Chapter 47

~ Clinton ~

I knew staying the night was a risk, but after the terror in Octavia’s eyes during the attack, I couldn’t bring myself to leave her alone. I needed to be the wall between her and the world.

Even long after everything had quieted down, the image of her—shaken, vulnerable, clinging to composure by a thread—refused to leave my mind. It replayed over and over, like some cruel loop I couldn’t shut off. And every time I saw it, the same instinct surged through me again.

Protect her.

That morning, I woke to the soft sizzle of bacon and the rich, warm aroma of coffee. For a moment, I didn’t move. I just lay there on the couch, staring at the ceiling, letting the unfamiliar calm settle over me. It felt... strange. Peaceful in a way I hadn’t experienced in years.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, my muscles protesting slightly from the awkward position I’d slept in, and found Octavia in the kitchen.

She looked breathtakingly natural—barefoot, her hair a loose silk waterfall over a red nightgown and matching robe. The early sunlight filtered through the windows, wrapping around her like it had chosen her specifically, casting her in a soft glow that made everything else in the room feel secondary.

For a second, I just stood there, watching her.

Memorizing her.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," she greeted, a playful smile on her face as she tended to the stove.

"Morning," I croaked, my voice rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat. "You sleep okay?"

"Surprisingly well," she said, sliding eggs onto a plate with practiced ease. "I wanted to surprise you with breakfast before you woke up, but I guess the aroma was too much to resist." 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

"Hard to ignore a breakfast like that," I admitted, pushing myself fully awake as I stood up and joined her in the kitchen. I reached for the coffeemaker out of habit, but she playfully swatted my hand away.

"Sit. You’re the guest today."

There was something light in her tone—something easy, unguarded. It caught me off guard.

"Yes, ma’am." I held up my hands in surrender and sat on a stool, watching her move.

She looked so elegant, even in the morning light without a trace of makeup. There was no effort in it, no pretense. Just her.

I felt a sudden, sharp pang in my chest.

It wasn’t just about the plan anymore; I was falling for her—for the way she laughed, the way she cared, her very soul. And that realization didn’t come gently. It hit like a collision, sudden and undeniable.

Dangerous.

We ate in a comfortable, easy silence, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled. Cutlery clinked softly against plates, the quiet hum of the apartment settling around us. It felt... normal. Almost domestic.

Too normal.

Until my phone vibrated against the counter.

The sound shattered the moment.

The screen lit up: Dad.

My heart did a slow, heavy roll, dread pooling low in my stomach. I stared at the name for a second too long, my jaw tightening. I ignored the first call. Then the second. Then the third.

But he was relentless.

Of course he was.

"Sorry, excuse me... it’s work. I should take this," I lied, forcing a casual tone as I stood and stepped out into the hallway, closing the apartment door behind me as quietly as possible.

The second I answered, the air shifted.

"Why haven’t you been answering?" My Dad’s voice was like gravel—rough, sharp, already laced with irritation.

"Dad, I can’t talk right now."

"Don’t you dare hang up on me, Clinton. Give me an update."

I kept my eyes glued to Octavia’s door, my chest tightening at the thought of her stepping out and hearing even a fraction of this conversation.

"I’ll come to the estate this morning. We’ll talk then," I said quickly, cutting the call before he could argue further.

The silence that followed rang louder than his voice.

I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down my face, trying to steady the tension coiling in my body. My hands were shaking more than I liked, and I clenched them into fists until the tremor subsided.

Then I went back inside.

Octavia was watching me, her fork paused halfway to her mouth, her brows slightly drawn in quiet concern. She noticed more than she let on—that much was becoming clear.

"Everything okay?"

"Of course," I forced a smile that felt brittle, unnatural on my face. "Just a minor fire at the office."

The lie slid out too easily.

Nola wandered over, brushing against my leg, and I crouched down to stroke her white fur, grateful for the distraction. The cat purred instantly, leaning into my touch as if she had already decided I was trustworthy.

If only her owner knew better.

"Careful," Octavia teased. "If she starts liking you more than me, I might have to get jealous."

"She has good taste," I joked.

But as I looked up at Octavia, the laughter died in my throat.

She was radiant.

There was no other word for it.

And for a reckless, fleeting moment, I wanted to close the distance between us—to lean in, to kiss her, to forget everything else. To pretend I wasn’t standing in the middle of something that would inevitably destroy her.

But I didn’t.

I forced myself to stay exactly where I was.

Instead, I reached out and squeezed her hand—something safe, something controlled.

Something that wouldn’t ruin everything.

An hour later, I was standing in the living room of the estate.

The shift from her apartment to this place was jarring. The warmth I had just left behind felt like a distant memory, replaced by cold marble floors, towering ceilings, and an atmosphere that always seemed just a few degrees too tense.

My father was silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows, his hands clasped behind his back.

He didn’t turn when I entered.

"You’re back," he said.

"Yes, I was making sure Octavia didn’t suspect anything," I replied, keeping my tone even.

"Suspect anything? Or were you simply enjoying the company of the enemy?"

He turned then, his eyes narrowing into predatory slits, studying me in a way that made it feel like he was peeling back layers I wasn’t ready to expose.

"You’re stalling, Clinton. I want Franklin Flemington to suffer, and I want it to start now."

"Octavia is innocent, Dad. She’s a victim in all of this. Why does she have to be part of your revenge?"

The words came out before I could stop them.

My Dad stepped toward me, his face a mask of cold fury. "Innocent? She bears the Flemington name. That makes her a target. Why are you suddenly defending her? Is there something I should know?"

My stomach churned.

For a split second, I considered telling the truth.

And just as quickly, I buried the thought.

"I’m just being practical."

"No, you’re being soft." His voice dropped, colder now, sharper. "If you have developed any affection for that woman, destroy it. Now."

Each word landed like a blow.

"She is a means to an end. If she goes down with the rest of them, that is simply the cost of war. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Dad," I stammered, the words tasting like ash.

As I walked away toward the stairs, the weight of my betrayal felt like lead in my pockets. Each step felt heavier than the last, like I was dragging something invisible but crushing behind me.

Octavia trusted me.

She looked at me as her protector, unaware that I was the one holding the match to her world. The irony of it clawed at something deep in my chest, something I had spent years learning to ignore.

I was terrified of the plan succeeding, but I was even more terrified of losing her when she finally realized who I really was.