Chapter 19
~ Octavia ~
The silence of the Flemington estate had begun to echo in my bones, so I decided to visit my parents. It had been weeks since we had looked each other in the eye—not since the hollow spectacle of the wedding. We sat in their familiar dining room, the clinking of silverware against fine china the only rhythm to a conversation that felt more like a business transaction than a family reunion.
"The debt is being paid off gradually," my father announced, his voice carrying a lightness I hadn't heard in years.
He didn't look at me; he looked at the expensive vintage wine on the table. "All thanks to Franklin. The man is a man of his word."
"That's good news," I said, my voice flat.
I spent more time rearranging the peas on my plate than actually eating. The food tasted like cardboard.
My mother, ever the observer of social graces and appearances, set her fork down. "Octavia, darling, are you quite alright? You look pale."
"No, everything isn't fine, Mom. You know that." I let out a long, ragged sigh that felt like it had been trapped in my chest for days. "I feel trapped. I'm stuck in this gilded prison called a marriage. Franklin treats me like a ghost when he isn't hurting me with his words. He's openly in love with my rival at work, and I'm just...I'm the inconvenient wife. I feel so unwanted it physically aches."
I dropped my spoon, the clatter loud in the quiet room. My appetite was dead.
"We know it's a difficult adjustment," my mother said, her tone shifting into that pragmatic, steel-cold register she used for crises. "But Octavia, look at the alternative. Would you have stood by and watched as our family's legacy crumbled into the dust? Everything we built, gone? Marrying Franklin was the only lifeline we had. Because of you, the bankruptcy is a shadow of the past. The numbers are finally in our favor."
My father nodded solemnly. "The legacy is safe, Octavia. That's what matters."
"But I'm the one who is miserable!" I snapped, my voice rising.
"At least you and Dad have each other. You have a partnership. You have love. I have a contract. I feel like a prisoner counting down the days of a life sentence. It's draining my soul, and I'm just... I'm so tired of performing."
They exchanged a look—the kind of silent communication people who actually love each other have. It only made me feel more alone.
"Sweetheart," my mother said softly, reaching across the table to pat my hand with a touch that felt more clinical than comforting. "Before you can even close your eyes and open them again, two years will have passed. Then, you can both get your quiet divorce and go your separate ways with your head held high."
"That's easy for you to say," I said, folding my arms tightly over my chest.
"You aren't the one sharing a home with a man you can't have. A man who looks right through you to see someone else."
My parents froze. The air in the room seemed to thicken.
"What do you mean by that, dear?" my father asked, his brow furrowed.
My mother gasped, her eyes widening behind her designer frames. "Octavia... are you falling for Franklin? Are you actually developing feelings for that man?"
I looked at them, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Well, what do you think? I live with him. I see the broken parts of him he tries to hide. I've seen him at his most vulnerable."
"Don't answer a question with a question," my mother pressed, her voice urgent.
"Do you love Franklin or not?"
"I do," I finally whispered, the admission feeling like a confession of a crime. "God knows I tried not to. I fought it every single day. But I do."
"Well, that's wonderful news!" my father exclaimed, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
"Wonderful? It's a miracle, Ben!" my mother added.
"No, it's a tragedy!" I shot back. "It's not good news because Franklin doesn't love me back. He's obsessed with Bella. He's spending his nights with her while I'm rearranging pillows in a house that hates me." I let out a deep sigh, "My love is a one-way street leading to a cliff."
My mother leaned in, her eyes glinting with a sudden, sharp ambition. "Well, have you tried seducing him? Men are simple creatures, Octavia. A little effort in that department can shift a man's loyalty faster than any contract."
I recoiled as if she'd slapped me. "What kind of advice is that? You want me to use my body to buy his affection? That's sick, Mom."
"Your mother is just trying to help you secure your position," my father defended her quietly.
"Well, it isn't helping. It's insulting." I stood up abruptly, the chair legs scraping harshly against the floor. I grabbed my purse from the sofa.
"I have to go. I can't be here right now."
"You barely touched your dinner!" my mother called out as I headed for the door.
"I lost my appetite a long time ago. Goodnight."
The drive back to the estate was a blur of streetlights and tears. However, about halfway there, a prickle of unease crawled up my spine. A dark sedan was behind me.
At first, I thought nothing of it, but as I made three deliberate turns through side streets, the car remained a constant, shadow-like presence in my rearview mirror.
My hand hovered over my phone to call the police, but I stopped myself. You're just stressed, Octavia. You're being paranoid. I convinced myself it was a coincidence, an overreaction born from a broken heart.
When I pulled into the estate, the driveway was empty. Franklin wasn't home. He was never home. My mind, traitorous and cruel, immediately conjured images of him in Bella's apartment, making love to her. I could almost hear his laughter—the warm, genuine kind he only reserved for her. The thought was a poison in my veins.
