Chapter 36

~ Octavia ~

It was the weekend—my first taste of true independence away from the office—and I decided to spend it at home, healing in the quiet of my own space.

Part of me expected Franklin to storm into my workplace, especially since I had blocked his number and vanished from the estate.

I half-waited for him to demand a conversation about the divorce, but the silence from his end was absolute.

As I was standing over the stove making breakfast, my phone buzzed on the counter.

My heart skipped when I saw the name: Clinton.

He was the man I’d just met, the one who had managed to make me feel lighter in a few days than I had in years.

"Hello?" I answered, unable to keep the smile out of my voice.

"Hello, gorgeous," his deep voice chirped.

"Hey."

"How was your night?" he asked.

"Not bad," I said, sliding my scrambled eggs onto a plate. "And yours?"

"Perfect. Want to know why?" I could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

"Why?" I leaned against the kitchen counter, my pulse quickening.

"Because I dreamt of you. And in the dream, everything was perfect."

I felt a heat rise to my cheeks.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmm-hmm. So, what are the weekend plans for a brilliant game developer?"

"I’m just at home with my cat, enjoying a very late breakfast. I plan on doing absolutely nothing but lazing around."

"That sounds like a plan that needs a guest," he said smoothly. "I’m coming over to keep you company."

My eyes widened.

"What? Clinton, I look a mess! My hair is in a bird’s nest of a bun, I’m wearing an oversized shirt and shorts—"

"And you’d still be the prettiest thing in the room, trust me," he cut in. "Address? I’m waiting."

I hesitated for a second, then laughed and gave in. I texted him the address and immediately went into a whirlwind of cleaning. I even had to nudge Nola out of her new favorite sunspot to vacuum.

"Sorry, Nola, we have a visitor," I whispered. She just purred and relocated to the top of the fridge.

I swapped my loungewear for a fresh white t-shirt and denim jeans, barely finishing my hair before the buzzer rang.

When I opened the door, Clinton was standing there, looking effortlessly handsome and holding a large brown paper bag.

"Hey," he said, his eyes sweeping over me with a warmth that made my skin tingle.

"Hey. Come on in."

He stepped inside, glancing around.

"Your place is cool, Octavia. And that balcony? The view must be breathtaking."

"It is," I said, closing the door.

I pointed at the bag he had set on the coffee table.

"What’s the mystery cargo?"

"See for yourself." He sat on the couch with an amused grin.

I sat on the carpet and peered into the bag. I pulled out two containers of sushi and a small tub of soy sauce.

I looked up at him, deadpan. "Are you serious? You actually brought the sushi."

Clinton burst into laughter. "I told you I was going to! You should have seen your face—it was hilarious."

"Very funny, Clinton," I said, moving to sit beside him on the couch.

"In all seriousness," he said, his laughter dying down into a soft, sparking gaze.

"I didn’t bring it just for the joke. I want you to try it properly at least once before you decide it’s gross."

"I don’t need to try it; I know it’s a disaster," I grimaced.

"Okay, tell me: what happened the first time?"

"It was a friend’s birthday," I explained, gesturing dramatically.

"I was excited to try it. But the first bite was... wrong. The second was worse. I ended up spitting it out. Sushi is a no-no for me. Sorry to the culture, but it’s bad."

"Maybe it wasn’t fresh?"

"It was steaming hot rice over raw fish, Clinton. It was fresh."

"Ah, but did you use the soy sauce?"

"I don’t think so."

"There it is. Okay, here’s the deal: one bite, dipped in the sauce. If you still hate it, I will never mention the word ’sushi’ to you again. I cross my heart."

"Fine," I sighed. "Let’s do this."

Clinton cheered, opening the containers.

He expertly handled the chopsticks, dipping a piece of sushi and bringing it to my lips.

"I know how to use chopsticks, you know," I whispered.

"Just pretend you don’t," he replied, his voice dropping to a husky, intimate register.

"Let me take care of you."

I shivered, the intensity of his gaze making me flush. I opened my mouth and took the bite.

My eyes widened instantly.

"Wow," I said, covering my mouth as I chewed.

"Gross?" he asked, though he looked like he already knew the answer.

"No... it’s actually delicious! Give me another one."

We ended up huddled over the coffee table, laughing as we polished off the containers, my original breakfast sitting forgotten and cold on the counter.

"Why does this feel like a date?" I asked, resting my chin on my hand.

"Because it is a date," he said, pausing with a piece of ginger.

"Isn’t it a bit fast? We met a few days ago, and now you’re in my apartment."

"Some people call that being ’forward.’ I call it being soulmates," he said with a shrug.

The word soulmate hit me like a physical weight. My smile faltered as the reality of my life came rushing back. I was still legally Octavia Flemington. I was still tied to a man who loathed me.

"Are you okay?" Clinton said, his hand reaching out toward mine.

"I’m fine! Just... thinking," I lied, giving him a quick smile. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

If I told him I was the wife of the city’s most powerful CEO, this magic would vanish.

"I just feel a connection to you, Octavia," he said, his light brown eyes burning with a sincerity that felt almost painful.

"Do you feel it too?"

"I do," I whispered.

He took my hand and kissed my knuckles gently.

"I’m happy to hear that."

Nola chose that moment to trot over, rubbing her head against my feet.

"Look who’s awake," I said, scooping her up.

"Nola, say hi to Clinton Sancho."

"Hi, Nola. Beautiful fur," he said, reaching out to stroke her.

"You aren’t allergic, are you?" I asked, a sudden memory of Franklin’s sneezing fits surfacing.

"No, I love animals. Cats, dogs—I’m a fan of them all."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Why? Do you usually hang out with guys who are allergic?" he teased.

"Because—" I stopped myself just in time.

Because my husband is.

"Never mind. Want to hold her?"

He took Nola, and to my surprise, she settled right into his lap, purring as he stroked her.

"I think she likes you," I murmured.

We talked for hours, the conversation flowing effortlessly until the sun began to set.

When he finally stood up to leave, I walked him to the door, feeling a strange reluctance to let him go.

"Thank you for today, Clinton. I haven’t had this much fun in... well, ever."

"I should be thanking you," he said softly.

We stood in the doorway, the air between us thick with unspoken tension. I found myself looking at his lips, wondering if he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to.

I wanted to forget everything else.

"I’ll text you when I get home," he said, breaking the silence.

"Oh. Yes. Do that," I said, trying to hide the slight disappointment in my voice.

"Give Nola a stroke for me." He squeezed my hand, his voice dropping to that sexy, husky tone again.

"Goodnight, Octavia."

"Goodnight, Clinton."

I closed the door and leaned my back against it, a ridiculous, giddy grin spreading across my face. I felt like a teenager. I sprawled onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, my heart racing.

Was I moving too fast? Probably. But for the first time in two years, I wasn’t a ghost in a big house. I was Octavia.

And I was finally alive.