Chapter 57

~ Clinton ~

After leaving the estate and my father’s toxic shadow for good, I’d managed to find a small apartment near my office. It was meant to be a fresh start—a place where I could be just Clinton, not a weapon for the Harringtons. The walls were bare, and the air lacked the heavy, suffocating scent of expensive cologne and old money that defined my father’s house, but it was mine. It was the first time in my life I felt like I was breathing air that hadn’t been filtered through a Harrington agenda.

The day before the gala, during lunch, Octavia told me about the invitation.

"Franklin’s grandfather Frederick invited me. So I have to go," she’d said, looking weary.

"You know, I can come with you," I’d suggested, trying to lighten her mood with a wink. "I make an excellent plus-one."

"I wish you could," she’d sighed. "But it would only complicate things. I’m still legally married to Franklin, and the press will be everywhere. Bringing a date—especially one he’s already seen me with—would be a disaster. I hope you understand."

"I do," I’d lied, hiding the disappointment. "It’s a bummer, but I get it." Inside, a knot of anxiety tightened. I knew the Flemingtons were celebrating fifty years of power, and I knew my father had been obsessing over that milestone for decades. Every time Octavia stepped into their world, I felt like I was watching her walk onto a minefield while I stood on the sidelines, forbidden from shouting a warning.

Now, as the night of the gala unfolded, I was in my new kitchen trying to focus on dinner when my phone rang.

It was Trudy.

"This is the seventh time you’ve called today, Trudy," I said, a small smile playing on my lips. "I’m fine, I promise."

"Master Clinton?" Her voice was trembling, and my smile vanished instantly.

"What is it? Is my father okay?"

"I heard him on the phone," she whispered. "He’s going to the Flemington party. He said he was going to ’spill the tea.’ He sounded...vengeful, Master Clinton. I know Mr. Frederick fired him two years ago, but crashing the anniversary? This is bad, isn’t it?"

My blood ran cold. I could almost hear the gears of my father’s mind grinding, fueled by years of resentment and the humiliation of his ousting. He wasn’t just going to crash a party; he was going to perform a public execution of the Flemington reputation, and I knew Octavia would be the blade he used to do it.

"You did the right thing, Trudy. Thank you."

I hung up and immediately began pacing the small floor of my living room. If my father crashed that party, he wouldn’t just expose the Flemingtons; he’d burn everything down. He would mention my name. He would link me to his schemes. And Octavia—innocent, hurting Octavia—would be caught right in the crossfire. The walls of my own new apartment suddenly felt like they were closing in, a reminder that no matter how far I ran, the Harrington name was a shadow I couldn’t outpace.

"Pick up, Dad. Please pick up," I muttered, calling his number over and over.

Nothing.

I tried calling Octavia next, my heart hammering against my ribs. One ring. Two. Voicemail. My stomach twisted. I couldn’t get into the gala—the security was legendary, and I was persona non grata. I was paralyzed, forced to wait while the woman I loved discovered I was the son of the man trying to destroy her family. Every missed call felt like a nail in the coffin of the life I was trying to build with her. I could picture the scene: the lights, the cameras, and my father’s venomous smile as he tore the veil away.

I grabbed my keys and drove to her apartment. I didn’t care if I looked like a stalker; I had to be there when she got home. I had to try to explain before the world did it for me. The drive was a frantic blur of red lights and near-misses, my mind rehearsing a thousand different ways to say the truth, and every single one of them sounded like a lie.

When she finally stepped out of the elevator at her floor, she didn’t even look surprised to see me.

She looked...hollow.

The light I’d spent weeks trying to put back into her eyes had been extinguished. The elegant gown she wore looked like a shroud, and the way she stood—shoulders tight, jaw locked—told me that the explosion had already happened.

"So," she said, her voice a chilling monotone. "You’re Dorian Harrington’s son."

The guilt hit me like a physical blow. It was a weight that pulled the air right out of my lungs, leaving me staggering in the face of her coldness.

"Octavia, please. I can explain."

"I fucking trusted you, Clinton!" The monotone broke, replaced by a jagged, raw scream of agony.

"I let you in. I thought you were the one person who didn’t want anything from me. But I was just a tool, wasn’t I? A pawn to help your father destroy Franklin and his grandfather." She looked at me as if I were a stranger, a monster she had mistakenly invited into her bed and her heart.

"No! I never wanted to hurt you," I said, taking a desperate step toward her. "It started that way, yes—my father had a plan and I agreed to help him. But then I met you. I saw how broken you were, and I fell in love. I quit his scheme! I told him I wouldn’t do it anymore because of you. I moved out, Octavia. I chose you!" The words felt pathetic even as they left my mouth, a weak defense against the magnitude of my deception.

"No, you chose to lie!" she yelled, her eyes brimming with tears. "You lied to me! What did you think would happen? That I’d find out and thank you for being a ’better’ kind of liar than Franklin?"

"I was afraid," I confessed, my voice breaking. "I knew if you found out who my father was, you’d hate me. And I couldn’t lose you." I reached out, my fingers trembling, wanting to touch her arm just to feel the connection we had only hours ago, but she flinched away as if my skin were made of fire.

"Well, you were right. I do hate you." She shoved past me, her hands shaking as she fumbled with her keys.

"Octavia, please...I wanted to heal you. I wanted to be there for you when the rest of the world wasn’t." The irony of my words taste like copper; I had claimed to be her healer while I was the very infection that had finished her off.

"You’re a traitor, Clinton. Franklin was right about you from the start. You lied about your name, you lied about who you are, and you lied about why you were even in my life. I’m done. I am so incredibly done with all of you." She didn’t even look back at me, her focus entirely on the door that represented the final barrier between us.

"I love you," I whispered.

"I never want to see you again," she said, her voice dropping to a deadly, cold whisper. "Get the fuck out of my life, Clinton. Get out!"

The door slammed in my face, the sound echoing through the quiet hallway. I leaned my forehead against the wood, listening to the muffled, heart-wrenching sobs coming from the other side. The sound of her crying was a jagged blade twisting in my chest, a reminder that I had become the very thing I promised to protect her from.

"I’m sorry," I whispered to the door, knowing she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—hear me. "I’m so sorry." I stood there for an eternity, the silence of the hallway amplifying the wreckage of my life. I had tried to build a paradise on a foundation of secrets, and now I was standing in the ruins, realizing that a Harrington could never truly escape the blood in his veins.

I had tried to save her from one monster, only to realize that to her, I was just a different version of the same nightmare.

I turned and walked back to the elevator, my heart as shattered as the trust I’d spent a month building. As the doors closed, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the polished metal—maybe there was a possibility that I looked like my father.