Chapter 55

~ Octavia ~

Following Frederick’s opening speech, the ballroom lights dimmed for a documentary on the Flemington legacy.

On the massive projector, Franklin narrated a journey through time—grainy black-and-white photos of the first brick laid, milestones of innovation, and interviews with the giants who built the dynasty. The music swelled in the background, a triumphant orchestral score that seemed to beat in rhythm with the pride radiating from the guests. It was a masterclass in branding, painting the Flemingtons as the architect of the city’s very soul.

Beside me, Frederick was a silhouette of quiet emotion. Tears of joy caught the light on his cheeks; he was watching his life’s work flourish in the hands of his grandson.

I reached over and squeezed his hand. He offered a watery smile, dabbing his eyes with a silk handkerchief. In that moment, the weight of the Flemington name felt less like a burden and more like a sacred trust, one that I was inadvertently tied by a piece of paper hidden in a lawyer’s safe.

The mood shifted to celebration as the awards ceremony began.

When Franklin was called to the stage to be recognized as Executive Chairman, the atmosphere was electric—until a voice sliced through the applause like a serrated blade.

"Stop deceiving yourselves, Frederick! We all know the only reason that boy is holding an award is his bloodline, not his merit."

The room went stone-cold. At the grand entrance stood a middle-aged man, tall with silvered, slicked-back hair and eyes that looked like they were carved from ice. His presence felt like a sudden drop in temperature l, a predatory stillness that made the hair on the back of my stand up.

"Harrington?" Frederick’s voice was a low growl, and the guests immediately erupted into a fever pitch of whispers.

I remembered him then.

He was the man I met on the day Frederick announced to everyone that I was ’betrothed’ to Franklin—a board member with a reputation for being a shark. Even then, he had looked at me with a calculating hunger, as if I were nothing more than a variable in a much larger equation.

"In the flesh, Frederick," Mr. Harrington said, stepping into the light.

Franklin stepped to the edge of the stage, his jaw tight. "Security! Get this man out of here!"

"Don’t bother, Franklin," Harrington taunted, walking toward the center of the room. "I know the truth behind this ’fairytale’ marriage to Octavia Herman. Shall I share it with the room? Shall I tell them it’s a sham?"

A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom. The air became thick with the scent of scandal, a hungry energy that the elite fed on like vultures. All eyes turned to me, burning with curiosity. Franklin didn’t hesitate; he leaped off the stage and was at my side in seconds, grabbing my hand and interlacing our fingers.

"Anything out of your mouth is a lie, Harrington," Franklin barked, his grip on my hand possessive. His palm was warm against mine, and for a split second, the performance felt terrifyingly real. He wasn’t just protecting the company; he was shielding me.

Frederick descended the stairs, his face a mask of fury. He marched toward Harrington, and the two men began a heated exchange that was quickly drowned out by the rising noise of the crowd.

I leaned into Franklin’s ear, my heart hammering. "Franklin, what is this? Does he know about the contract?"

"I don’t know, but don’t panic," he whispered back, his eyes darting around the room. "Grandpa and I have this under control. Just keep your head up. Don’t let them see you flinch"

Frederick signaled for Franklin to join them. Franklin turned to his bodyguards, two massive men who seemed to materialize out of the shadows.

"Keep her safe. Octavia, do you want to go home?"

"No," I said, trying to maintain my composure. "I’ll wait. Just hurry so I can say goodbye to your grandfather before I leave."

As they disappeared into a private side room, I grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, draining half of it in one go. The silence they left behind was filled with the judging glares of the elite. I felt suffocated. Every diamond necklace and silk tuxedo in the room felt like a witness to my impending exposure.

"Excuse me, I need to use the restroom," I told the guards.

They followed me like shadows. Halfway there, I turned on them. The adrenaline was making my skin itch, and their constant proximity felt like a physical weight.

"I’m fine here. You don’t need to hover."

"Mr. Flemington’s orders, ma’am—"

"I am Mrs. Flemington," I cut in, using the title I hated to my advantage. "I give orders too. Stay put."

I slipped away before they could protest. I was on the seventh floor; the ballroom’s facilities were overwhelmed, so I sought out a quieter floor. The hallway was lined with dark wood and velvet, the sounds of the party drifting up as a faint, ghostly hum.

As I walked past a heavy set of double doors, I heard raised voices. I froze. I knew those voices.

"What do you want, Harrington?" That was Franklin.

"To see you exposed," Harrington spat back.

"You’ve been jealous of my success for over forty years," Frederick countered. "Is this still about the embezzlement? The money laundering? We could have sent you to prison, Dorian. We showed you mercy because of your son."

"My son," Harrington laughed bitterly. "Clinton may be a fool, but he is nothing like me. If he hadn’t stepped in to help you expose my ’business ventures’ two years ago, I would have had the board’s vote to oust you both."

"He did the right thing," Frederick said. "Clinton Sancho Harrington has more honor in his pinky finger than you have in your entire body."

My blood turned to ice. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the floor beneath my feet feeling suddenly unstable.

Clinton Sancho Harrington. The pieces fell into place with a sickening thud. The way Clinton had conveniently left out his last name. The way Franklin had reacted when he saw us together. The "brief" business history they shared. It wasn’t just a business connection—Clinton was the son of the man trying to destroy the Flemingtons. Everything about our meeting felt orchestrated now, a beautiful lie designed to lure me into a trap.

I backed away from the door, my head spinning. The hallway seemed to stretch, the shadows deepening into jagged shapes.

Had Clinton approached me on purpose? Was our entire friendship—his kindness, his confession of love—just another layer of his father’s revenge? Was I just a pawn to be used against the Flemingtons, a weak point in their armor that he has spent weeks meticulously polishing?

I stumbled into the elevator, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Just as the doors slid shut, my phone began to vibrate in my clutch.

Incoming Call: Clinton.

I stared at the screen, the name mocking me. Was he calling to check on his handiwork? Was he sitting in some dark room, waiting for his father’s signal that the bomb had finally detonated? I stood there, paralyzed, watching the phone ring as the elevator ascended, wondering if I had been a pawn in a game I didn’t even know I was playing. The silence of the elevator was deafening, broken only by the persistent, rhythmic hum of a man who had stolen my heart under false pretence.