Chapter 201

~ Octavia ~

The address the private investigator had provided—a man Franklin had surreptitiously hired weeks before the world turned upside down—didn’t look like a theater for justice. It looked like a graveyard for lost causes. It was an abandoned cafe squeezed between two soot-stained aging buildings, a place quiet enough to be ignored by the bustling Manhattan crowds but too deliberate to be forgotten.

Locke and Holt took their positions outside the entrance, their coats flared slightly to reveal the alert readiness of their stance. I stepped into the dim, dust-moted interior alone.

He was already there. Seated in the far corner with his back to the wall, Detective Tate was a man who lived in the peripherals. His eyes scanned me the moment I crossed the threshold, calculating and cold.

"Mrs. Flemington," he said, rising just an inch. "Please, sit."

"I’m not here for the atmosphere, Detective," I said, sliding into the vinyl booth across from him. My pulse was a steady, aggressive thrum in my ears. "Show me what you’ve uncovered."

Without a word, Tate reached into his trench coat and produced a slim, unmarked file. He had contacted me an hour ago, claiming he had unearthed the final, missing piece of the puzzle Franklin had started.

"This file leads directly to the architect of the Flemingtons’ misery," Tate said, tapping the manila folder.

"Dorian Harrington," I said, the name tasting like copper in my mouth.

"And his shadow," Tate added. He opened the file and slid a photograph toward me.

It was a man I didn’t recognize—tall, with a face that looked as though it had been carved out of grey stone. He had a blank, unsettling expression, the kind of eyes that saw people as obstacles rather than human beings.

"His name is Kieran Townsend," Tate explained. "He doesn’t exist on any official Harrington Group payroll. He’s Dorian’s ghost—a loyal henchman who handles the ’delicate’ situations that requires a silencer."

A chill, thin and sharp, slid down my spine. "Be specific, Detective. What exactly did he handle?"

Tate leaned forward, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "From my ballistics reconstruction and surveillance logs, he’s the one who pulled the trigger outside that warehouse. The day you were kidnapped by Anthony Rice. The day Mr. Flemington was nearly assassinated."

My heart skipped a beat, then began to pound against my ribs. I knew the story—my mother had told me how Frederick had thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for his grandson. I had always assumed it was one of Anthony’s thugs.

"So Dorian’s man was the one who shot Frederick?" I clarified, my voice shaking with a sudden, volatile anger.

"Dorian didn’t just wanted a kidnapping, Mrs Flemington. He wanted an execution. He sent Townsend to make sure Franklin didn’t leave that warehouse alive. Frederick Flemington was simply an unexpected variable."

My jaw tightened until I thought my teeth might crack. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it was breathtaking. Dorian hadn’t just stepped in to be the acting CEO after the crash; he had been trying to clear the board for months. He was the devil in a bespoke suit.

"The evidence?" I demanded.

Tate slid more documents across the table—cell tower pings, encrypted transaction logs, and grainy surveillance stills of Townsend near the warehouse. "The payments for Townsend’s ’services’ trace back to offshore shell accounts linked to Dorian’s private holdings. It’s undeniable."

"This wasn’t just an attack," I whispered, staring at the cold face in the photo. "It was an attempted dynasty-killing."

"Yes, Mrs. Flemington. And it almost worked."

I closed the file with a decisive snap. If I kept looking at it, I was going to lose my composure. "I need copies of everything. Every log, every photo, every transaction. I want Dorian Harrington and every accomplice he’s ever spoken to in a cage."

"You’ll have it all by tonight," Tate assured me.

I stood up, the chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. "This ends now."

Half an hour later, I was at Manhattan General. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and transition, a place where people either began again or ended. Locke and Holt waited in the corridor as I entered Frederick’s private suite.

The EKG beeped its rhythmic, mechanical heart—the only sound in the room. Frederick lay there, as still as a statue, the patriarch of a fallen house. I gestured for Biggs to give us the room.

I stepped to the side of the bed, my chest tightening as I looked at the man who had traded his life for Franklin’s.

"I’m uncovering it all, Frederick," I whispered, my fingers curling gently around his hand. His skin felt like parchment. "I’m so sorry that bastard put you in here. But I promise you, he’s going to pay for every second you’ve spent in this bed."

Tears blurred my vision, but I forced a smile. "Franklin is alive, Frederick. They found him in the Amazon. He’s safe. He’s coming back to us."

Silence was my only answer, but I kept talking, desperate for some part of his subconscious to hear me. "You don’t have to fight the shadows anymore. You did your part. You were so brave."

I brushed my thumb over his knuckles, and then, I froze.

I thought I had imagined it. A trick of the light, perhaps. But then, it happened again. Frederick’s fingers twitched against my palm.

"Frederick?" I breathed, my voice trembling.

Then came a stronger movement—a deliberate squeeze. I gasped, my eyes widening as I looked at his face. His eyelids were fluttering, fighting against the heavy pull of the coma.

"Doctor! I need a doctor in here now!" I screamed.

The room was suddenly a blur of white coats and rushing footsteps. A doctor and two nurses swarmed the bed.

"Senior Flemington? Frederick? Can you hear me?" the doctor called out, shining a penlight into his eyes.

I backed away toward the wall, covering my mouth with both hands, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. I watched as Frederick slowly, painfully, opened his eyes. They were unfocused and weak, but they were open.

"He’s back," the doctor announced, turning to me with a look of genuine shock. "He’s awake, Mrs. Flemington."

I sank into a chair, the tears falling freely now. Frederick had conquered death. He had waited until he knew his grandson was safe to come back to us.

Later that evening, as I sat by Frederick’s side watching him drift into a natural, healthy sleep, my phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the international number, but my soul knew the frequency before I even touched the screen.

"Hello?" I whispered.

The connection was filled with static, but through the noise, I heard it. A breath. A familiar, deep exhale.

"Octavia?"

The sound of my name in his voice made the world stop spinning.

"Franklin," I gasped, the name a prayer. "Is it really you?"

"It’s me, Octavia. I’m here. I...I want you to know I never stopped thinking about you. Every mile in that forest, every second I thought I was dying...it was you."

"Ssh," I interrupted, a watery laugh escaping me. "Save the speeches for when you’re standing in front of me. Just tell me you’re coming home."

"I’m coming back, Octavia. I’m coming back to you. I’m currently being prepped for the medical transport."

"I’ll be waiting," I told him, my heart swelling until it felt like it would burst. "And Franklin? I have news. Your grandfather...he woke up today. He’s waiting for you, too."

There was a long, heavy silence on the other end, and I could hear the thick emotion in his voice when he finally spoke. "I’ll see you soon, my love."

The call ended. I looked around the room—at the steady monitor, at the rising moon outside the window, and at Frederick’s peaceful face.

The pieces were finally falling back into place. Franklin was returning. Frederick was awake. And as for Dorian Harrington? He had no idea that the two men he tried to kill were both coming for him.

I wiped my eyes and smiled. No more sad tears. From now on, every drop would be for joy. The Flemingtons were back, and the reckoning was here.