Chapter 89

~ Franklin ~

The moment Octavia thrust her phone toward me, the air in the narrow hallway seemed to vanish. All the blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and lightheaded. I stared at the screen, my brain refusing to process what my eyes were seeing.

"What the hell?" I breathed, the words barely a whisper.

"Exactly," Octavia snapped, her voice brittle.

On the screen were high-definition photos. Me. Naked. Intimate. My skin flushed against the sheets of a bed that wasn’t mine. The lighting was soft, but the detail was unmistakable. My tattoos on my chest, the scar on my shoulder, the way my hair fell—it was me.

"How...how did this happen?" I asked, my voice cracking. I looked up at her, desperate for an explanation that made sense.

"So, you’re going to play the ’I don’t know’ card?" Octavia’s eyes were hard, shimmering with a fresh layer of tears. "You’re going to look at your own reflection in a bed with another woman and tell me you don’t recognize yourself?"

"I swear, Octavia, I don’t know!" I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I’ve never seen these. I don’t even remember this!"

"Stop lying! I am so tired of the lies, Franklin! I can’t do this anymore if you’re going to treat me like I’m blind and stupid."

"I am telling you the truth! I am not lying to you!" I stepped closer, reaching for her, but she flinched away as if my touch were venomous. Tears began to track down her cheeks, leaving dark paths through her makeup.

"These were taken on the night you left me at the resort," she whispered, her voice trembling. "The night you said you had a ’meeting.’ Do you remember now? Or is your memory as selective as your loyalty?"

"I remember everything about that night up until the drinks," I argued, my mind racing. "I escorted you back. I went to the restaurant. I went to have a meeting with a man named Zeb Marshall. We toasted the project. I got tipsy—I told you this! I passed out on the couch and woke up there the next morning. Octavia, think about it. I had just confessed my feelings to you. We had just... why would I leave your bed to go sleep with a stranger? Does that even sound like something I would do?"

"I don’t know what to believe anymore!" she yelled, the sound echoing off the sterile walls of the MSG hallway. "But I know what you’re capable of. You’ve cheated before. You’ve broken my trust so many times that it’s just a pile of dust now. What’s to stop it from happening again? Maybe you just can’t help yourself."

"Octavia, I...I don’t know what to say to convince you."

"I do. What happened is that you cheated, and now you’re back to your old tricks—playing with my feelings, pretending to be the reformed husband until it’s time to find a new distraction. To what end, Franklin? Just to see how much I can take before I break?"

"I am telling you the truth," I insisted, my frustration boiling over. "I never left that resort to fuck someone else. These photos...they have to be forged. Photoshopped. AI. I don’t know! But the minute I told you I loved you, I promised myself I would never touch another woman. I meant it."

She shook her head vigorously, her hair flying wild. "No. I’m done. I’m done listening to the scripts and the hollow promises. Do you have any idea what it felt like? To sit there and realize that while I was falling for you again—while I was actually starting to trust you—you were out there humiliating me? Betraying me in the most disgusting way possible?"

"I would never humiliate you," I said firmly.

She let out a short, jagged laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her expression hardening into something cold and distant. "At this point, I don’t want to hear another word. I need you to stay away from me. Stop meddling. Stop calling my father. Stop interfering in my private life. I need time to think without feeling like a complete fool."

"I’m sorry," I said, the words feeling pitifully small.

"Stop apologizing! Every ’sorry’ just makes me believe the photos more. If you were innocent, you’d be angry, not apologizing." She turned to leave, but I couldn’t let it end like this.

"And what?" I snapped, the jealousy I’d been suppressing finally rearing its head. "You’re just going to run straight back into the arms of Clinton Harrington?"

She paused, her back to me. When she turned around, her face was a mask of fury. "Don’t you dare drag Clinton into this. He has nothing to do with your infidelity."

"It has everything to do with him! I saw you with him. I went to your apartment to find you because your office said you were ’sick,’ and instead, I find that bastard lounging in your home. What was he doing there, Octavia? Was he the ’consolation prize’ for my supposed cheating?"

"I don’t owe you an explanation for who I see! But for the record, Clinton came over so we could talk like adults. And you? You showed up like a common thug and destroyed his face because you couldn’t handle your own insecurity."

"You’re worried about his face? Look at mine! Look at what he did to me!" I gestured to the tape on my nose, my voice rising to a shout.

"You deserved it," she said, stepping toward me until we were inches apart. "You started that fight. You swung first."

"Did you hear what he said to me?" I squinted, my vision blurring with rage. "He was goading me. He was acting like he already had you."

"Oh, so now you’re the victim? Poor Franklin, forced to beat someone up because his feelings were hurt?"

"How was I supposed to react?" I yelled. "I see my wife laughing and having ’fun’ with a man who wants to destroy my family. For all I know, you two were fucking in that apartment while you were ’mourning’ our marriage. You stand here acting like a saint, but deep down, you’re just as much of a slut..."

I didn’t even get the word out.

SLAP.

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. My head jerked to the side, the sting of her palm blooming across my cheek. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the look in her eyes. It wasn’t just anger anymore. It was pure, unadulterated hurt.

"Don’t you ever," she whispered, her voice thick with tears, "ever call me a name like that. I hate you, Franklin. I wish I had never met you. I wish I had never said yes to that stupid contract. Stay the fuck away from me."

She turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd, leaving me standing alone in the shadows of the arena. I didn’t follow her. I couldn’t.

I walked out of Madison Square Garden, ignoring the confused look from Ben as he returned with the drinks. I got into my car and drove, the city lights blurring into long, neon streaks. My mind was a chaotic loop.

Those photos...they looked too real. The mole on my hip, the way my muscles tensed—it was all there. But I had no memory of it. None.

I pulled over and pulled up the contact for my private investigator. The one who had found Clinton’s address. He was the best in the business at finding things people wanted to keep hidden.

The phone picked up on the first ring. "Good evening, Mr. Flemington."

"Inspector. I have a new job for you. Priority one."

"Tell me what you need."

"I need you to trace a private number. It’s been sending encrypted messages and files. I need a name, a location, and a digital footprint. Can you do it?"

"If it exists on a server, I can find it. Send me the digits."

I closed my eyes, picturing Octavia’s phone screen. My photographic memory served me well; the string of numbers was burned into my brain.

"I’m sending it now. I want to know who sent those files, and I want to know where they were sent from."

"I’ll get right on it, sir. I’ll call you as soon as I have a lead."

"Do that."

I ended the call and leaned my head against the steering wheel. Someone was playing a very dangerous game with my life. And if I didn’t find out who it was soon, I was going to lose Octavia forever.