Chapter 88

~ Octavia ~

It was the final weekend of the month, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a sliver of genuine anticipation. I had driven down to Soho to visit my parents, fulfilling a birthday promise to accompany my father to Madison Square Garden to watch the Knicks.

"Are you ready, kiddo?" my father asked, his face lit with a youthful glow as we navigated the sea of blue and orange jerseys toward the enormous bleachers.

The moment we stepped into the arena, the sheer scale of the energy hit me. It was loud, alive, and electric—exactly the distraction I needed. The crowd roared as the players warmed up on the court below, and the massive screens flashed highlights of New York’s finest. The scent of buttery popcorn and grilled hot dogs filled the air, and for a fleeting second, everything felt remarkably normal.

"I’m excited, Dad. I love that we’re doing this," I said, leaning into him as we found our seats in the tenth row. We had a perfect view of the entire arena.

"Me too," he chuckled, settling in.

"Do you think Mom’s missing out?" I asked, tossing a handful of popcorn into my mouth.

"I doubt it. She prefers her book club over a stadium full of screaming fans. Besides, she’s always loathed basketball."

"True," I laughed. My mind drifted briefly to Clinton. After the brutal scene at my apartment, he had come to the lobby of my firm.

Steph, the receptionist, had called me down with a worried tone, but Clinton had been nothing but remorseful. He had begged for my forgiveness, and seeing the fading bruises on his face, I had given it. He told me he’d gone to Brooklyn General to have his jaw reset, and we’d managed to have a civil lunch. Things were stable again, and I was grateful for that.

"I still can’t believe you snagged these seats, Dad," I said, pulling myself back to the present.

"A daughter like you deserves a proper birthday gift," he grinned proudly. "You’ve been working too hard. You needed a break."

I leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thanks, Dad."

The game started, and I allowed myself to get lost in the rhythm of it—the squeak of sneakers on polished wood, the roar of the crowd rising and falling like waves. I fought back the memory of the last time I was here with Franklin, back when we were still playing a game of ’fake’ marriage. I remembered the Jumbotron catching us, the fans dubbing us ’Franktavia.’ I shook the thought away, cheering loudly for the Knicks.

"They’re taking this one, Octavia! I can feel it!" my father shouted over the noise.

"We’ll see about that!" I teased.

Halfway through the second quarter, my father’s phone vibrated. He checked the screen, excused himself, and stepped into the concourse to take the call. When he returned a few minutes later, he had a strange, knowing look on his face.

"Speak of the devil," he muttered.

"What?" I frowned, but before he could answer, a figure appeared in the aisle, heading straight for our row.

My heart dropped.

Franklin.

He looked different than he had the night of the fight. The bloody, crooked mess was gone, replaced by a neat strip of surgical tape across the bridge of his nose. The cut on his lip was a fading scab.

"I hope I’m not late," Franklin said, his voice smooth despite the tension.

"Franklin!" My dad beamed, standing up to shake his hand. "Glad you made it, son."

I blinked, my brain struggling to process the betrayal. The phone call.

"You invited him?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the buzzer.

"Of course, kiddo. I thought it would be nice for the three of us to hang out. It’s been far too long," my father said, looking between us, oblivious to the frost radiating from my seat.

Franklin’s eyes met mine, soft and pleading.

"Hey," he murmured.

I ignored him, snapping my gaze back to the court. Franklin sat down on the other side of my father.

"What’s going on with you two?" my dad asked, sensing the sudden drop in temperature.

"Nothing, Ben," Franklin said quickly.

"If you say so. By the way, what happened to the face?"

I felt Franklin’s gaze linger on me for a heartbeat. "Little accident," he replied.

"I see. But you’re good?"

"I’m peachy, Ben. Nothing to worry about."

The game continued, but the magic was gone. I couldn’t register the score or the plays. Every time Franklin leaned in to talk to my dad, every time I felt his presence beside us, my chest tightened. All I could see were those images—the proof of his betrayal. And yet, here he was, playing the role of the devoted son-in-law.

By the fourth quarter, my dad stood up. "I’m going to grab us some drinks. You two want anything?"

"No, I’m good," I said instantly.

"Same here, thanks," Franklin added.

"Alright. Be right back."

The moment my father disappeared into the crowd, the noise of the arena felt like it was miles away. We were trapped in a bubble of suffocating silence.

"Octavia," Franklin began, turning toward me.

"I need some air," I snapped, standing up so abruptly I almost knocked over my popcorn.

I marched out of the section and into a quieter, dimly lit hallway near the private suites. I could hear him following me, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. I stopped and leaned my back against the wall, wrapping my arms around myself.

"Why do you keep doing this?" I asked the empty air. "Why do you keep meddling in my life?"

"Because I need answers!" he said, coming to a halt a few feet away. "I’m tired of being treated like a monster without knowing why. We were fine at the resort, Octavia. We were more than fine. And then you vanished and turned into ice."

I turned to him, my eyes burning with a murderous glare. "You deserve far worse than ’ice,’ Franklin."

"Is this about me staying out that night? I told you, I passed out at the meeting! I’ve apologized a thousand times. I just want you back."

"It’s not about you staying away," I hissed, my voice trembling with the weight of the secret I’d been carrying. "It’s about what you were doing while you were ’away.’"

"What I was doing? I was at a restaurant!"

"Oh, for God’s sake, stop the pretense!" I yelled, the anger finally snapping. "Are we really going to do this? Are you really going to stand there and lie to my face after you left me at that resort to be with another woman?"

Franklin looked genuinely bewildered, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Another woman? Octavia, what on earth are you talking about?"

"The lying...it’s pathetic, Franklin."

"I am not lying! I don’t understand!"

Something in me broke.

I reached into my purse with shaking hands and snatched my phone.

"The pretense ends now. I have the proof."

I unlocked the screen, pulled up the gallery, and shoved the phone against his chest.

"Look! Look at your ’meeting’!"

Franklin’s eyes dropped to the screen. I watched his face, expecting a look of guilt or a frantic excuse. Instead, I saw his entire expression drain of color. His jaw went slack, and his eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock.