Chapter 65

~ Franklin ~

Jealousy is a poison.

It’s a slow-acting toxin that compromises your judgment until you’re doing things you never thought yourself capable of—like stalking your own wife across the city.

Back in the boardroom, I hadn’t heard a single word the JeffTech directors were saying.

My entire world had narrowed down to the two of them: Octavia and Clinton. Every stolen glance they exchanged felt like a physical blow. I should have looked away; I should have maintained my dignity. But the jealousy was a living thing in my chest, clawing to get out.

Tracing them to that restaurant had only made it worse.

Watching them sit together, looking for all the world like they were on a date, broke something inside me.

And the way Octavia looked at me when I interrupted? There was no lingering affection there. There was no "hidden love" waiting to be rekindled. There was only raw, jagged rage.

My grandfather was wrong. The love hadn’t just faded; I had smothered it.

Now, I was the one in pain. I was the one left standing on the sidewalk while the woman I wanted walked back to another man. Is this what love felt like? This hollow, aching rejection? I had exposed Clinton’s true identity, expecting her to recoil in horror, but she hadn’t.

She’d defended him.

She’d chosen a "traitor" over me.

I had truly fucked up. I thought about the two years we spent in this house. She had tried so hard. She’d decorated this mausoleum to make it feel like a home.

She’d stayed up late trying to learn my favorite recipes, only for me to belittle her efforts and walk out the door to Bella. I had treated her like an inconvenience, and now, the universe was settling the score.

This was karma, and I deserved every ounce of it.

I returned to the estate late, the halls feeling colder and emptier than ever. My grandfather had already retired for the night. My dinner sat on the long mahogany table, untouched and congealing. I couldn’t eat. I went straight to the bar and poured a double scotch, hoping the burn would drown out the noise in my head.

"Mr. Flemington...you are back."

I looked up to see Olga standing in the doorway, wrapped in a bulky wool bathrobe.

"Yeah," I muttered, taking a long swallow of the amber liquid.

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned a moment later, her face etched with concern.

"Olga see your dinner. Cold. You not eat. Everything okay?"

Despite the years I’d spent being cold and dismissive toward the staff, Olga still looked at me with a maternal kindness I didn’t deserve.

"I’m not hungry, Olga." 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎

"Eto ne khorosho, etot rebënok," she muttered, clicking her tongue.

"Am I supposed to know what that means?" I asked, leaning my head back against the bar.

"It means I am scolding you in Russian. You must eat. Alcohol on empty stomach makes a sick man."

"At this point, Olga, I don’t care if I get sick. I feel worthless. I feel so...hopeless." I sighed, staring into the bottom of my glass.

"What happened?"

I looked at her, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "This might shock you, Olga, but...I’m in love with Octavia."

"Moi bog," she whispered, clutching her hand to her chest. She stared at me, her eyes wide. "Olga is...very shocked."

"I don’t blame you. No one expected the monster to fall for the girl after he’d already chased her away."

She pulled up a stool and sat beside me, her expression softening.

"Are you sure? Is it love, or is it just...regret?"

"It’s love. I told Grandpa, and he confirmed it. I’ve never felt this way about anyone, Olga. Not even Bella. I love her, and it’s killing me."

"But she does not love you back?" Olga asked gently.

"She doesn’t have to tell me. I saw it today. She’s done with me. She loves someone else."

"Olga does not believe this," she said firmly.

"Olga believe Mrs. Flemington still have you in her heart. Deep down."

"I doubt that. After the way I treated her? I wouldn’t love me either."

"You must not give up," Olga insisted, her voice gaining strength. "A Flemington does not give up. You must fight for her."

"How? She won’t even look at me without wanting to scream."

"That is for you to figure out," she said, reaching over to take the bottle of scotch out of my reach. "Think carefully. The heart knows the way. Now, eat dinner. Alcohol is bad for a broken heart."

I watched her walk away, her advice echoing in the quiet room. I sat down at the table and forced myself to eat, my mind spinning.

By the time I headed upstairs to my bedroom, a plan was beginning to form.

I couldn’t force her to talk to me in a restaurant, but I could control the environment. Since our companies were officially partners, it was time for a mandatory "strategic retreat." A weekend away for the executives of Flemington Group and JeffTech.

I would get her away from the city, away from the distractions, and away from Clinton. I would fight for her, even if I had to burn the world down to get her to listen.

The scotch burned my throat, but the fire in my veins was hotter as I stared at her photo on my phone. I realized that my previous attempts to "win" were just moves in a corporate chess game, cold and calculating. Now, for the first time, I wasn’t fighting for stock prices or family honour; I was fighting for the soul of the woman I spent over two years ignoring. The silence of the mansion was deafening, a mocking reminder of the woman I drove out, but the quiet also gave me clarity. This retreat wasn’t just a business move; it was my last stand, and I refused to lose.