Chapter 166
~ Octavia ~
Clinton’s words hit like a sudden storm.
"What?" My eyes widened in disbelief. "You were kidnapped too?"
"Yes," he nodded solemnly.
"By Mr. Rice?" I clarified, still trying to process it.
"Yes."
I fell silent, the weight of his revelation sinking deep into my chest. My mind raced, replaying every mont, every danger we had faced. How had I not known?
"When did it happen?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Before you got kidnapped," he replied quietly.
I sat up straighter, heart pounding. "Did he...hurt you?"
Clinton hesitated, his expression tightening. "No."
The lie was written all over his face. I could see the flicker in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched.
"Don’t lie to , Clinton. Tell the truth," I pressed gently but firmly.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping. "I was beaten up."
The confession landed heavily between us. I stared at him, pain twisting in my stomach.
"They used a bat to hit on the head," he continued, "and pistol-whipped until I passed out."
I looked down, sadness washing over like a cold wave. "I’m so sorry, Clinton. It’s because you’re connected to ... and it’s all my fault."
"Hey, hey," he said softly, moving to sit beside on the sofa. "It’s not your fault, Octavia. None of this is."
"If we weren’t friends, you wouldn’t have been kidnapped or...beaten," I whispered, my voice cracking as tears threatened to spill.
"It wasn’t a bad beating," he tried to reassure . "Just minor."
"Hitting you with a bat and pistol-whipping you isn’t minor," I frowned, shaking my head. "I feel terrible that you went through that because of ."
"It wasn’t because of you," he insisted.
"Don’t sugarcoat it, Clinton. They were watching us. That’s how they knew the exact mont to strike when I ran down the stairwell. They were always one step ahead."
"Look, Octavia," he said, taking my hand gently. "No matter what they take from us—kidnapping us, hurting us—we will find a way to end this. That’s a promise."
I nodded slowly, though doubt still lingered.
"They?" I asked, confused.
"I believe Mr. Rice isn’t working alone. He has an accomplice."
"Yeah, I know," I mumbled. "But was it the accomplice who shot Frederick Flemington?"
"Yes."
"Who do you think the accomplice is?" I asked.
"I don’t know yet. But with ti, we’ll figure it out."
We sat in heavy silence for a mont before I spoke again, my voice tired. "I just want to overco this situation. It’s draining ... it’s one of the main reasons I can’t accept Franklin back into my life right now."
Clinton reached over and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. He didn’t say anything, but his expression said everything—quiet reassurance that things would eventually be okay. I wanted to believe him, but until I was truly free from this nightmare, belief felt impossible.
"My birthday is in a few days," he said suddenly, changing the subject with a small smile.
"Really?" My eyes widened in surprise.
"Mmm-hmm."
"When?"
"In three days."
"Wow... happy birthday in advance, Clinton!" I said warmly, leaning in to give him a quick, sincere hug.
"Thank you," he replied as we pulled apart.
"Would you like to celebrate it with ?" he asked.
"The real question is... would I feel safe enough to leave the house and celebrate with you?" I countered, tilting my head.
"Don’t worry, you’ll be fine," he assured .
"Really?" I asked, still skeptical.
"Yes," he nodded firmly.
"So... what’s your response?"
"Sure," I said after a thoughtful pause. "I’d like that."
"Cool. We can have dinner at my place. Taking you out might make you feel too paranoid."
"That would be great," I nodded, relieved by the idea.
The doorbell rang suddenly.
"Who is it?" I called out.
"Honey, it’s —Mom," my mother’s voice answered from outside.
I got up and opened the door. "Hey, Mom. How was book club?"
"Hey, honey. It was fine, though the argunt about the book we read turned into complete chaos," she replied, stepping inside and dropping her purse on the armchair.
"I thought they argued in a friendly way," I said, slightly confused.
"Not this ti," she sighed, then noticed Clinton standing up politely.
"Clinton is here," she observed, glancing at .
"I told you he was coming to see today, rember?"
"I must have forgotten," she sighed tiredly.
"Hello, Mrs. Herman. How are you doing?" Clinton asked, walking over to greet her.
"Hello, I’m good. How have you been since we last saw each other?"
"Good," he replied.
"Are you leaving or staying?" she asked.
"I’m leaving. I’ve been here for over thirty minutes. I just ca to see how Octavia is doing since the last ti I saw her."
"That’s very thoughtful of you. You’re a good friend," my mother said warmly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Herman," he smiled, then glanced at .
"Have you offered him anything to eat?" she asked, giving a pointed look.
"Oh, no," I admitted with a small shrug.
"Since Octavia didn’t get you anything, I’ll quickly rustle up a al for you," my mother offered, already heading toward the kitchen.
"No, it’s fine," Clinton said quickly. "I don’t want to bother you. I already ate before coming here."
"But it will be really quick and—"
"No, it’s okay, Mrs. Herman. I’m good, but thank you for the offer. I appreciate it."
I walked over to him and whispered, "Try and eat sothing."
"Nah, I’m good. Really," he whispered back with a small smile.
My mom noticed our quiet exchange and asked, "Is everything okay with the both of you?"
"Everything is fine, Mom," I assured her.
"Okay," she nodded.
"Well, since you’re leaving, have a nice day, Clinton," my mother said kindly.
"You too, Mrs. Herman."
"I’ll walk him to the door," I told my mom, who simply nodded.
"Bye, Clinton. And thank you again for the gifts," I said as we reached the doorway.
"It was my pleasure. Bye, Octavia. Take care of yourself," he replied softly.
I nodded, watching him leave. As the door closed behind him, a quiet sense of relief washed over . I was glad he had co. For the first ti in a while, the weight on my chest felt just a little lighter.
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