Chapter 46

~ Octavia ~

The office was empty by the time I finished my final tasks for the day.

My phone buzzed on the desk—Clinton.

"Hey," I answered, already reaching for my coat.

"Ready? I just left the office. I’m pulling up to your building now," he said, his voice a welcome anchor.

We had planned a quiet dinner at a bistro near my place.

"Just finishing. I’ll be down by the time you arrive."

"See you in a bit, gorgeous."

I stepped out of the elevator and into the cool night air. The street was unusually empty, the shadows stretching long against the concrete. I started toward the curb, looking for Clinton’s car, when a voice sliced through the silence.

"We meet again, ma’am."

The voice was a jagged memory, one that sent a surge of pure ice through my veins.

I turned slowly. There, standing in the darkness where the building’s light didn’t reach, was the man from two years ago.

The silver sedan. The yellow coat.

The sadistic smile that had haunted my dreams.

My knees turned to water.

"You," I whispered.

"It’s been a while since I stopped the game of watching you," he said, stepping into the light.

His eyes were vacant, fixed on me with a terrifying intensity. "I missed it."

"Stay back," I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Please, just stay back."

"Why would I do that? We have so much to talk about." He lunged forward, his movements blurring in the dark.

Before I could scream, his hands clamped onto my arms, his grip like iron.

"Let go of me! You’re hurting me!" I cried out, struggling against him, but he only tightened his hold.

"That’s the point, darling," he hissed, his face inches from mine.

"The goal was always to hurt you."

I thought this was it.

The street was deserted; the city had swallowed my voice.

Then, a blur of motion came from my peripheral vision. A heavy thud echoed as my stalker was ripped away from me and sent crashing to the pavement.

It was Clinton.

He didn’t hesitate. He dropped onto the man, his face a mask of primal fury.

"Don’t—you—ever—fucking—touch—her—again!" Each word was punctuated by a sickening thud as Clinton’s fist met the man’s face.

The stalker’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his head. Seeing the blood and the way the man went limp, a new kind of panic set in.

"Clinton, stop! Stop, he’s unconscious!"

Clinton froze, his chest heaving, his knuckles shredded and dripping with blood. He stood up slowly, his eyes searching mine for any sign of injury.

"Are you okay? Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?"

"I’m fine," I breathed, my voice trembling. "I’m fine because of you."

Without a word, he pulled me into his arms.

He held me so tightly I could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart through his shirt.

"Thank God I was here," he whispered into my hair. "I saw him grab you... I’m so sorry I wasn’t faster."

"You were exactly where you needed to be," I said, pulling back to look at his hands.

"Clinton, you’re bleeding."

"It’s his blood not mine," he said coldly, glancing down at the crumpled heap on the ground.

"Call the police. And an ambulance."

The next hour was a blur of flashing blue lights and questions. I gave my statement while the paramedics cleaned Clinton’s hands.

As they loaded the stalker—now conscious but battered—into the ambulance in handcuffs, a wave of relief washed over me. I’d spent two years protecting Franklin’s reputation by staying silent about this shadow, but tonight, the shadow was finally gone.

Back at my apartment, the silence felt heavy. I collapsed onto the couch, Nola immediately jumping up to offer a comforting purr.

"We missed our reservation," Clinton said, stripping off his coat and rolling up his sleeves. "But I’m not letting you go to bed without eating. You’re pale as a ghost."

"I lost my appetite," I admitted.

"Nonsense. I’m making dinner." He walked into my kitchen and began raiding the fridge with the confidence of someone who lived there. "I can do a mean hamburger and fries, or a chicken casserole. What’s your pleasure?"

"Burgers," I said, a small smile finally touching my lips. "Comfort food."

I sat on a barstool and watched him move. He handled the pans with professional ease.

"Where did you learn to cook like that?"

"Trudy," he said, flipping a patty. "Our family’s housekeeper. She’s been the closest thing to a mother I’ve had since I was eight. She made sure I knew my way around a stove by the time I was twelve."

The aroma of sizzling beef and seasoned fries filled the room, and suddenly, my stomach growled. When he slid the plate in front of me, I didn’t wait.

"Wow, this is incredible," I said through a mouthful.

"Thank you." He smiled with a satisfaction of me enjoying the food.

Later, we moved back to the couch, the tension finally beginning to ebb. Clinton leaned back, his eyes drifting to mine.

"Getting a bit of déjà vu sitting here," he said softly.

I knew exactly what he meant—the last time we’d been this close, I’d turned away from his kiss. I looked down at my lap, unsure of what to say.

"Octavia, can I ask you something?" His tone turned serious. "That man tonight...do you really have no idea who he is?"

"No, I don’t. He just started following me two years ago."

Clinton frowned, his brow furrowing.

"Someone doesn’t just stalk a person like that for years without a reason. There has to be a connection. A motive."

"I don’t know what it could be," I whispered.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, and for a split second, a dark scowl crossed his face before he masked it with a smile.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yeah. Just work." He tucked the phone away.

"Hey... would you mind if I stayed tonight? On the couch? I just want to make sure you’re safe after everything that happened."

I looked at him, he had the genuine concern in his eyes. "You don’t have to, Clinton. He’s in jail."

"I want to. Please."

"Okay," I relented.

"Thank you."

At midnight, I brought out blankets and a pillow. As I stood at my bedroom door, I looked back at him. "Thank you for everything tonight. Truly."

"Hey, I care about you, Octavia. I won’t let anything happen to you."

I went to my room and sank into the pillows, a faint smile on my lips.

For the first time in a long time, I felt protected. I had someone who was willing to bleed for me—something Franklin had never done.

But as I drifted toward sleep, a familiar ache returned. I felt a twinge of guilt. Clinton saw a future with me, but my heart was still a traitor, still anchored to a man who treated me like an enemy. I was safe, but I wasn’t free.