Chapter 100

~ Clinton ~

Seeing Octavia looking lifeless on that hospital bed had shattered something deep inside me. How did the world shift so violently in a single day? One minute, we were two people connected by a complicated, unspoken pull; the next, she was a ghost in a gown, her vibrant spirit silenced by machines. The haunted look on her parents’ faces had tugged at my heart, but it was Franklin’s territorial display that truly fueled my rage.

How dare he play the part of the devoted, protective husband now? He was the reason she was stressed, the reason she was rushing, the reason her life had become a battlefield.

His refusal to let me stay was a calculated insult, a way to remind me that on paper, he owned her space.

But paper didn’t account for the soul, and I knew Octavia needed more than a man who only appreciated her once she was broken.

The following day at work was a wash. I stared at spreadsheets until the numbers blurred into gray static. Every time the office phone rang, my heart leaped into my throat, hoping for a miracle—a call saying she had opened her eyes. She had looked so small in that bed, stripped of the fire that usually defined her.

I wanted to be there, to hold her hand and tell her that she wasn’t alone, but Franklin had barred the gates of her recovery like a jealous king.

On the drive home, the "accident" played on a loop in my mind. Poise like Octavia’s didn’t just vanish. She didn’t "stumble" into a coma.

A fall that violent required a catalyst—a shove, a trip, a force. Was it a disgruntled colleague? A random intruder? Or was it something far more surgical?

A sudden, deafening honk snapped me back to reality. I realized I’d drifted into the middle of an intersection, my foot frozen on the brake.

"Hey, buddy! Move it or sell it! You’re blocking the whole lane!" the driver behind me bellowed.

"Sorry!" I shouted back, waving a hand in apology as I accelerated. My hands were shaking against the steering wheel. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t sit in my silent apartment and wonder.

I needed to confront the one person who gained the most from the chaos in the Flemington circle.

I pulled a sharp U-turn, tires protesting against the asphalt. I was going back to the estate. I was going to confront the devil in his own den.

The Harrington estate felt colder than usual as I pulled up the driveway. I had fled this place to escape the shadow of my father’s ambition, yet here I was, drawn back by the very darkness I tried to leave behind.

As I stepped into the foyer, I was met by a middle-aged woman in a crisp maid’s uniform. Trudy had clearly wasted no time in revitalizing the household staff.

"Good evening, sir," she greeted me, startled by my sudden entrance.

Another woman was descending the grand staircase carrying a silver tray.

"Good evening. You must be the new staff," I said, my voice tight.

"Yes, sir. I am Cleo Daniels," she replied, her eyes widening as she connected the dots. "Oh! You must be Master Clinton. Senior Harrington’s son."

"That’s me. Is my father in?"

"He just stepped out for a moment, but he should be back shortly," she said.

"I’ll wait for him in his study," I told her, already heading for the stairs.

"Would you like a drink while you wait, sir? Or perhaps some dinner?"

"I’m fine, Cleo. Thank you. And Trudy? Is she around?"

"She’s at the market getting groceries. She should be back soon as well."

I nodded and climbed the stairs, every step feeling like a descent into a past I hated. I entered my father’s study—a room that smelled of expensive leather, stale cigar smoke, and cold calculated malice. I sat in the shadows of the corner chair and waited.

Half an hour later, the roar of an engine announced his return. I heard his sharp, demanding voice downstairs, followed by his heavy tread on the stairs. He entered the room with his phone pressed to his ear, mid-sentence.

"...I don’t care about the margins, just ensure the leverage is absolute. I’ll call you back." He snapped the phone shut and finally noticed me. He didn’t flinch, but his eyes narrowed into icy slits. "Hello, Clinton. To what do I owe the pleasure of this haunting?"

"We need to talk, Dad." I stood up, my hands shoved deep into my pockets to hide their trembling.

"Why? You walked out of this house without a backward glance. Why come back to crawl through my study?"

"Because of Octavia Herman," I blurted out.

My father’s eyebrows rose in a mocking arch. "Octavia Herman? I assume you’ve come to cry on my shoulder about her little tumble."

"Don’t act like you don’t know what happened," I snapped, stepping into the light of his desk lamp. "She’s in a coma. She fell down a stairwell at JeffTech. It was a ’mighty fall,’ according to the reports."

"Tragic," he said, though his voice was as dry as parchment. He opened a humidor and pulled out a thick cigar. "But why are you telling me? I’m not a doctor."

"Did you have anything to do with it?" I asked, the question hanging in the air like a guillotine.

My father paused, his lighter midway to the tip of his cigar. He chuckled—a low, dark sound that made my skin crawl. "Why would I waste my resources on a stairwell? If I wanted to break the Flemingtons, I would do it in the boardroom, not a utility closet."

"Because you’re obsessed!" I shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. "You spent months trying to get me to spy on her, to use her as a wedge to destroy Franklin and his grandfather. You hate that family so much you don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. Did you hire someone to ’remove’ her from the board meeting?"

He took a long, slow drag of his cigar, blowing a plume of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "I don’t need to explain my movements to a son who doesn’t even use my last name with pride. But I will say this: I had nothing to do with her accident. Her clumsiness is her own."

"I don’t believe you."

"That is your cross to bear, Clinton. Not mine." He leaned back in his leather chair, looking every bit the king of a crumbling empire.

"Listen to me," I said, leaning over his desk until we were eye to eye. "If I find out you had a hand in this—if I find even a shred of evidence that you touched her life—you will regret the day you ever called yourself my father. I will dismantle everything you’ve built."

My father’s eyes flared with a sudden, dangerous heat. "Are you threatening me? In my own home?"

"No," I whispered. "I’m promising you."

He laughed then, a loud, booming sound that lacked any real mirth. "I see! The boy finally grew a spine. It’s a pity you’re using it to defend a woman who belongs to your enemy. You aren’t my son anymore, Clinton. My son died with his mother. You’re just a ghost haunting my halls."

The words cut deep, a jagged blade to the ribs, but I didn’t let him see me bleed. "Good. Then you won’t mind when I start watching your every move."

I turned on my heel and marched out, my blood singing with a mixture of pain and purpose.

As I reached the foyer, Trudy was just entering with bags of groceries. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

"Master Clinton!" she said, her face lighting up before she saw my expression. "Cleo said you were upstairs. Did... did things go alright?"

"We talked, Trudy. That’s all." I forced a smile that felt like a mask.

"You look like you’ve been in a war, dear." She set the bags down and stepped close, patting my cheek with a mother’s tenderness.

"How is Octavia?"

"She’s still in a coma," I said, the weight of the word sitting heavy on my tongue. "It’s bad."

"Oh, Lord," she whispered, clutching her chest. "I’ll keep her in my prayers, Master Clinton. Truly. She seemed like such a lovely girl."

"Thank you, Trudy. I appreciate that." I moved toward the door, needing the open air.

"The house looks good. You’ve done a great job with the new staff."

"Drive safe, Master Clinton. Call me tomorrow?"

"I will. Goodnight, Trudy."

I drove away from the estate, the silhouette of the massive house disappearing in my rearview mirror.

My father might have denied it, but the man was a master of lies.

Whether it was him, Franklin’s enemies, or someone else entirely, Octavia was a target. And as long as she was asleep, she was defenseless.

I wouldn’t let Franklin shut me out again. I would protect her, even if I had to burn down both our families to do it.