Chapter 43
~ Octavia ~
"I swear, I think your plan tonight is to make sure I’m stuffed to the point of no return," I teased, eyeing the decadent dessert being placed before and Clinton.
This was our third date, and each one seed to chip away at the ice surrounding my heart.
Since that night I’d confessed the truth about my marriage to Clinton, sothing had shifted. I felt accepted, even if the sadness of my broken heart still humd in the background like static.
I hadn’t heard a word from Franklin since the disastrous dinner at the estate. I felt like he was punishing —keeping in legal limbo by refusing to sign the divorce papers. If he didn’t love , why keep caged? Dates with Clinton were my only distraction, a way to stop my mind from drifting back to images of Franklin and Bella together.
"Well? Is the plan working?" Clinton asked, a playful glint in his eyes.
"Extrely well," I laughed. I genuinely enjoyed his company; he was light where Franklin was heavy, hilarious where Franklin was stoic.
After we finished, we stepped out into the crisp evening air.
Neither of us had brought a car, and as I moved to hail a cab, Clinton stopped .
"How about a stroll instead?"
"You and strolling are like best friends," I joked, though I didn’t pull away when he reached out to take my hand.
I looked down at our interlaced fingers, a spark of anxiety fluttering in my chest.
"We shouldn’t be doing this, Clinton. If a paparazzi catches us, I’ll be all over social dia. I don’t want that kind of attention."
"Let them take their pictures," he shrugged.
"Why do you care so much?"
"Because I’ll be the one getting the hate comnts. The rumors at work are already bad enough—people think I’m so kind of gold-digging opportunist."
"Octavia, look at ."
He stopped, forcing to turn toward him. "You are free now. You shouldn’t let people who don’t know your story control how you live your life. They don’t owe you anything, and you certainly don’t owe them."
His words were soft but intense, and for a mont, I let myself believe them.
"Thank you, Clinton. I needed to hear that."
As we continued walking, I decided it was ti to bridge the gap.
"You know, I’ve told you so much about my life, but you’ve never really told about your parents."
He stiffened slightly, his shrug a bit too casual.
"There’s not much to tell."
"Oh, co on. Trust is a two-way street, isn’t it?"
He sighed, his gaze softening. "My mom died of cancer when I was eight. It was... a long ti ago."
I felt a pang of genuine sympathy. "Oh, Clinton, I’m so sorry. Eight is so young."
"It’s okay. You move on because you have to."
"And your father?" I asked.
"My dad? He’s alive. He’s doing fine," he said, though there was a strange edge to his voice that he quickly covered with a smile.
"He misses her, of course."
"I’m glad you told ," I said softly.
When we reached my apartnt, the thought of being alone with my mories felt unbearable.
"Would you like to co up for a glass of wine? I’m not quite ready to end the night yet."
His charming smile returned. "I’d love to."
Inside, the atmosphere was cozy. I poured two glasses of red wine and joined him on the couch.
"Where’s Nola tonight?" he asked, looking around for my cat.
"Probably hiding in the litter box or sleeping on my bed," I said. "She’s a bit of a recluse."
"I miss stroking that little fur-ball," he laughed.
I swirled the wine in my glass, feeling the alcohol loosen my tongue. "You know, it’s crazy. I have a best friend I tell everything to, and yet she doesn’t even know I’ve moved out. I confided in you—a man I barely know—before I told her. If anyone heard that, they’d call a fool."
Clinton reached out, his hand resting gently on my thigh. "You aren’t a fool, Octavia. I’m honored that you trust ."
"I do," I whispered, sipping my wine. "And it helps that you have a ridiculous sense of humor."
We laughed, the sound filling the small apartnt. But as the laughter died down, the air between us grew thick.
"You’re so cute when you crinkle your nose like that," Clinton murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
I felt a blush creep up my neck.
"You’re beautiful, Octavia. Franklin has no idea what he lost." He reached up, his thumb brushing my cheek. My heart began to race—not with passion, but with a sudden, sharp discomfort. As he leaned in, his lips inches from mine, I reflexively jerked my head away.
"I... I’m sorry. I can’t," I stamred, pulling back.
Clinton looked embarrassed, but he recovered quickly with a shy smile. "It’s fine. I understand. I made it awkward, didn’t I? I’m sorry."
"No, it’s not you, it’s just..." I trailed off, looking at my lap.
"I think I should go," he announced, standing up.
"I hope I’m not chasing you away," I said, feeling a wave of remorse.
"Of course not." He put his glass down and grabbed his coat. We shared an awkward hug at the door, and then he was gone.
I leaned against the closed door, exhaling a shaky breath.
"ow."
Nola was standing in the hallway, her green eyes judging .
"Don’t look at like that, Nola. It’s complicated," I sighed.
...
The next day at work, my phone buzzed with a call from Frederick.
"Hello, Frederick," I answered, trying to keep my voice light.
"Octavia, my dear. I was worried you wouldn’t pick up after the drama at dinner the other day, I’m sorry."
"It’s okay, Frederick. You don’t need to apologize for what happened. I’m moving on."
"I know you are. But that’s why I’m calling. In a month, we are celebrating the Flemington Group’s fiftieth anniversary. It’s a massive milestone for , and I want you there. You are still part of this family."
My heart sank.
"Frederick, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Franklin and I are separated."
"Nonsense. As long as those papers aren’t signed, you are a Flemington. I’m inviting you personally, and I won’t take no for an answer."
"But—"
"No buts. It’s on the tenth of next month. I’ll email the formal invitation. I’ll see you there, Octavia."
He hung up before I could protest.
I stared at my computer screen, a heavy weight settling in my stomach. A fiftieth-anniversary gala.
All of New York would be there. Franklin would be there.
Why couldn’t they just let go? Why did the Flemington na feel like a shadow I could never outrun?
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