Chapter 155
~ Annie ~
The echo of Clinton’s harsh words still rang in my ears as I drove back to the Harrington estate, each syllable slicing deeper into my chest. "Sleeping with you doesn’t fucking an that we’re in a relationship, Annie!" How could the sa man who had held so tenderly last night speak to like that this morning? And all because of a phone call from a woman nad Octavia. Jealousy burned hot in my veins, sharp and unfamiliar. I hated feeling this way, but I couldn’t deny it—Octavia was clearly soone special to him, soone worth defending even at the cost of hurting .
The mont I stepped through the grand front doors, I raced upstairs before my mother could spot . I wasn’t ready for her endless questions or her well-aning concern. The second I reached my bedroom, I locked the door behind and collapsed onto the bed with a heavy, defeated sigh. Only then did I allow the tears I had been holding back to spill freely down my cheeks, hot and unrestrained.
What was supposed to be a beautiful morning filled with soft kisses, laughter, and the lingering warmth of our night together had shattered into chaos and heartbreak—all because of one unexpected phone call. Who was this Octavia Herman, really? The question gnawed at until I couldn’t sit still any longer.
I wiped my eyes roughly, got up, and retrieved my laptop from the vanity table. Settling back against the pillows, I opened it and began typing her na into the search bar. Within seconds, her social dia profiles appeared—Instagram, Snapchat, and more. I clicked through her photos, my stomach twisting with every image.
She was stunning. Effortlessly pretty, with a confident smile and graceful features that made my insecurities flare. Several pictures showed her standing proudly in front of a sleek modern building labeled JeffTech. "Is that where she works?" I muttered to myself, already digging deeper.
A quick search on JeffTech revealed that Octavia Herman was indeed employed there—one of the key ga developers on their innovative AI platform team. But that wasn’t what made my mouth drop open. Further down the results, I discovered sothing far more shocking: she was married. Married to Franklin Flemington, a young, strikingly handso billionaire and the executive chairman of the powerful Flemington Group.
"Wow," I whispered, staring wide-eyed at the screen. Photos of the couple at high-profile events confird it—elegant, powerful, and very much together. "So Clint is friends with a married woman?"
I wiped the last traces of dried tears from my cheeks and continued my cyber-stalking, scrolling through every public post, comnt, and tagged photo I could find. The more I saw, the more questions swirled in my mind. Was that why Clinton had acted so awkwardly and defensively when I confronted him? Had he fallen for her? Was there sothing deeper between them than just a "business partnership"?
A soft knock on the door interrupted my spiral.
"Annie? Honey, open up."
It was my mother. I glanced at the door, then back at the glowing screen. "Annie is unavailable," I called out half-heartedly.
"Honey? Open the door, please."
I sighed in defeat. "Fine." I got up and unlocked it, revealing my mother standing there with a tray holding a steaming mug of hot cocoa and a plate of fresh cookies.
"Hey, sweetheart. Cleo ntioned she heard you co in early," she said gently, stepping inside.
"Okay," I mumbled, returning to my spot on the bed and resuming my scrolling. I tilted the laptop screen slightly so she couldn’t see it clearly.
"Did Clinton head straight to work? That’s why you’re back so soon?" she asked, setting the tray down on the bedside table before sitting beside .
I paused my scrolling, my fingers freezing over the trackpad. "I really don’t want to talk about Clinton right now, Mom."
"Why not?" She placed a comforting hand on my knee.
I hesitated, then decided to let a little truth slip out. "I don’t think he’s in love with , Mom." My voice cracked as I pulled my legs up, wrapping my arms around them.
"What? Did he actually say he doesn’t love you?" My mother’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.
"He didn’t say it outright... but I could feel it. From his reaction, his words, the way he looked at . It’s not what I expected."
"But that doesn’t sound like him at all—" she began.
"I saw it with my own eyes, Mom. His actions spoke louder than anything. I was a fool to believe he felt the sa way I do." I fought back fresh tears, resting my head on her shoulder.
"Oh, sweetheart... I’m so sorry." She rubbed my back in slow, soothing circles.
"It’s okay... well, it hurts like hell, but I’ll survive," I mumbled.
We sat in silence for a mont before she asked gently, "Did you ask him why he doesn’t seem to love you the way you love him?"
"It doesn’t matter anymore," I sighed.
"But it does, honey."
"No, it doesn’t. What matters is that he doesn’t love ." Just then, my phone rang on the nightstand. I glanced at the screen and saw Clinton’s na flashing. A bitter scoff escaped . "Speak of the devil. He’s calling now."
"Want to answer it for you?" my mother offered.
"No. Let it ring. It’ll go to voicemail." I shrugged, trying to sound indifferent even as my chest ached.
My mother sighed softly. "I’m sorry, honey."
She pushed the tray closer. "I brought hot cocoa and your favorite cookies."
"Thanks, Mom," I said sadly, managing a small smile.
"My pleasure." She leaned in, and I wrapped my arms around her in a tight hug. She had always been my rock—there for both Ayanna and through every heartbreak and bad day since my father passed. Strong, steady, and endlessly loving.
"You’re the best mom ever, you know that, right?" I whispered into the embrace.
"I know," she replied with quiet warmth as we pulled apart.
I picked up a cookie and took a small bite, the sweetness doing little to ease the bitterness inside .
"Get so rest after you eat, okay? I’m heading to the supermarket for groceries," she told , standing up.
"Need any help?" I offered half-heartedly.
"No, but thank you. I’ve got it. You just rest." She smiled, kissed the top of my head, and quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.
I stared after her for a mont, grateful for her strength. After losing my father, she had raised us almost single-handedly, relying only on the occasional help from Uncle Dorian and Clinton’s mother. She was truly remarkable.
With another sigh, I reopened my laptop and stared at the photo of Octavia Herman—the pretty, successful, married woman who had called Clinton that morning. "Pretty lady," I muttered under my breath, taking another bite of the cookie.
My phone chid again. Missed calls and a new voicemail notification from Clinton appeared on the screen. I set the phone face-down without listening to it. I wasn’t ready to hear his voice or his apologies.
Instead, I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as thoughts of Octavia swirled in my mind. Were she and Clinton secretly an item? The possibility stung more than I wanted to admit. I hoped desperately that they weren’t...but deep down, a part of feared they might be.
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