of pain shot up her leg. Francesca gasped, biting her tongue so hard she tasted copper. She stumbled forward, catching herself against the concrete pillar to keep from collapsing onto the dirty floor.

Breathing heavily through her nose, she dragged her injured right foot, limping agonizingly toward the elevator doors.

She pressed the button. The doors slid open to the penthouse floor.

Francesca froze.

Emery was standing directly outside the elevator. His face was a mask of dark, brewing violence. He looked like he hadn't slept; his shirt was wrinkled, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.

His furious gaze dropped from her face and landed on her shoulders.

She was still wearing Leo's oversized, plaid flannel shirt over her evening gown.

Emery's pupils contracted into tiny, dangerous pinpricks.

He lunged forward. His large hand shot out, wrapping like a steel vice around her wrist. He yanked her out of the elevator with terrifying force.

"Emery, stop!" Francesca cried out.

Her injured ankle couldn't support the sudden movement. Her leg gave out, and she crashed hard against his solid chest.

Emery didn't let her fall. Instead, he spun her around and slammed her back against the cold marble wall of the foyer.

"Did you spend the entire night with that pathetic loser Leo?" Emery snarled, his face inches from hers. The smell of stale tobacco and black coffee rolled off his breath.

Francesca's heart hammered against her ribs. The sheer hypocrisy of his jealousy ignited a fire in her veins.

"What does it matter to you?" she spat back, her eyes blazing with defiance. "Take your hands off me!"

Her rebellion snapped the last thread of his control.

Emery ducked his head and crashed his lips down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a brutal, punishing assault. His mouth moved over hers with a savage intensity, his teeth scraping against her bottom lip until she tasted blood. He pressed his body flush against hers, trapping her completely against the marble.

Francesca panicked. She brought her hands up, pushing frantically against his hard shoulders, twisting her body to escape.

In her violent struggle, she put her full weight on her right foot.

A sharp, agonizing scream tore from her throat against his mouth.

Emery froze instantly.

He ripped his mouth away, his chest heaving. He looked down.

Francesca's right ankle was already swollen to the size of a tennis ball, the skin turning an ugly, bruised purple against the straps of her heel.

The violent rage vanished from Emery's eyes, replaced instantly by a raw, naked panic.

Without a word, he bent his knees and scooped her up into his arms.

"Put me down!" Francesca sobbed, hitting his chest.

"Stop moving, you'll fracture the bone," Emery barked, though his voice shook slightly.

He carried her into the living room and laid her down on the leather sofa with an agonizing slowness, as if she were made of spun glass.

He immediately pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the private concierge doctor.

After hanging up, Emery dropped to one knee on the rug beside the sofa. He stared at her swollen ankle, his large hands hovering over the bruised skin, trembling slightly, too terrified to actually touch it and cause her more pain.

Francesca looked down at him. The sheer terror and heartbreak etched into his features made her breath catch. For a second, just one second, she thought maybe he actually cared.

Then, the phone sitting on the glass coffee table lit up.

A bright, cheerful ringtone echoed through the quiet room.

The name "Catalina" flashed across the screen in bold letters.

Emery's hands froze in mid-air. His head snapped toward the phone.

He looked at the screen, then looked back at Francesca, who was biting her lip in pain on the sofa.

The silence stretched for two agonizing seconds.

Emery stood up.

He walked over to the table, picked up the phone, and swiped to answer. He turned his back to Francesca, walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"I'm here," Emery said into the receiver. His voice was tight, serious. He listened for a moment. "Don't panic. I'll be right there."

He ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket.

He turned back to Francesca. The panic for her injury was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of the CEO.

"The doctor is on his way up," Emery said briskly. "An emergency came up. I have to go handle it."

He didn't wait for her to reply. He grabbed his car keys from the console table and walked out the front door.

The heavy door clicked shut.

Francesca lay on the sofa, staring at the empty space where he had just been. The throbbing pain in her ankle was nothing compared to the absolute, freezing void expanding in her chest.