Chapter 90

~ Octavia ~

It had been a few days since my explosive confrontation with Franklin at Madison Square Garden.

He had looked genuinely blindsided by those photos—shattered, even—but how could I let myself believe him? He’d played the part of the devoted husband before, only to twist the knife when my back was turned. Trusting him again felt like walking back into a house that was already on fire.

After a long day at the firm, I retreated to my apartment, hoping for a night of silence. I had just stepped out of the shower and pulled on my favorite silk bathrobe when my phone vibrated on the vanity. It was Clinton.

"Hey," I said, leaning against the counter.

"Hey. Are you at home, or are you still pulling overtime at the office?" his voice was warm, a welcome contrast to the coldness I’d been feeling.

"I’m home. Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to take you out. Well, not ’out’ out. I want to bring you to my apartment for dinner. I realized I’ve never actually shown you my place, have I?"

"No," I admitted, a little surprised by the invitation. "You haven’t."

"I think it’s better this way," he said, his tone turning slightly more serious. "If I come to your place, there’s a chance your husband might stage another ’spontaneous’ visit, and I’d really like to avoid losing my temper—or my teeth—again."

I was quiet for a moment, the weight of the drama pressing down on me.

"Octavia? You still there?"

"Yeah, I’m here," I said softly. "But what if I told you I’ve already eaten dinner?"

"Then you’d be having a very elegant double dinner tonight," he countered, and I couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped me.

"Fine. You win. And for the record? I haven’t eaten a bite yet."

"Perfect! I’m on my way. Dress comfortably, but fast."

I headed to my bedroom to change, settling on a white, knee-length knit gown and a black cardigan to ward off the evening chill. I left my hair down, falling in damp waves over my shoulders.

As I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror, a flicker of hesitation crossed my mind. Is it a good idea to be alone in his apartment while I’m still technically married? I pushed the thought away. Franklin had lost the right to dictate my evenings the second those photos appeared on my phone.

When Clinton arrived, I followed him down to his car.

"You look beautiful, Octavia," he complimented, his eyes lingering on me as he held the door open.

"Thank you," I said, noticing that the scratches on his face were fading into faint, pink lines. "You’re healing up fast."

"Strong immune system," he teased as we pulled out into the Manhattan traffic. "I’m a hard man to keep down. So, how was work today? Did the lions at the firm treat you well?"

I narrowed my eyes, remembering the grueling meetings and the frantic moment I realized I’d misplaced the digital files for my presentation. I’d had to wing the entire thing from memory to avoid looking like a failure in front of the partners.

"It was...stressful," I sighed. "The usual corporate circus."

"Tell me about it," he cajoled, and for the rest of the drive, we traded stories of office politics and demanding clients. It felt easy. It felt safe.

His apartment was in a sleek, modern high-rise. When he flipped on the lights, I was struck by the minimalism of the space—lots of glass, dark wood, and high-end art.

"You have a beautiful home, Clinton."

"Thank you. It’s a work in progress," he said, tossing his keys onto a marble console. "I recently moved out of my father’s estate, so there are still some finishing touches missing, but it’s mine. Please, make yourself at home."

I set my purse on the coffee table and wandered toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The balcony overlooked the shimmering grid of New York City, the lights twinkling like fallen stars. "The view up here is breathtaking."

"I chose this place specifically for that view," he said, appearing behind me with two glasses of wine. He handed me one. "A little something to take the edge off the day."

"Thanks," I mumbled, taking a sip of the crisp white wine. I leaned against the railing, looking at him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always. I’m an open book."

"Did you purposely partner with my company just to get closer to me?"

He let out a short, surprised laugh. "You’re serious?"

"Dead serious."

"Octavia, I’m not the CEO of my firm yet. I follow the board’s lead. It was a complete coincidence that your company was the one we signed with. But," he leaned in slightly, his eyes glowing in the dim light, "I won’t deny that I was overjoyed when I realized you’d be the lead on the project. It was a win-win for me. I was glad then, and I’m glad now."

He clinked his glass against mine. "Cheers to fate."

