Chapter 44

~ Franklin ~

The weekend arrived, and the silence of the estate was beginning to feel like a physical weight.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet people romanticized, but the kind that pressed in on you, filled your ears, made every small sound echo louder than it should. The ticking of the clock in the hallway. The faint hum of the air conditioning. Even my own footsteps had started to sound intrusive, like I didn’t belong in my own home.

I drove to a city gym, desperate to sweat out the frustration that had been building since Octavia walked out.

The drive itself did little to calm me. Traffic lights took too long, other drivers seemed slower than usual, and every idle second gave my mind space to wander back to her—to the way she had looked at me before leaving. Cold. Distant. Done.

I didn’t want the bodyguards; I didn’t want the spectacle. I just wanted to be another face in the crowd, anonymous and unburdened.

But I was Franklin Flemington. Anonymity was a luxury I had traded away long ago. And no matter how far I tried to step away from it, the name followed — heavy, inescapable.

Halfway through my set on the bench press, my phone buzzed incessantly in my duffel bag. Assuming it was Bella—who had been calling me like a woman possessed since I asked for space—I grabbed it and answered without checking the ID.

"Look, you need to stop fucking calling me. It’s annoying," I snapped into the receiver.

"Woah language, Franklin. Please," a dry, familiar voice replied.

I pulled the phone away and felt a jolt of embarrassment.

Grandpa. "Grandpa?" I sat up, dabbing sweat from my forehead with a towel, suddenly more aware of my surroundings, as though someone might have overheard.

"Yes. Who exactly were you expecting to stop ’fucking calling’ you?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"It’s no one. Why are you calling? I’m busy."

"Busy doing what? Hanging out with that woman..what’s her name again? Betty?"

I rolled my eyes, irritation slipping through despite myself. "Her name is Bella for hundred time grandpa, and no. I’m at the gym."

"Don’t we have a state-of-the-art gymnasium at the estate?"

"I wanted a change of scenery. The city gym is fine." I took a long pull from my water bottle, trying to steady my breathing—not just from the workout, but from the sudden shift in conversation. "What’s up?" I asked.

"The company’s fiftieth anniversary is approaching," he began, his tone shifting to business.

"Yes, I’m aware of that."

"Good. Because I’ve sent out the invitations. Including one to Octavia. I have it on good authority that she’s coming."

I froze. A dull ache started behind my temples. For a brief second, the sounds of the gym faded—the clanking weights, the low conversations, the music overhead—all of it dulled by that single piece of information.

"You invited her without talking to me first?"

"Do I need my grandson’s permission to invite his wife to my company’s milestone?" he countered, his voice rising in irritation.

"No, but a heads-up would have been nice. We aren’t exactly on speaking terms, grandpa."

"That’s your failure, Franklin, not mine. All I know is that she is still a Flemington on paper, and she will be there. I expect you to be on your best behavior. This ceremony means a lot to this family."

"I know it does," I sighed, running a hand through my damp hair. "I’ll be there, that’s for sure."

"Good. Meet me at the golf course this afternoon. We have things to discuss."

The call ended, leaving me staring at my reflection in the mirrored walls of the gym. My chest rose and fell steadily, but my thoughts were anything but calm.

Octavia at the gala.

The image came uninvited—her dressed in something elegant, poised, distant, untouchable. Speaking to guests like nothing had happened between us. Like I hadn’t driven her away.

The thought sent a confusing mixture of dread and anticipation through my veins.

I finished my workout, pushing myself harder than usual, as if physical exhaustion could drown out the noise in my head. Muscles burned, lungs strained—but none of it was enough.

As I was heading for the exit, I collided with someone near the heavy glass doors. I didn’t bother looking up at first.

"Sorry, excuse me," I muttered.

"Franklin Flemington."

The voice sounded almost familiar, smooth—and then instantly recognizable.

I looked up and saw Clinton Harrington.

The son of my family’s greatest enemy.

"Clinton Harrington?" I let out a breath of surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"It’s a public gym, Franklin. I came to lift," he said, a small smile playing on his lips.

"The last time we spoke, you said you were leaving New York."

"Yes I know, I left, though it’s been two that I left," he shrugged. "I got homesick," he added.

"Right." I studied him more closely this time.

He looked different. There was a sharpness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before, something more controlled, more deliberate. Like he had learned how to hide whatever he was thinking behind that easy smile.

"How’s your father? Hope he’s out of trouble. He’s probably staying at his estate?"

"He is. Keeping his head down."

"Good. He should keep it that way," I said, my voice dropping an octave.

A brief silence stretched between us—tense, loaded with history neither of us needed to voice.

"I’ve got to go, Clinton. Good to see you."

I turned to leave, but he called out, stopping me in my tracks.

"How’s your wife? Octavia, right?"

I paused, a prickle of suspicion crawling up my spine. Slowly, I turned back. "She’s fine."

"Good. I hope everything is well with you two. No... issues in the marriage, I hope?"

I turned to face him fully, my eyes narrowing. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Clinton’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Nothing at all. Just a friendly inquiry. And congratulations on the Executive Chairmanship. I heard the news."

"Thanks," I said curtly.

But something about the way he said it lingered. Too casual. Too knowing.

I walked to my car, my mind racing as I pulled out into traffic. The city blurred past me, but I barely registered it.

Clinton Harrington was back—and he was asking about Octavia.

Two years ago, he had helped me take down his father, but today... something felt different. That uneasy alliance we once had felt like a distant memory.

Does he know? I wondered. Is he watching us?

My grip tightened on the steering wheel as I replayed the conversation over and over again, analyzing every word, every pause, every look.

Something fishy was going on.