Chapter 87

~ Franklin ~

The cool night air did little to soothe the throbbing in my face as the apartment building’s security ushered us out onto the sidewalk. My pulse was still racing, a toxic cocktail of adrenaline and territorial rage.

I pulled a silk handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it firmly against my nose, watching the white fabric turn a dark, blooming crimson.

A few feet away, Clinton was walking toward his car, his gait steady despite the blow I’d landed.

"That’s right! Walk away!" I spat, my voice muffled by the handkerchief. "Stay the hell away from my wife, Harrington!"

He stopped in his tracks, his hand on the door handle of his sleek sedan. He turned back, his face illuminated by a flickering street lamp. The swelling along his jaw was already starting to distort his features.

"I’m walking away because I actually care about Octavia’s peace of mind, Flemington," he said, his voice cold and remarkably calm. "I don’t want to cause her any more distress than you already have. But don’t mistake my departure for submission. You don’t own her, and you certainly don’t tell me what to do."

"I mean it, Harrington," I growled, stepping toward him despite the dizzying pain behind my eyes. "If I see you near her apartment again, I won’t just stop at a punch."

"Is that a threat?" Clinton challenged, squaring his shoulders.

"Because if you want a round two, I’m right here. But remember—every time you swing, you lose her a little more. Look at what you just did. You think she’s impressed by this?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The logic of his words stung more than the split in my lip. I pivoted and marched to my own car, slamming the door and peeling away from the curb before I did something that truly landed me in a precinct.

I couldn’t go back to the estate like this. My grandfather was still awake, likely nursing a glass of scotch in the library, and I wasn’t ready to face his interrogation. I drove to Manhattan General, the steering wheel slick with my own blood.

The ER staff processed me quickly—perks of a recognizable last name and a generous insurance policy. The verdict was a clean fracture of the nasal bone and a deep laceration on my lower lip. They set an external splint across the bridge of my nose, secured with surgical tape, and put three neat stitches in my lip.

"Take these for the inflammation," the doctor said, handing me a packet of high-grade painkillers. "And try to stay out of whatever ’little accident’ caused this for at least two weeks."

I paid the bill and drove home in the quiet hours of the morning, feeling every vibration of the road in my skull. I tried to sneak upstairs, but as I reached the landing, I jammed right into Olga. She was carrying a stack of fresh linens, and when she saw me, she let out a sharp, muffled gasp.

"Mr. Flemington! Your face!"

"Sshhh!" I hushed her instantly, glancing toward my grandfather’s wing. "Keep your voice down, Olga."

"What happened to you? Was there a crash?" she whispered, her eyes wide with worry.

"I...I got into a little accident. I’m fine, really. Just some bad luck," I lied, the stitches pulling painfully as I spoke. I started to head for my room, then paused. "Do me a favor? Don’t mention this to my grandfather. Not tonight."

"But Senior Flemington...he will see you in the morning," she noted, looking skeptical.

"I know. Just let me be the one to tell him. Please."

She hesitated, then gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"Very well, sir. But please, get some rest."

I thought I’d bought myself some time, but I should have known better. In the Flemington household, secrets have the shelf life of an open gallon of milk.

The next morning, the door to my bedroom didn’t just open—it swung wide with a force that announced my grandfather’s fury.

"Jesus Christ, Franklin! What in God’s name did you do to yourself?"

I sat up, the room spinning for a second. "I take it Olga’s loyalty to me is second to her fear of you."

"Don’t blame the woman for having a conscience," my grandfather snapped, pacing the length of my bed. He looked at the splint on my nose and the bruising around my eyes with a mixture of horror and disappointment. "She was worried you’d sustained a concussion. Now, stop the theatrics and tell me the truth. This wasn’t a ’little accident.’"

"I had a fight," I blurted out, the weight of the lie becoming too much to carry. "With Clinton Harrington."

The silence that followed was heavy. My grandfather stopped pacing and stared at me. "Dorian’s son? You engaged in a common street brawl with a Harrington? Why?"

"I went to see Octavia. It was her birthday," I said, my voice rising in defense. "And I found him there. In her apartment. At ten o’clock at night. They were laughing, talking about how much ’fun’ they’d had. He insulted me, Grandpa. He called me a spoilt brat, a bastard...he said I didn’t deserve her. I lost my temper. I hit him, he hit back, and it escalated."

My grandfather sank into the armchair opposite my bed, rubbing his temples. "So, let me summarize: you allowed your jealousy to override your intellect. You initiated a physical altercation with a business rival in front of the woman you are trying to win back. Is that correct?"

"He pushed my buttons! I wasn’t going to let him stand there and disrespect me in my wife’s hallway!"

"It looks more like he dealt with you, Franklin. Look at your nose! You look like a prize fighter who lost the match."

"I dislocated his jaw," I muttered, a small, petty part of me needing that win.

"And for what? A hollow victory?" My grandfather stood up, his expression hardening. "I told you to give her space. I told you to act with dignity. Instead, you displayed exactly the kind of volatility that likely drove her away in the first place. Do you honestly think Octavia is sitting in her apartment right now thinking, ’Oh, how romantic that my husband broke his nose over me’?"

"I can still talk to her. I can explain—"

"Explain what? That you have the impulse control of a teenager?"

He sighed, a sound of genuine defeat. "I truly wanted her back in this house, Franklin. I wanted this family whole again. But you’ve handed Harrington the perfect weapon. You’ve made yourself the villain in her story once again."

"She has to listen to me eventually," I insisted, though my confidence was crumbling.

"I doubt it," he said, walking toward the door. He paused at the threshold, looking back at me one last time. "I am deeply disappointed in you, Franklin."

He left without another word, the click of the door sounding like a final judgment. I slumped back against the pillows, the silence of the room amplifying the throbbing in my face. My grandfather was right. I had let my pride ruin my last shred of a chance. I had truly, spectacularly, fucked up.