Chapter 99

~ Franklin ~

I arrived at Manhattan General before the sun had fully crested the horizon, the sky a bruised purple that mirrored the state of my own mind.

It was too early for visiting hours, too early for the world to be awake, but I had long since abandoned the concept of "normal."

The hospital corridors were eerily quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t soothe but pressed against your chest, demanding to know how much weight you could carry before you snapped. I walked straight to her new room. I had already pulled the necessary strings and emptied the required accounts to have her moved to a premier private ward in the VIP wing. It was a fortress of glass and high-end monitors—a place where she would be secure, safe, and shielded from the prying eyes of the press.

Money wasn’t the issue. Nothing was an issue when it came to her. I would have bought the entire hospital if it meant a faster recovery.

When I pushed the heavy door open, the clinical scent of ozone and lilies hit me.

Octavia was there, lying in the center of the room like a fallen saint.

She was exactly as I had left her—still, unmoving, her breathing tethered to a machine that hissed with rhythmic indifference.

Then I saw her parents.

They looked like ghosts.

Ben Herman sat beside her, his large, calloused hand wrapped gently around her limp one. His usually ironclad posture was slumped, his shoulders bowed under a weight that no father should have to carry.

Patricia stood by the window, her arms folded so tightly it looked like she was trying to hold herself together.

"You came early," Ben said, his voice a dry rasp.

"I couldn’t stay away," I replied, my voice dropping to a low, somber register.

Patricia stepped closer to the bed, her fingers trembling as she brushed a stray dark lock of hair away from Octavia’s forehead. "She hasn’t moved at all, Franklin. Not a finger, not a twitch. It’s scaring me...it’s scaring us to death."

"I know, Patricia. But she’s going to wake up," I said, my tone firmer than I actually felt. I had to be the anchor here.

"She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known. She isn’t done fighting yet."

Ben nodded, but I saw the flicker in his eyes — the raw, naked fear that I was lying to him. I stepped closer, my eyes scanning her again. The bandage around her head was a stark white against her pale skin.

The monitors beeped a steady, mocking rhythm. This wasn’t over. I wasn’t done until I found the hand that pushed her.

The door swished open again, and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The air grew cold, charged with a sudden, violent electricity.

It was Clinton Harrington.

He froze the moment his eyes landed on Octavia. I watched him carefully, looking for a slip, a sign of guilt, but the shock on his face was visceral. It hit him like a physical blow, stripping the usual smug composure from his features. For a second, he looked truly broken.

"What are you doing here?" I asked sharply, my body tensing, my internal alarms screaming.

His gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat longer before shifting to me. His eyes were dark, shadowed with an intensity that grated against my nerves. "I came to see her."

"Why?" I shot back, stepping into his line of sight to block his view of her.

He didn’t rise to the bait.

He didn’t snap back.

He just stood there, unnervingly calm. "I heard the news when I got to JeffTech this morning. They told me she was brought here. I came as soon as I could hail a cab."

That answer felt like a lie, or at least a half-truth. How did he know so quickly? Why was he the first one there?

"You’ve seen her," I said, my voice dropping into a cold, dangerous growl. "Now you can leave. You’re not family, Harrington. You don’t belong here."

"I’m not leaving, Franklin."

My jaw tightened until it ached. "You don’t get to make demands in this room."

"And you," he replied evenly, stepping forward until we were inches apart, "don’t get to decide who cares about her."

The tension snapped.

"Care about her?" I let out a sharp, humorless laugh that sounded more like a bark. "Is that what we’re calling your obsession now? You’ve spent months circling her like a vulture."

His eyes hardened. "I’m not here to play games with you, Franklin. Not while she’s lying there."

"Then leave. Now."

"No."

The word was a wall. I stepped into his space, my pulse thundering in my ears. "You think I’ve forgotten the last time? How you couldn’t keep your hands off her outside her apartment? You’ve been waiting for a moment like this, haven’t you?"

"I haven’t forgotten anything," he said, his voice low and steady. "Including the fact that your jealousy is usually what ends up hurting her."

"Enough!" Patricia’s voice sliced through our bickering like a razor.