I went inside, changed into my silk robe, and headed downstairs to the kitchen. I needed water to wash down the lump in my throat.
In the dim light of the kitchen, I found Olga, the housekeeper, meticulously organizing the walk-in pantry.
"Olga? I thought you'd be off duty by now," I said softly.
"No, Mrs. Flemington," she replied, her thick Russian accent echoing against the marble.
"Must finish. Pantry is messy. Order is needed."
"But it's late. You need rest, Olga."
She turned to look at me, her eyes wise and weary. "Olga does not need rest. Olga needs work to keep hands busy." She paused, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Olga feels Mrs. Flemington's sadness." She gave me a pathetic look.
I froze, my hand on the refrigerator door. "Is it that obvious?"
"To those who look, yes. Since first day you come, sadness follows you."
"I'm just...stressed with work, Olga. Truly. I'll be fine." I tried to offer a reassuring smile, but it felt brittle.
"You sure?" she asked, her gaze piercing through my facade.
"Yes. And Olga? Please...call me Octavia. 'Mrs. Flemington' feels like someone else."
She shook her head firmly. "No. Mrs. Flemington is title of respect. It is who you are now." She turned back to her work, adding a final, "Goodnight, Mrs. Flemington."
I sighed, retreating upstairs. The house felt like it was breathing, the vast, empty rooms mocking my solitude.
The next morning at JeffTech offered no reprieve. I tried to bury myself in code, hoping the logic of Python and C++ would drown out the chaos of my life. But the office had become a shark tank.
The rumors of my "mercenary marriage" had spread like wildfire.
The whispers followed me to the coffee machine. The glares from the junior developers felt like physical blows. By noon, I realized I couldn't even leave for lunch; the stares in the lobby were too much to bear. I was being branded a gold-digger in the very building where I had worked my fingers to the bone.
Eventually, Miranda summoned me to her office. She looked disappointed, her brow furrowed as she scanned a tablet.
"Octavia, we need to talk about these rumors," she said, her tone sharp.
"People are saying you manipulated Mr. Flemington into this marriage for a payout. That you're using this merger to secure your family's finances at the expense of our professional integrity. Is there any truth to this?"
"No," I said, the word coming out stronger than I felt. I didn't mention the bankruptcy.
"I married Franklin because...because we chose to be together. The financial aspects are private."
"People are saying you're a trophy wife coasting on his billions," Miranda countered.
"They're jealous, Mrs. Lawson," I said, leaning on the desk.
"Franklin is one of the most eligible men that I know. People hate seeing someone else in the position they covet. I've worked here for years. You know my output. You know my dedication. I'm ignoring the noise because it's beneath me."
I was defending my marriage. I was defending the man who had ignored me for a week. I did it because, despite the cruelty, I still loved him.
Miranda sighed, her expression softening slightly.
"You're right. Mr. Flemington is a man of high principles. He wouldn't be with someone who didn't match his drive. But Octavia, these rumors are toxic. They're affecting the team. Try to be more...visible. Show them it's real."
"I will, Mrs. Lawson. Thank you."
But the visibility was the hardest part. At the mansion, I had lost count of how many dinners I had eaten in total silence, the seat opposite me empty.
I was the loneliest woman in New York, a billionaire's wife who was starving for a single kind word.
The following morning, I was surprised to find Franklin at the dining table. He was still in his pajamas, his hair disheveled, rubbing his temples as if his head were about to split open. He looked like a man with a massive hangover.
"How was your night with Bella?" I asked, my voice trembling only slightly. I tried to sound nonchalant, as if his infidelity were just a weather report.
"How is that any of your business?" he snapped, his voice gravelly. He signaled a maid for coffee with a sharp flick of his wrist.
"Since I…" I cut myself off. Since I fell in love with you. Since I'm the one who stayed up worrying if you'd get home safe.
Seeing that I had no retort, he let out a dark, mocking smirk.
"I thought as much."
Lila brought his coffee, and he sipped it in a heavy, suffocating silence.
"Where's my grandfather?" he asked the maid, not even glancing my way.
"He went out for his tennis lesson, sir. He left right after breakfast," Lila replied with a quick bow.
"Fine." Franklin set the cup down and stood up, finally looking at me with eyes that were cold and bloodshot.
"We've been invited to another charity event. A partnership gala. Flemington Group and their main tech affiliates. You need to be ready by six."
"I'll be there," I said, my voice barely a whisper.
"Good. Don't look so miserable. It ruins the brand."
He turned and headed upstairs to prepare for the day. I sat there alone at the massive table, the tears finally spilling over. I was a wife, a game developer, and a woman in love—but to Franklin Flemington, I was just a line of code he was waiting to delete.