Chapter 102

~ Franklin ~

The sterile, white-washed air of the VIP wing felt colder than usual as I pushed through the heavy double doors. Inside the private ward, the silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, artificial sigh of the ventilator. Patricia Herman was exactly where I expected her to be: perched on a small stool by Octavia’s side, her forehead resting against the mattress. Her eyes were closed, her face a map of exhaustion and grief.

I moved with practiced stealth, crossing the room to the opposite side of the bed. I didn’t want to startle her. I reached for the empty crystal vase on the nightstand and carefully placed the bouquet of orchids and sunflower inside. The soft rustle of the plastic wrap was enough to break the quiet.

Patricia stirred, her eyes fluttering open. She blinked up at me, momentarily disoriented by the harsh fluorescent light, before she slumped back against her chair. "Oh...it’s just you, Franklin," she mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her face.

"It’s me," I whispered, my gaze drifting to Octavia’s pale, immobile features. "How is she? Any change since this morning?"

Patricia shrugged, a helpless, jerky movement. "Still the same. Immobilized. The nurses come in, they check the tubes, they flip her over...but she’s not there. My daughter isn’t in there right now."

I felt a sharp pang of guilt in my chest—a familiar, gnawing companion. "Don’t lose heart, Mrs. Herman. She’s fighting. She just needs time to find her way back. She will wake up."

"I hope so," she sighed, her voice cracking. "But the hours are turning into days, and every sunrise feels like a countdown I don’t understand."

I reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "You look completely spent, Patricia. When was the last time you ate or had a full night’s sleep?"

"I can’t leave her," she insisted, though her head was nodding with fatigue. "If I go home, the walls will just close in on me. At least here, I can hear her heart beating, even if it’s through a machine."

"Listen to me," I said, my tone shifting into the firm, authoritative voice I used in the boardroom. "You are exhausted. If Octavia wakes up tomorrow and sees you’ve made yourself sick with worry, she’ll be furious. You know how she is. She’d spend her first waking hour lecturing you about self-care instead of recovering. Go home. Bathe. Sleep."

She looked at me, a flicker of a smile touching her lips. "She is a bit of a drill sergeant when it comes to family, isn’t she?"

"Exactly. So, do us both a favor and get some rest. I’ll stay here with her until this evening."

"What about Ben?" she asked.

"He was called into the office for an emergency, but he won’t be long. I’ll call him and tell him to go straight home after his meeting. I’ll have Walter, my driver, take you home right now."

I didn’t wait for her to argue. I pulled my phone from my jacket and dialed Walter. He picked up on the first ring. "Pick up Mrs. Herman at the front entrance," I commanded. "Drop her at her door and make sure she gets inside safely."

"He’s on his way up," I told Patricia as I tucked the phone away.

She stood up slowly, her joints popping. She looked from Octavia to me, her expression softening in a way that surprised me. "You know, Franklin...when your grandfather first announced this arrangement, you were so livid. You couldn’t imagine being shackled to a girl like my Octavia. But these last two years...I see how much you’ve changed. The way you look at her now..."

"Would you believe me if I said she’s the one who did the changing?" I asked, a ghost of a smile appearing on my face.

"I think I would," she nodded. "Do you love her, Franklin?"

"With everything I am," I said. The words didn’t feel heavy; they felt like the only truth I had left.

Patricia smiled, a genuine, tearful look, and patted my hand. "I’m glad. She deserves to be loved that way."

Walter arrived a few minutes later to usher her out. Once the door clicked shut, the room felt cavernous. I sank into the vinyl chair she had vacated, the material groaning under my weight. I reached out and took Octavia’s hand—it was limp, the skin unnervingly cool.

"When are you coming back to me, baby?" I whispered. "The world is too quiet without you."

My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting the PI, but it was a New York area code I didn’t recognize. I hit answer.

"Hello?"

"Flemington. It’s Clinton."

My jaw tightened instantly. "Harrington? How the hell did you get my private number?"

"I have my ways," he said, his voice sounding filtered through a breeze. "Actually, I lied to Octavia’s team leader, Miranda. Told her I needed to discuss an investment deal that would benefit the firm. She handed it over without a second thought."

"What do you want, Clinton? I’m not in the mood for your theatrics."

"We need to talk. Properly. I’m at Prudence’s—the diner on the Upper West Side. I’m sitting in the back booth."

"And what makes you think I’d leave my wife’s bedside to meet you for bad coffee?"

"Because it’s about Octavia’s ’accident,’" he said, emphasizing the word. "I don’t think it was an accident at all."

I went still. "I’ll be there in an hour."

I called a private nurse to sit with Octavia, giving her strict instructions not to let anyone — anyone — else in the room. Then I headed to the diner.

The bell chimed as I entered Prudence’s. It was a local haunt, greasy and dim. I spotted Clinton in the back, a glass of untouched iced tea in front of him. I slid into the booth opposite him, my eyes hard.

"I’m all ears," I said, skipping the pleasantries. "What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?"

"I don’t think she fell, Franklin. I think she was pushed."

"I already know that," I said, leaning forward. "I saw the security footage. I saw the shadow. I saw the glove. Tell me something I don’t know."

Clinton blinked, looking surprised that I was ahead of him. "Fine. Then try this: I went to confront my father last night. I thought maybe he’d hired someone to clip her wings just to get at you."

I felt a surge of adrenaline. "And? Did your old man confess?"

"No. He denied it. But he’s a Harrington—denial is his primary language. I’m watching him, but I’m starting to think the threat might be closer to home. Someone who knew her schedule. Someone who knew the blind spots in that stairwell."

I leaned back, my mind racing. "Whoever is playing these games is going to regret it. I’ve already lost one investigator to a threat."

"That’s why I’m here," Clinton said, his voice dropping. "I think we should investigate this together. Two heads are better than one, Franklin. You have the resources of Flemington Global, and I have the eyes inside the Harrington camp. If we pool our information, we can find out who did this before they try to finish the job."

I stared at him. The sheer audacity of the man—the man who wanted my wife—asking to be my partner. I let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"What’s so funny?" he asked, frowning.

"You expect me to link arms with you? You, who can’t stop looking at my wife like she’s the prize at the end of a race? I don’t need your help, Harrington. I have enough power to flatten whoever did this on my own."

"And how’s that working out for you so far?" he shot back. "Octavia is in a coma. You’re flailing in the dark, Franklin. I care about her. Whether you like it or not, I’m involved."

I stood up, the legs of the table scraping harshly against the floor. "I’m her husband. I’m the one who sits by her bed. I’m the one who will find the culprit. I don’t need a sidekick, especially not one with your motives."

"Don’t let your ego be the reason she’s still in danger," Clinton called out as I turned to leave.

I didn’t answer. I walked out of the diner and climbed into the back of the limo. Clinton was right—two heads were better than one—but the thought of working with him made my stomach churn with jealousy. He was too close. He knew too much.

I returned to the hospital and resumed my post in the vinyl chair. I looked at Octavia, her chest rising and falling in that slow, mechanical rhythm.

"I’ll handle it alone," I whispered to the empty room. "I don’t need him. I’ll find them, Octavia. I’ll find them and I’ll make them pay."

But, I couldn’t help but wonder if my pride was a luxury I could no longer afford.