Chapter 56

~ Octavia ~

My phone finally fell silent, the screen turning black as the elevator reached the ballroom floor.

The doors slid open, and Franklin’s bodyguards stepped out with me, their presence a constant, heavy reminder of the world I was trying to escape. The polished marble under my feet felt like thin ice, ready to crack at any moment and plunge me into the freezing depths of the Flemington-Harrington war.

I tried to blend into the shadows of the gold-leafed hall, waiting for a chance to find Frederick, offer my congratulations, and flee.

But the room had changed.

The atmosphere was no longer celebratory; it was predatory. The guests didn’t just whisper—they stared. It was the kind of scrutiny that made me feel like my skin was being peeled back, revealing every secret I had tried to bury since the day I signed that contract.

"Excuse me, Miss?" A woman in a shimmering cocktail dress intercepted me. She glanced nervously at the bodyguards, then at my hand. "I’m sorry to prying, but... is it true? What Dorian Harrington said? Is your marriage to Franklin Flemington just a performance?"

I felt the heat rise in my neck.

"And you expect me to hand over the details of my private life for your entertainment?"

"Well," she sniffed, joined by two other curious onlookers who nodded in agreement, "we are investors. We deserve to know if the Flemington legacy is built on a lie."

"My personal life is nobody’s goddamn business," I snapped.

Before she could reply, Franklin marched into the room. He looked furious, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity.

Frederick and Dorian were still nowhere to be seen—likely still locked in their battle of wills—but Franklin was clearly ready to end the speculation. He moved through the crowd like a storm front, his presence alone forcing the gossiping circles to part in his wake. He grabbed my hand, his fingers like iron.

"What are you doing?" I hissed under my breath.

"Saving you," he whispered back, his voice vibrating with tension. "Just follow my lead."

He dragged me toward the stage.

The music died down as he took the microphone, the room falling into a hush that felt like a held breath. The silence was so absolute that I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning and the frantic rhythm of my own pulse in my ears.

"Good evening, everyone," Franklin’s voice boomed, professional and commanding. "You all heard the accusations made by Dorian Harrington. A man who has spent the last decade trying to dismantle my grandfather’s hard work because of a bitter, personal jealousy."

"Is it true, Mr. Flemington? Miss Herman?" a reporter shouted from the back, a camera flash popping. "Is the marriage a sham?"

I looked out at the sea of faces—half of New York seemed to be in this room, and every single one of them was waiting for us to crumble.

"It’s Mrs. Flemington to you," Franklin corrected coldly.

"And no, it is not a sham. My marriage to Octavia is as real as this company. Dorian is a man with a vendetta—he was removed from our board for embezzlement and money laundering, and this is his pathetic attempt at revenge. I won’t have my wife’s reputation dragged through the mud because of his delusions." His words were smooth, a perfectly crafted shield of PR and bravado, but I could feel the slight tremor in his hand that betrayed his own agitation.

I leaned in, my voice a jagged whisper. "Is this how you save me, Franklin? By piling more lies on top of the old ones? Tell them the truth."

"I just did," he whispered back, his eyes never leaving the crowd.

"You didn’t. You know you didn’t."

"Thank you for your time," Franklin finished, ignoring me as he led me off the stage.

The woman who had confronted me earlier stepped aside, looking sheepish.

"My apologies, Mrs. Flemington. I shouldn’t have listened to the rumors."

I offered a tight, fake smile and kept walking. "I’m leaving, Franklin. Tell your grandfather I couldn’t stay. I’m exhausted." 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"You can’t just walk out alone right after I told them we’re a united front," he muttered, catching up to me. "If you leave now, the reporters will frame it as a lover’s quarrel or a confirmation of everything Dorian just spat"

"That’s your problem, not mine. You should have told the truth instead of doubling down on the lie." I jerked my hand away, heading for the parking lot. The cool night air hit me like a splash of cold water, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the feeling of being trapped.

"Fine, let me at least escort you out so the paparazzi don’t see us fighting."

He followed me all the way to my car.

I hopped into the driver’s seat and looked up at him. "Go back to your party, Franklin. I’m done."

"I suppose your ’boyfriend’ is waiting for you?" he said, his voice laced with a sudden, sharp bitterness.

"That’s none of your business."

"Actually, it is. A word of advice, Octavia? Don’t trust him. He isn’t who you think he is. He’s a Harrington. He’s a traitor." He leaned against the car frame, his face partially obscured by the shadows, looking like a man who had already seen the end of the movie I was just beginning to watch.

The words hit me like a physical blow, confirming everything I’d heard behind that closed door. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I just pulled the door shut and drove away.

The drive home was a blur of neon lights and static noise. I kept glancing at my phone—five missed calls from Clinton. Each one felt like a fresh sting of betrayal. The silence of the car cabin felt oppressive, and the city lights outside seemed like mocking eyes watching my fall from grace.

When I finally reached my apartment building, my heart sank.

Clinton was there, leaning against the wall outside my door. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened and his hair a mess, a far cry from the composed man I had spent the last few weeks liking him. The moment our eyes met, his expression shifted from concern to a deep, gut-wrenching realization. He knew the secret was out. The air in the hallway was thick and stale, echoing the sudden emptiness I felt inside.

I stood at the end of the hallway, my keys trembling in my hand. I felt a confusing cocktail of rage and hurt, but mostly, I just felt foolish. I had let myself believe in a sanctuary that was actually just another room in the Harrington estate.

"Octavia," he started, taking a step toward me. His voice was low and gravelly, carrying a weight of guilt that confirmed every one of my worst fears.

I didn’t move. I just stared at him, the man who had been my sanctuary for a month, realizing he was just another ghost from the world I was trying to leave behind. The "Clinton" I knew felt like a character in a book I had just finished reading, and the man standing before me was a stranger with a name that tasted like ash in my mouth.