The Unwanted Wife's Spectacular Genius Comeback

The Sunday brunch at the Kirkland coastal estate was a display of suffocating wealth and forced smiles.

Francesca limped slowly into the sunroom, heavily relying on a custom-made wooden cane. Her right ankle was tightly bound in a thick white medical bandage.

As she entered, Emery's head snapped up. His hands gripped the edge of the table, and he instinctively started to rise from his chair to help her.

Francesca shot him a look so incredibly cold and dead that it pinned him to his seat.

She bypassed the empty chair next to him and pulled out a wicker chair at the absolute furthest end of the table, sitting down with a quiet wince.

The elders offered a few obligatory, hollow words of sympathy about her "clumsy fall" before immediately returning their attention to the main event: the engagement party.

Catalina sat next to Hudson, practically glowing. She picked up a silver knife and playfully smeared cream cheese over Hudson's bagel, giggling at something he whispered.

Suddenly, Catalina set the knife down. She let out a long, dramatic sigh, her shoulders slumping as she looked around the table.

"Hudson and I are so excited to move into the West Wing," Catalina said, her voice dripping with a delicate, helpless anxiety. "But I have to admit, I'm a little overwhelmed. There are so many traditions and rules in the Kirkland household that I just don't know yet."

Catalina turned her head. Her large, doe-like eyes locked directly onto Emery.

"Emery," she said softly, her voice carrying a perfectly calibrated tone of pleading. "It would mean the world to us if you and Francesca could move back into the main house for a while. Just until the engagement party. Having the CEO and the current hostess here to guide us would make me feel so much safer."

The sunroom fell dead silent.

The elders exchanged approving glances, nodding at Catalina's display of "respect" for the family hierarchy.

Francesca's hand clamped around her ceramic coffee mug. Her knuckles turned stark white.

Moving back to the estate meant giving up the sanctuary of the penthouse. It meant living under the constant, suffocating scrutiny of Marion and the elders, and worse, living under the same roof as Catalina.

"That won't be possible," Francesca said clearly, her voice cutting through the silence. "My research project at the lab is entering a critical phase. The commute from the estate to Cambridge is too long."

Marion scoffed loudly, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, please, Francesca," Marion sneered. "Are you really going to put some meaningless data numbers above the unity and tradition of this family? Catalina is asking for your help."

Francesca took a deep breath, fighting the urge to snap back. She turned her gaze to the head of the table.

Emery held the absolute veto power. He knew how much she hated this house. He knew she needed the lab.

Emery was staring into his black coffee. His dark eyes darted briefly toward Hudson, then toward Catalina, his jaw muscles flexing.

He slowly lowered his cup. The porcelain clinked sharply against the saucer.

"Catalina's request is logical," Emery stated. His voice was hard, flat, and completely devoid of emotion.

He didn't look at Francesca as he delivered the final blow.

"We will have our staff pack our things. Francesca and I will move back into the main estate by Wednesday."

The words struck Francesca like a physical blow to the head. Her vision actually blurred for a second.

"Oh, thank you, Emery!" Catalina clapped her hands together, a massive, radiant smile breaking across her face. "I am so looking forward to spending every day with you both!"

The tension in the room evaporated. The elders smiled, pleased with Emery's authoritative decision.

Francesca felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

He didn't even consult her. He didn't even look at her.

In her mind, the truth was glaringly obvious. Emery couldn't resist the chance to live under the same roof as Catalina. He was perfectly willing to sacrifice Francesca's comfort, her work, and her sanity, just to be near the woman he truly wanted.

Francesca pushed her chair back violently. The wooden legs screeched against the tile floor.

She grabbed her cane and stood up, her injured ankle throbbing in protest.

"I've lost my appetite," she said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage.

She didn't wait to be excused. She turned and limped out of the sunroom as fast as her injury would allow.

Emery watched her retreating back. His hands were clenched into tight fists under the table. The muscles in his neck strained against his collar.

He took a sharp, shallow breath, the silence stretching agonizingly long in the wake of her departure. He forced his eyes away from the empty doorway, the muscle in his jaw ticking violently as he swallowed the words he could not say, and looked back at his brother, his expression hardening into impenetrable stone.