Chapter 94

~ Franklin ~

The days following the disaster at Madison Square Garden had been a blur of corrosive silence and obsessive rumination. My mind had become a broken record, skipping over the same jagged groove: those photos. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the digital glow of Octavia’s phone, the undeniable image of my own body captured in a moment of vulnerability I had absolutely no memory of.

How was it possible? I had replayed the night at the resort a thousand times. I remembered the salt in the air, the weight of the confession I’d finally found the courage to give her, and the warmth of her hand in mine.

Then, the gap. The suffocating, black void where my memory should have been.

Marshall had told me he’d left me passed out on a leather sofa at the restaurant after the board meeting, claiming he’d gone to a nearby hotel to lodge for the night. But now, every word out of his mouth felt like lead. Had I been drugged? Kidnapped while unconscious? Or was my own mind finally betraying me, erasing a sin I didn’t want to admit I’d committed?

The uncertainty was a poison. I didn’t trust my memories, and even worse, I was beginning to lose faith in my own character.

That morning, the sun was a pale, sickly disc hanging over the city. I sought refuge in the only place that usually cleared my head: the gym.

I needed the physical strain to drown out the mental noise.

As I stepped onto the treadmill and set a punishing pace, my thoughts drifted, as they always did, to Clinton Harrington.

The image of him standing in Octavia’s hallway, burned in my chest. I hated the way she defended him. Every time I stumbled, every time I let my temper get the best of me, there he was—the "composed" alternative.

The son of my family’s greatest rival, stepping into the space I had vacated. Was she really so blind? Could she not see that his "kindness" was a tactical strike against me? Or was I truly so far gone that I couldn’t see I was the one driving her into his arms?

I pressed the button to kill the treadmill’s pace, my breath coming in jagged hitches. I moved to the free weights, grabbing a pair of heavy dumbbells, but the rhythmic strain did nothing to soothe the guilt. I kept hearing the sound of her hand connecting with my cheek. I deserved the slap. I didn’t deserve her, not after I’d let my jealousy turn me into a man who would call the woman he loved a "slut" just to see her bleed.

When I finished my workout, I sat on the bench, panting, the sweat cooling on my skin like ice. I grabbed a bottle of water from my duffel bag and headed for the car. By the time I reached the estate to change for work, I was a hollowed-out version of myself.

I was heading out toward the driveway, motioning for Walter to grab my briefcase, when my phone trilled in my pocket. It was an unknown number. My pulse spiked. I thought of the anonymous sender who had dismantled my marriage with a few digital files. I answered it with a voice like gravel.

"Franklin Flemington speaking. Who is this?"

"Mr. Flemington? This is Vernon Hill from JeffTech," a male voice chirped, sounding breathless and frantic.

"I’m calling regarding your wife, Octavia."

My eyes squinted in immediate suspicion.

"What about her? If this is about the partnership..."

"No, sir. There’s been an accident at the office. A serious one. Octavia, Miss Herman...she’s being transported to the hospital as we speak."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The air left my lungs in one sharp, painful burst. "What kind of accident?" I demanded, my voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "Is she okay? Talk to me!"

"She fell down the stairwell, sir. A significant fall. She lost consciousness on impact and hasn’t come to yet. The paramedics are worried about a head injury."

A cold, paralyzing dread flooded my system. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it felt like it would crack them. "Which hospital?"

"Manhattan General."

"I’m on my way," I snapped, ending the call before he could say another word. I rounded on Walter, who was standing by the open door of the sedan. "Get in! Manhattan General, now! And Walter—if you value your job, you will drive like the devil is chasing us!"

Walter’s eyes widened at the raw desperation in my voice, but he didn’t hesitate. "Yes, sir."

We tore out of the estate, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

I sat in the back, my hands shaking so violently I had to clench them into fists. Not like this, I prayed, closing my eyes.

Please, let her be okay. I’ll give her the divorce, I’ll stay away forever, just let her wake up.

My phone rang again. I looked down, expecting the man from JeffTech, but it was the private investigator. I almost threw the phone against the window. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to him, not while Octavia was bleeding out in an ambulance.

"Good morning, Mr. Flemington," the investigator began. "I apologize for the delay, but I’ve finally cracked the encryption on that private server. It wasn’t easy, but I traced the origin of the photos and the number that sent them. The account belongs to a person named..."

"Call me back later, Inspector," I barked, my voice cracking.

"Something has happened. My wife... I can’t do this right now. Just stay on standby."

"Oh. I understand, sir. My apologies. I’ll wait for your signal."

"Thank you," I said, hanging up.

I leaned back against the leather seat, staring out the window as the city blurred past. My mind was a storm of questions.

How could she have fallen? Octavia was careful, poised. She didn’t just ’trip’ down a flight of stairs. And why was she even in the stairwell?

"Walter, step on it!" I roared, slamming my fist against the back of the passenger seat.