We both went still. She stood between us, her eyes flashing with a mixture of fury and heartbreak. "Both of you—out. Now. My daughter is fighting for her life, and you two are behaving like children over a toy. Get out!"

Ben stood up slowly, placing a hand on his wife’s shoulder, but his expression remained just as stern. "She needs peace, gentlemen. If you can’t provide that, you don’t need to be in this ward."

Guilt, sharp and sudden, flickered through me. I looked at Octavia, then at her mother.

"I’m sorry," I muttered.

Clinton exhaled, his shoulders dropping slightly. "Me too."

I turned to him, tilting my head toward the door. "We need to talk. Outside. Now."

He hesitated, a final glance at Octavia’s still form, then nodded. We stepped out into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind us and severing the tension from the room, though it remained thick between us.

"You need to go, Clinton," I said the second we were alone. "This is a private matter. A family matter."

"I’m not agreeing to that. I told you, I’m not leaving until I know she’s stable."

"This is already a nightmare for her parents. You being here—the Harrington name being here—it doesn’t help. It complicates everything."

"I’m not here as a Harrington. I’m here as someone who..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "I just need to see her properly. For a minute."

My patience was a frayed thread. "She’s in a coma! What exactly do you want? To hold a vigil? To wait for a thank you?"

His expression shifted, and for the first time, I saw real, unadulterated pain in his eyes. It was a look I recognized because I saw it in the mirror every morning. "I just need to be sure she’s still there," he said softly.

I studied him. I hated him. I wanted to throw him through the glass partition. But I realized, with a sickening jolt, that his grief was as real as mine.

"Fine," I spat. "One minute. Then you leave the floor."

"Thank you."

"Don’t make me regret it."

He walked back in, his movements slower this time, almost reverent. He stood by her side for sixty seconds, silent as a statue.

He leaned in and whispered something I couldn’t hear, then turned to Ben and Patricia.

"I’m Clinton. A friend of Octavia’s. I’m truly sorry."

Ben gave a curt nod.

Patricia said nothing.

When he emerged back into the hallway, he looked older. He stopped in front of me.

"How did it happen?" he asked.

"That isn’t your concern."

"Franklin, I’m asking a simple question. A fall like that...it doesn’t make sense."

"You’re right, it doesn’t," I snapped. "And I’m handling it. You’ve had your minute. Go."

He stared at me for a long beat, his jaw set. "If you won’t let me stay, at least keep me updated. Don’t let me find out through a tabloid video."

"No."

The word was final.

The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a cold, simmering resolve.

"Alright," he said quietly. Then, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the long, sterile hall.

I returned to the room just as the doctor arrived to check her pupils.

We sat in agonizing silence as he performed his rounds.

"When will she wake up, Doctor?" Patricia asked, her voice trembling.

"We are monitoring the intracranial pressure," he said, his face a mask of professional neutrality. "Comas are unpredictable. The brain is a complex organ; it needs time to heal itself. We wait."

Wait. The most hateful word in the English language.

By the time I finally left to go home and change, I was vibrating with exhaustion.

But as I sat in the back of the car, my mind wouldn’t stop. I pulled out my phone and dialed the private investigator. I needed that name. I needed a target for this rage.

The phone rang seven times. I was about to hang up when he finally answered.

"You called earlier," I said, not bothering with a greeting. "You were about to give me the owner of the number that sent the photos."

There was a long, heavy pause on the other end.

"It’s...it’s untraceable, Mr. Flemington," the voice said, sounding strange. Hollow.

I frowned, my grip tightening on the phone.

"What are you talking about? You called me few hours ago saying you’d cracked the encryption. You had a name."

"I was mistaken. The data was wiped. The number is a ghost. I can’t help you anymore."

"What do you mean you can’t help me? I’m paying you..."

"Drop the case, Mr Flemington," he whispered.

"For your own sake. Drop it."

Then the line went dead.

I stared at the screen, a cold chill sliding down my spine. The PI had been spooked. Someone had gotten to him. My wife ’falls’ down a stairwell in a blind spot, and my lead investigator suddenly starts acting very weird?

This wasn’t just a series of unfortunate events. It was a conspiracy.

Someone was dismantling our lives piece by piece, and they had started with Octavia.