Chapter 41

~ Clinton ~

"You knew?" Octavia’s voice was barely a whisper, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and something that looked like fear.

"Yes," I nodded, keeping my expression steady.

"Octavia, everyone in New York knows who Franklin Flemington is. He’s the city’s golden son. The engagement, the wedding... it was everywhere. Don’t look so surprised."

"I suppose you’re right," she said, though she still looked unsettled. "But if you knew I was married, why didn’t you just walk away? Why get involved?"

"Because I couldn’t," I said, leaning closer so she could see the sincerity I wasn’t entirely faking.

"I was already interested in you. A ring—or the lack of one—wasn’t going to change that."

"Even if I’m still legally married to him?" she whispered.

"Even then." I gestured to her bare hand. "I’m an observer, Octavia. Spouses in happy marriages don’t stop wearing their bands, and they certainly don’t live in separate apartments. I knew your marriage was in trouble before you even told me."

"So, you’re a detective now?" She tried to offer a small, playful smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

"Just a man who pays attention." I felt a pang of guilt as I remembered my father’s voice echoing in my head: Gather information. Create a scandal. "So... what happened? What caused the separation?"

She looked at me for a long beat, her smile fading. "I... I need to use the restroom," she said abruptly, sliding out of the booth.

The moment she was gone, I pulled out my phone. My fingers hesitated for a split second before I opened the voice recorder app and hit Start. I laid the phone face down on the table. This was for the plan. This was for the Harrington legacy.

When she returned, she looked more fragile. She began to stir her ice cream, which had melted into a sugary soup.

"Sorry. I knew you’d ask eventually. It’s just... hard to say out loud."

"Hey, if you don’t want to tell me, it’s alright," I said, playing the part of the supportive friend perfectly.

"No, I want to. I need to." She took a shaky breath, unaware that my phone was capturing every word.

"Franklin and I... we weren’t compatible. Not from the start. He wanted things I couldn’t give him, and I was just... ignored. Neglected is a better word. He made me feel invisible."

"Why?" I asked, and for a moment, I wasn’t just acting. I truly wanted to know how a man could have this woman in his house and look right through her.

"He didn’t love me," she said, her voice breaking.

"The marriage was never supposed to happen. It was a mistake from day one." She looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears. "Let me ask you something, Clinton. Have you ever loved someone so much that even when they treat you horribly, even when they ignore your entire existence, you still stay? You still hope?"

She began to weep quietly. I reached into my jacket, pulled out a clean handkerchief, and handed it to her.

"Here. It’s clean."

"Thank you," she sobbed, dabbing at her cheeks. "I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Please."

"It’s okay," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "I’m not pushing you. I was just... curious."

As we prepared to leave, I stealthily stopped the recording and slid the phone into my pocket. I could feel it burning against my leg.

Outside, the night air was biting. Octavia only had a light scarf draped over her shoulders. Without a word, I stripped off my suit jacket and settled it over her.

"You didn’t have to do that," she protested.

"You were shivering. Why didn’t you wear a coat?"

"My laundry is backed up," she shrugged, a small, genuine laugh escaping her. "I haven’t had time to be a functional human being lately."

"Give me your keys," I said, holding out my hand. "I’m driving you home."

"Clinton, you’ve done enough—"

"Music to my ears. Keys, please."

She handed them over, and I drove her back to her apartment in a comfortable silence.

When we reached her door, she handed me back my jacket.

"Thank you for tonight, Clinton. Truly."

"Have dinner with me tomorrow," I said. It wasn’t a question. "I’ll pick you up from your office at seven."

"If I’m not busy—"

"You won’t be. I’ll see you at seven." I gave her a wink, and she finally laughed.

"Goodnight, Clinton."

"Goodnight, gorgeous."

I waited until I heard her lock click before heading to the street to hail a taxi. As the city lights blurred past the window, I pulled out my phone and stared at the recording.

Octavia was a pawn.

She was a woman whose heart had been shattered by a Flemington, and now my father wanted me to use the pieces to finish the job. She had trusted me. She had looked at me with those vulnerable, tear-filled eyes and told me her deepest secrets.

When I reached the manor, Trudy greeted me with a solemn nod.

"Your father is waiting in the living room, Master Clinton."

The house looked different now. The curtains were open, and the lights were bright—my father was feeling the surge of a man who smelled blood in the water.

"How did it go?" he asked, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke. He already knew I’d been with her; he was the one who had provided her office address, forcing me to invent that "cyber-stalking" lie to cover our tracks.

"Fine," I said shortly.

"Just fine? Did you get anything? Did she talk about the contract? Did she mention Franklin’s vulnerabilities?"

I looked at my father—a man consumed by bitterness—and then I thought of Octavia crying over melted ice cream.

If I gave him this recording, he would use her words to humiliate her. He would destroy her just to get to Franklin.

"No," I lied, my voice steady.

"She didn’t say anything useful. We just talked about her work. She’s busy, Dad. These things take time."

My father narrowed his eyes, studying me.

"You’re slowing down, Clinton. We need results if we’re going to topple that empire."

"I know what I’m doing," I said, turning away to head upstairs.

Once I was safe in my room, I pulled out my phone one last time. I looked at the file—the evidence that could give my father exactly what he wanted.

"Sorry, Dad," I whispered.

I hit Delete.

Octavia had suffered enough at the hand of Franklin Flemington.

I wouldn’t be the one to add a Harrington to her list of heartbreaks.

Not if I could help it.