Chapter 84

~ Octavia ~

I woke up to the most wicked headache I have ever had. It felt as if a construction crew was using my skull for jackhammer practice.

Groaning, I rolled over to see the sheets crumpled beside me and Nola sleeping peacefully at the foot of my bed, completely unbothered by the state of my life.

Where’s Victoria? I wondered. I vaguely remembered her mentioning a sleepover since we had stayed out so late for my birthday.

Then, a scent drifted through the crack in the door—the sweet, buttery aroma of waffles and the rich, earthy smell of brewing coffee.

I dragged myself out of bed, my head throbbing with every step, and staggered into the kitchen. Victoria was there, humming to herself as she flipped a golden waffle onto a plate.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she said, looking far too energetic for someone who had been at a nightclub until the early hours. "How was your sleep?"

"The sleep was fine. The waking up part? Not so much," I groaned, sinking onto a barstool and propping my head up with my hands. "I have a wicked headache."

"That’s a hangover calling your name, doll," she said, moving toward the coffeemaker. "Here, take this while it’s hot. It’s the only thing that’s going to save you today."

She placed a steaming mug of black coffee in front of me. I took a sip, letting the heat scald my throat. "You are my savior, Vic."

"I try," she shrugged, leaning against the counter with her own mug.

"How are you not dying right now?" I asked, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window. "We were out just as late."

"Because you drank significantly more than I did," she reminded me.

"I did?" I frowned, trying to piece together the timeline. My memory of the later half of the night was like a scratched DVD — glitchy and incomplete. "Wait... Victoria, what exactly happened at the club last night? After the cake?"

Victoria gave me a look of pure disbelief, one eyebrow arching toward her hairline. "You really don’t remember, do you?"

"My memory is a bit foggy. It would really help if you just... filled in the blanks," I muttered, feeling a seed of dread sprout in my stomach.

"Okay," she began, setting her mug down.

"Remember Truth or Dare? You chose a dare, and I dared you to kiss the man at the bar. You walked over, grabbed him, and leaned in. Only, that man turned out to be..."

"...Franklin," I cut in, the memory suddenly slamming into me like a freight train. The silver dress. The dark suit. The taste of whiskey. "I kissed Franklin."

"And then what?" Victoria prompted.

"We got into an argument...a heated one," I whispered, the flashes of memory becoming clearer. "But there’s more, isn’t there?"

"Yeah," Victoria nodded.

"You were beyond tipsy—you were drunk, Octavia. You were so angry at him that you turned around and kissed a random stranger right in front of him. Franklin looked like he was about to strangle the man with his bare hands. I had to practically drag you out of there before you caused a full-blown riot."

I sat in stunned silence, my face heating up with a deep, searing blush.

"Jesus," I whispered, pushing my hair back from my face. "I did that? I actually did that?"

"Yep. You were a one-woman wrecking ball," Victoria confirmed, moving the waffles to the table. "Though, if I’m being honest, Franklin deserved every bit of the heart attack you gave him."

"I can’t believe it!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands. "I’m so embarrassed, Vic. I wasn’t in control. I let the liquor take over and do things I would never dream of doing while sober. I promised myself I’d never be that person — the one making a scene in public."

"Hey, doll, it’s not a big deal. It was your birthday, you were hurt, and you let off some steam."

"It is a big deal," I sighed, feeling a wave of guilt — not for hurting Franklin’s feelings, but for losing my own dignity. "I don’t think I’m ever touching alcohol again. Ever."

"But did you at least enjoy the part of your birthday that didn’t involve your husband?" she asked.

I shrugged, my mood souring. "I did... until that moment."

Just then, a heavy, rhythmic knocking echoed through the apartment. I stiffened, my heart leaping into my throat. "Please tell me that isn’t Franklin," I whispered, rubbing my temples. "I’m not ready for a Round Two."

"I’ll check," Victoria said, heading to the door.

She opened it, but instead of a brooding billionaire, I saw several men carrying massive, overflowing bouquets.

My eyes widened. There were orchids and sunflowers—my absolute favorites—stacked so high they blocked the hallway. There had to be twenty of them.

"Are you Octavia Herman-Flemington?" one of the deliverymen asked.

"Octavia? You have a delivery," Victoria called out, sounding just as perplexed as I was.

I walked to the door, staring at the sea of yellow and purple.

"What is all this?"

"Delivery for Octavia Herman-Flemington from your husband, Mr. Franklin Flemington," the man said, holding out a digital tablet. "He requested these be delivered personally this morning. Please sign here."

I signed the screen with a trembling hand. He handed me a small, cream-colored envelope before he and the other men finished stacking the vases inside my entryway and left.

"What the hell?" Victoria breathed, closing the door.

I opened the note. The handwriting was unmistakably his—bold and elegant.

BELATED HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY. I’M SORRY FOR WHAT I DID. I HOPE THIS GIFT SOFTENS YOUR HEART ENOUGH TO FINALLY TALK TO ME.

"What does it say?" Victoria asked.

I handed her the note without a word and walked back into the kitchen. I couldn’t even look at the flowers.

"Do you want to talk to him now?" she asked, her voice soft.

"Confront him about the photos?"

"No," I said, shaking my head adamantly. "How can I talk to him and pretend those photos don’t exist? How can I look at him and not see him naked in someone else’s bed? A few flowers won’t fix a broken heart, Vic. He needs to understand that I’m not a toy he can just buy back with sunflowers."

"But these are your favorites," she pointed out, gesturing to the vibrant orchids.

"They were. Right now, they just look like a bribe," I said, focusing on my breakfast even though I had no appetite.

Later that afternoon, after Victoria had gone home, the silence in the apartment felt suffocating. I sat on the sofa, the scent of the twenty bouquets filling the room, mocking me with their beauty. I needed to talk to someone. I’d leaned on Victoria so much lately that I felt like a burden, and my parents were finally happy—I didn’t want to drag them into the gutter of my marriage just yet.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. I stopped at the letter ’C.’

Clinton Harrington.

We hadn’t spoken since the day Franklin had stormed our lunch and marked his territory like a territorial beast. I had told Clinton I would call him when I was ready.

Was I ready? I didn’t know if I was ready to talk, but I knew I was ready to be heard by someone who didn’t look at me with pity.

"Fuck it," I whispered, pressing the call button.

The phone rang three times before a familiar, calm voice picked up.

"Octavia?"

"Hey, Clinton," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "It’s me. I’m ready for us to talk now."