We sipped our wine in a comfortable silence before he headed toward the kitchen.

"What’s for dinner?" I asked, following him.

"Sushi," he replied, pulling fresh ingredients from the refrigerator.

"Sushi? Your favourite, why am I not surprised?"

"Don’t like it? Because I can whip up something else—"

"No, no, it’s fine. I love sushi because of your infulence.."

I sat on a high breakfast stool, watching him work. He was surprisingly methodical. I watched the way he sliced the salmon with surgical precision, his hands steady and confident.

"You’re weirdly good at this," I noted.

"Surprised?" he smirked. "My housekeeper is a bit of a culinary genius. She taught me everything she knows. She’s basically a professor of the kitchen."

"I can tell."

He spread the rice over the nori with practiced ease. "Come here," he beckoned.

"Why?" I put my glass down.

"Just come here."

I hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping closer. He didn’t touch me, but he gestured for me to watch the way he applied pressure to the bamboo mat. "See? It’s all about the tension. If you’re too soft, it falls apart. Too hard, and you ruin the texture."

When he finally plated the rolls, they looked like something out of a high-end magazine. He set a plate in front of me with a small dish of soy sauce.

"I’m trusting you on this, Clinton," I said, picking up my chopsticks.

"Fingers crossed," he teased, crossing his own.

I took a bite and my eyes widened. "Wow. This is actually better than the last time I ate it."

"I’ll take that as a victory," he said, sitting on the stool beside me.

We ate quietly for a few minutes before I spoke up again. "Is there anything you aren’t good at?"

He paused, his gaze dropping to his plate before meeting mine. "I’m not very good at winning your heart, apparently."

The air in the kitchen suddenly felt thick. I stopped chewing, my heart thumping against my ribs.

"It’s okay," he said quickly, breaking the tension with a forced smile. "That was a joke. Mostly. Don’t worry about it."

I went back to my meal, but the lightness of the evening had shifted. "Can I ask one more thing?"

"Seems like tonight is an interrogation," he teased, though his eyes remained soft. "Go ahead."

"Have you...have you thought about having romantic feelings for someone else? I mean, since everything with Franklin and me started?"

The smile faded from his face. He set his chopsticks down and looked at me with a raw honesty that made me want to look away. "I love answering your questions, Octavia, but I think I’ll sit this one out. I don’t want to ruin the night by being too honest."

"I understand," I whispered, offering him a small, tight smile.

"Has Franklin bothered you again?" he asked, changing the subject as he poured more wine. "Any more ’spontaneous’ visits?"

I hesitated. I thought about the confrontation at the stadium, the slap, and the way he’d looked when I showed him the photos. But I wasn’t ready to open that wound in front of Clinton.

"No," I lied, shaking my head. "He hasn’t."

"Strange," Clinton mused. "That doesn’t sound like him."

After dinner, we moved to the living room. I curled up on his oversized velvet couch, expecting him to sit beside me. Instead, he took the armchair opposite me, keeping a deliberate distance. I was surprised, but I didn’t say anything.

"Want the honest answer to your earlier question?" he asked suddenly, staring into his wine glass.

"Only if you want to tell me."

"The answer is no. I haven’t thought about anyone else because I’m still completely in love with you. And the reason I’m sitting over here, Octavia, is because I’m trying to respect you. I’m respecting the fact that you’re going through hell, and I don’t want to do something stupid—something you’ll regret—just because we’re alone."

I looked at him, my throat tight. "I see."

"Octavia," he said gently. "You know how I feel, and you know you don’t return it right now. And that’s okay. I can wait."

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to reach out, to find comfort in someone who actually treated me with respect, but the ghost of Franklin was still standing between us.

Clinton got up and turned on a soft, melodic playlist on his speakers. "You stay here and relax. I’m going to go take a quick shower. I’ll be right back."

"Sure," I nodded.

As he disappeared into the back of the apartment, I leaned my head back against the velvet cushions. The soft rhythm of the music and the two glasses of wine finally began to take hold. My eyelids grew heavy, the stress of the week finally catching up to me.

Within minutes, I had drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.