Chapter 18
~ Octavia ~
The gold band and the heavy diamond on my finger had started to feel like a fallacy. They were marks of ownership that offered no protection—only a steady, cold weight.
It was a Tuesday morning when Franklin cornered me in the breakfast nook. The sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows was unapologetically bright, illuminating the changes I had made to the estate over the last few weeks.
I had replaced the sterile, museum-like sculptures with warm ceramic vases; I had layered the sofas with blankets that smelled of cedar and vanilla. I had tried to turn his hollow fortress into a home, hoping that if the environment changed, perhaps the man within it would, too.
Franklin wasn't moved. He didn't praise my effort. He only gave me a look of icy indifference.
"Don't get too comfortable with the decorations, Octavia," he said.
"And don't think that fluffing pillows makes this arrangement any less of a transaction.
The more you try to 'impress' me, the more desperate you look. It's unnecessary."
He retreated to his study before I could even respond.
Later, Frederick saw the changes and marveled at them, telling me I had done a wonderful job. I wished, foolishly, that it had been Franklin's praise instead.
"There's a fundraiser tonight for the Flemington Foundation," Franklin announced, his voice flat. "Charity gala. Black tie. We need to be there by seven, so leave work early."
I sipped my coffee, its bitterness matching my mood. "I'll be there. It's in the contract, after all."
He finally looked up, his gaze piercing.
"Don't sound so martyred, Octavia. I'm only inviting you because it's compulsory."
I arrived at JeffTech forty minutes late.
My desk had become a graveyard of half-finished wireframes and unread emails.
The commitment I once had for my work was evaporating; it's hard to care about the logic of a user interface when your own life feels like a glitch in the system.
I was exhausted.
I spent my nights awake, listening to Franklin's muffled cries from his study as he grieved for his parents.
I wanted to walk in and comfort him, but I knew he'd only slam the door in my face. I had even tried to learn exactly how he liked his steaks seared, only to have him reject the plate and eat a protein bar in silence.
The result of my distraction was inevitable.
"The board has reviewed the latest deliverables," Miranda announced during our afternoon meeting. She wouldn't look me in the eye. "Due to the... inconsistency in Octavia's recent output, the Senior Lead position for the Flemington integration will be handled by Bella."
A sharp, mocking laugh came from my left. Bella sat there, glowing with a smug, toxic radiance. My nemesis hadn't just beaten me; she had erased me. And Franklin was there to congratulate her.
As the meeting broke up, the whispers followed me like a shadow.
"Must be nice to be the CEO's wife," one junior dev muttered.
"Coasting on his billions while we do the actual work."
"I heard she only got the job because of the engagement anyway," another added.
I ducked into the restroom, leaning my forehead against the cool tile of the stall. I wasn't coasting. I was drowning.
That evening, the fundraiser at Flemington Tower was a blur of champagne flutes and forced laughter. I wore a silk gown the color of midnight, my hair pinned back like armor. Franklin played the doting husband perfectly for the cameras, his hand resting firmly on the small of my back as we moved through the crowd.
The moment we reached a secluded corner near the balcony, the mask dropped.
"You're quiet tonight," he said, taking a sip of scotch.
"I'm tired, Franklin. Work was...difficult and hectic." I wanted to scream at him for promoting Bella, but I kept my tongue.
"Maybe if you spent less time playing house and more time coding, it wouldn't be so 'difficult,'" he snapped. Then, his expression shifted into something even more cruel—a look of bored honesty. "Look, after this is over, don't wait up for me. I'm heading to Bella's apartment."
The air left my lungs. I couldn't even blink.
"She's waiting for me," he continued. "We have things to celebrate. Things like her promotion."
"Franklin, I…"
"I love her, Octavia. And I will always love her. You are a signature on a piece of paper that keeps my grandfather happy. If you think that one day I will open my heart to you, you're wrong. I don't even particularly like the version of you that's trying so hard to win me over. It's pathetic."
The tears hit my eyes before I could stop them. They were hot and humiliating.
"I need to go," I choked out. "I'm going back to the estate."
"Fine. Tell the guests you have a migraine. It's the classic 'trophy wife' excuse, anyway."
I fled. As I walked
toward the exit, I heard a socialite ask where I was going. Franklin's voice followed me:
"Poor thing can't handle the late nights."
Two weeks later, I tried one last time. I went to his study, my heart in my throat.
"Franklin, can we talk? About us? About how I feel?"
He didn't look up. "Octavia, stop. I know what you're going to say, and I'm going to stop you before you embarrass yourself further."
He stood up and walked toward me, his presence looming until I was pressed against the mahogany bookshelf.
"Don't forget what this is. This is a marriage of convenience. I am not paying for your heart. I hope you haven't deluded yourself into thinking a few home-cooked meals entitle you to my affection. You are a business arrangement. Start acting like one."
The coldness in his eyes was absolute. I was a line item in his ledger, and I was currently in the red.
Work became a battlefield where I had no weapons. Bella didn't even hide her triumph anymore. She would drop "corrections" on my desk, her perfume—the same scent Franklin smelled of when he crept into the house at 3:00 AM—filling my senses.
"Who's in tears now?"
she leered, leaning over my shoulder so only I could hear.
"Must be nice, being married to him on paper. Too bad it's all a hollow shell. He calls you 'convenient.' Like a well-placed piece of furniture."
She paused, a cruel glint in her eyes. "We had dinner at L'Etoile last night. Our old favorite. He told me the wine reminded him of our first summer in Paris. Did he ever take you there? Or does he just leave you at home to rearrange the pillows? And don't get me started on the lovemaking... it's always been so good."
As the words left her mouth, I felt something inside me break. It wasn't a loud crash; it was a quiet, jagged snap of the spirit. I realized then that I wasn't fighting for a marriage. I was fighting for a man who didn't even think I was real.