Chapter 174

~ Octavia ~

"Octavia!"

My name echoed through the darkness as I chased a shadowy figure, my bare feet pounding against an unseen ground. No matter how fast I ran, the distance between us never closed. The figure remained just out of reach, elusive and haunting. A sudden flicker of light pierced the void, illuminating the silhouette. It was Franklin. His face was streaked with blood, eyes wide with unspoken pain and desperation. Horror gripped me. I screamed his name, the sound ripping from my throat.

"Franklin!"

I jolted awake with a violent scream, my body jerking upright so sharply that the world spun. My chest heaved with sharp, ragged gasps as my eyes darted wildly around the room. Darkness cloaked everything, but slowly, familiarity settled in. I was in my bedroom. The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting gentle shadows on the walls I had known since childhood. Yet my heart continued to race as if I were still trapped in that nightmare, running endlessly toward something I could never save.

"Octavia, sweetheart, hey... hey, it’s okay." My mother’s voice cut through the panic, warm and steady. Her hands gripped my shoulders firmly, grounding me. I flinched at first, still half-lost in the dream, before freezing under her touch.

"Mom?" My voice came out small and trembling, barely more than a whisper.

"Yes, honey. I’m here." She leaned closer, her face coming into view under the dim light. Worry etched deep lines across her forehead. Beside her sat my father, his posture tense, eyes filled with a mixture of fear and relief.

"Dad..." I whispered, the word catching in my throat.

He exhaled shakily, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as relief flooded his expression. "You scared the crap out of us, kiddo."

My chest tightened painfully. The nightmare still clung to me like wet shadows, refusing to release its grip. Fragments of the dream flashed behind my eyes—Franklin’s bloodied face, the endless chase, the suffocating darkness.

"What... what happened?" I asked, my voice still unsteady.

My mother’s hand moved gently to my back, rubbing slow circles. "You passed out in your father’s arms right after you told us about the plane crash."

The words landed like a physical blow. A sharp sob tore from my chest as the brutal reality crashed over me again, sinking deep into my bones like icy water. "No... no, no, no..." I shook my head repeatedly, hot tears spilling instantly down my cheeks. My mother pulled me into her arms without hesitation, holding me tightly against her chest. I couldn’t hold myself together any longer. The dam broke completely.

"He’s... they don’t even know if he’s alive..." My voice cracked violently, splintering into pieces. Saying the words aloud made the nightmare feel terrifyingly real. My body shook uncontrollably as fresh waves of tears poured down my face. "I didn’t even... I didn’t speak to him the day he was leaving. I didn’t say anything..."

Regret twisted like a knife in my gut. The memory of our last encounter flooded back—the private hospital ward, Franklin standing broken beside his grandfather’s motionless body, the cruel words I had thrown at him in my pain and anger. A broken cry escaped me, raw and guttural.

"Octavia—" my father began, his voice thick with emotion, but I could barely hear him.

All I could hear was the echo of my own harsh words, the way Franklin’s eyes had dimmed with hurt. My mother held me tighter, rocking me gently the way she had when I was a little girl afraid of thunderstorms. But this storm was different. This pain couldn’t be soothed with soft words or warm embraces. Nothing could fix this.

Time lost all meaning. I cried until my throat burned and my eyes swelled, unsure whether minutes or hours had slipped by. Eventually, the sobs slowed to quiet, shuddering breaths, but the ache remained—deep, heavy, and unrelenting. My gaze drifted aimlessly across the familiar bedroom until it landed on my vanity table. There, untouched, lay the envelope I had tossed aside earlier. Franklin’s letter.

My heart stuttered, then began pounding with a different kind of intensity.

"The letter," I said suddenly, my voice hoarse as I pointed toward the table. "I need it."

My parents followed my gaze. My father rose quietly from the edge of the bed and walked over to the vanity. He picked up the envelope with careful hands, as though it were fragile glass, and brought it back to me.

"Here," he said softly, placing it in my trembling palms.

My fingers shook as I took it. For a long moment, I hesitated at the sealed edge, afraid of what emotions it might unleash. Then, slowly, I opened it. The paper inside felt heavier than it should have, weighted with everything left unsaid. I unfolded it carefully and began to read, my vision blurring with fresh tears.

---

Dear Octavia,

I don’t know if this letter will make anything better, but I couldn’t leave without saying something. I’ve hurt you more than I ever intended to. From the moment we met, through everything that followed, and especially the last time I saw you—I could see the pain and disappointment in your eyes so clearly. And I know I’m the reason for it. God, I wish I wasn’t.

If I could turn back time, I would go back to that night at the bar, before our one-night stand, and approach you with the feelings I have now. It would have changed everything. If I could erase every reason you had to look at me that way, I would do it in a heartbeat. My heart is full of regret, Octavia—more than I know how to express. Sometimes I wonder if your life would have been better, happier, if I had never been in it. But despite all the pain I caused, I don’t regret you. Not once. And I don’t think I ever will.

I love you with all of my heart, Octavia. My queen. My sunshine.

Love, Franklin.

---

Tears streamed down my face, staining the paper in dark, uneven blotches. My parents remained silent, giving me the space I desperately needed. Another sob broke through me—this one quieter, but deeper, laced with profound sorrow. My mother gently brushed a tear from my cheek with her thumb.

The way he had written it... it felt like a goodbye. As if some part of him had sensed the danger ahead. The realization tightened my chest until I could barely breathe.

"He’s not allowed to say all this and then just... leave," I whispered, shaking my head weakly. Fresh tears spilled over. "He doesn’t get to do that."

"He didn’t know this would happen," my father said gently, placing a steady hand on my shoulder.

"I didn’t either," I whispered back. That was the cruelest part. We never knew. All those silent days I had wasted, refusing to speak to him, believing there would be more time. Time to return the letter. Time to tell him to stay away. Time to forgive.

But time had run out.

I looked back down at the letter, my fingers tracing lightly over his handwritten words, as if I could somehow feel his warmth through the ink. Suddenly, a new thought pierced through the grief—sharp and urgent.

He was out there somewhere in that vast, merciless rainforest. No one knew if he was alive or dead. Was this how the Flemington legacy would crumble? With Frederick lying comatose in a hospital bed and Franklin lost in the jungle, possibly gone forever?

I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the horrifying image that tried to form: Franklin’s body lying motionless on the muddy forest floor, skin pale, chest still. The thought was almost unbearable.

No. I couldn’t let that happen.

A quiet but fierce resolve began to take root inside me. No matter how hopeless the situation felt, I had to do what was right. I would step up. I would protect the Flemington name and everything they had built. For Frederick. For Franklin. And perhaps, most of all, for the love that still burned in my heart despite everything.

Even if it meant facing the unknown alone.