Chapter 119

~ Franklin ~

The moment I powered on my phone in the hospital corridor, a single notification lit up the screen: a voicemail from Clinton. Of all the people in the world, he was the last voice I wanted to hear right now. My thumb hovered over the delete button, but something—call it gut instinct or sheer curiosity—stopped me. I stepped farther down the hallway, away from Octavia’s door, and pressed play.

"Hey, Flemington. This is Clinton. I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to right now, but I have something very important to tell you. Something about Octavia’s accident. As soon as you get this, call me back, okay? I’ll be waiting. Thanks."

I stared at the phone, jaw tight. He was right—I didn’t want to talk to him. But the mention of Octavia changed everything. I couldn’t ignore it. Not when her safety was involved. I slipped the phone into my pocket, told the nurse I had an urgent work matter, and kissed Octavia’s forehead with a promise to return soon. She believed it was just business. I hated the small lie, but I hated the idea of worrying her more.

Outside the hospital, the midday sun felt too bright against the tension coiling in my chest. I dialed Clinton before I could second-guess myself. He answered on the first ring.

"Hey, Flemington. We need to talk, and I’m glad you called."

"Skip the pleasantries," I cut in, voice low and sharp. "Tell me why you called."

"Did Miranda Lawson call you this morning? Or even yesterday?"

I frowned, stepping aside as an ambulance siren wailed past. "Miranda Lawson from JeffTech?" 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

"Yes. That one."

"No. Why the hell would she call me? I didn’t have any meeting scheduled with her or her team." My confusion sharpened into suspicion. "Why are you asking?"

"Nothing...I was just wondering." He trailed off, and the silence stretched.

"Wondering about what?" I pressed, irritation rising.

Another long pause. I could practically hear him choosing his words.

"Look, if this is some kind of game you’re playing—" I started.

"It’s not a game, Franklin. This is about Octavia."

The name hit like a punch. My grip tightened on the phone. "What about her?"

"That’s why I need us to talk in person."

I exhaled slowly, weighing my options. Part of me wanted to hang up and walk away. The other part—the part that would burn the world down for my wife—couldn’t let it go.

"Fine," I said at last. "But if I show up and this turns out to be a waste of my time, I’m leaving. Understood?"

"Yeah. I got it."

"Where?"

"There’s a diner in Brooklyn called The Sweet Spot. It’s near Brooklyn General—"

"I know the place," I interrupted. "I’ll be there."

"I’ll be waiting."

I ended the call and flagged down a cab. My grandfather had taken the limo with Walter, so I had no choice but to slide into the worn back seat of a yellow taxi. As the city blurred past the window, my mind raced. What could Clinton possibly know that I didn’t? And why the sudden urgency about Miranda? The questions gnawed at me, mixing with the protective anger I felt every time I thought of Octavia lying in that hospital bed, memories shattered.

The Sweet Spot was a quiet, old-school diner with checkered floors and the comforting smell of coffee and pancakes. I spotted Clinton in a corner booth, looking as tense as I felt. I slid in across from him without a greeting.

"This better be good," I said, voice flat.

"It will be."

I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Talk."

"Don’t get mad, but I did something behind your back. It was for Octavia’s sake and—"

"What did you do?" I interrupted, already feeling the heat rise in my chest.

"I’ve been investigating Octavia’s accident. On my own."

I stared at him, fury flashing hot and immediate. "I’m already mad."

"I know, that’s why—"

"Why the hell would you go behind my back?" My voice rose despite myself. A few heads turned our way. "Did I give you permission, Harrington?"

"You didn’t. But I couldn’t just sit there doing nothing while her case went cold. I needed to do something."

"By sneaking around like this?" I half-yelled. More customers glanced over. "I told you I could handle it. I told you to stay out of it after you offered to work together. Your stubbornness got the best of you."

"Octavia is my friend," he shot back, defensive.

"And she’s my wife, damn it!" I slammed my fist on the table. The salt shaker rattled. A couple nearby flinched.

"Sir," the manager of the restaurant appeared from the kitchen, adjusting his tie "if there’s going to be any violence, I’m going to have to ask you both to take it outside. This is a restaurant, not a wrestling ring."

Clinton raised his hands in surrender. "It’s okay. There won’t be any violence. Sorry about that."

The manager gave us a long, warning look before retreating.

"Calm down, Flemington," Clinton muttered.

"Stop the investigation," I ordered, still seething.

"I’m not your enemy here. We both want the same thing—justice for Octavia."

"We both want the same thing? Like getting Octavia all to ourselves?" The words tasted bitter. I knew the truth about his feelings; I’d seen it in his eyes for months.

Clinton tilted his jaw but didn’t deny it. "I won’t lie—I do have feelings for her. But that’s not what we need to talk about right now."

I started to stand. "Then the conversation is over. Drop it."

"Wait." His voice stopped me halfway out of the booth. "Octavia has an enemy at work."

I froze, back still turned. Slowly, I sat back down.

"I spoke with her yesterday. Her name is Bella Washington."

The name landed like a grenade. Shock rippled through me. "Bella Washington?"

The recognition on my face must have been obvious, because Clinton leaned in. "You know exactly who she is."

I dragged a hand down my face and sighed. "I know her. She was my ex-girlfriend."

"Before or after you got married?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"That’s none of your business."

"It is—because your honesty might be what moves this investigation forward."

"You’re not dropping this, are you?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"No." He shook his head.

"So Bella Washington was your ex," he said, a hint of dark curiosity in his tone. "How did she take the breakup?"

"Not well." I shook my head, memories flashing—her tears, her accusations, the way she had clung to the idea that I would come back. "She was angry. Jealous."

Clinton’s expression hardened. "That jealousy could be motive. Her colleagues painted her as someone who removes anyone who stands in her way. If she saw Octavia as the woman who took you from her..."

"You think she pushed Octavia?" I asked, the idea twisting something ugly inside me.

"It’s possible. She doesn’t have to have done it herself. She could have hired someone."

"I watched the security footage," he continued. "Bella was in her office at the exact time Octavia was pushed. Solid alibi on camera. But alibis can be staged. She might be the suspect pulling strings, not the one with her hands on your wife."

I processed it all, the diner noise fading into the background. The possibility that Bella—my past—could have reached into my present and hurt Octavia made my blood run cold.

"You asked about Miranda earlier," I said quietly.

"I wanted to reach you first. I figured if she called you with her version of events, you’d be even angrier. She seemed... protective of Bella."

"Despite everything, I’m still angry, Harrington."

"I know." He looked almost regretful. "Should we work together on this? Get to the bottom of it properly?"

I stood, straightening my jacket. "I’ll think about it. For now, do nothing. I mean it."

"No pressure." He nodded. "How’s she doing? Octavia?"

"She’s fine," I said curtly, then walked out.

The cab ride back toward my office gave me space to think. Clinton’s theory about Bella felt too plausible to dismiss. I didn’t know her capable of violence, but I also hadn’t known her capable of letting go. If she was involved, she would pay. No question.

By the time the cab pulled up to my building, I had made a decision. I pulled out my phone and dialed my grandfather. I needed a better private investigator than Kane—someone sharper, more relentless. Someone who could dig into Bella, the accident, and that mysterious number that had sent Octavia the nude photos of me. The two threads felt connected, and I was going to unravel them both.

Octavia deserved the truth. And I would burn every secret standing in the way of giving it to her.