Chapter 23
~ Franklin ~
The Metropolitan Museum of Art had been transformed into a labyrinth of shadows and expensive secrets.
Tonight was the annual Venetian Masquerade, a high-stakes gathering of New York's elite, where every face was hidden behind gold, lace, and heavy velvet. It was the perfect metaphor for my life: a beautiful, shimmering, expensive lie.
I adjusted the heavy, obsidian-black mask that covered the upper half of my face. Beside me, Octavia was a vision of tragic elegance. She wore a silk black gown that shimmered like a deep bruise under the chandeliers, her face obscured by a delicate silver filigree mask. She looked like a queen, but the way she held my arm was stiff, her fingers barely touching the fabric of my tuxedo sleeve.
"Smile, Octavia," I muttered through gritted teeth as the flashes of cameras exploded around us like silent gunfire. "You are worth five billion dollars tonight. Try to look like you enjoy the view from the top."
"I'm doing exactly what you paid for, Franklin," she whispered back.
Her voice was a cold sliver of ice, cutting through the feigned smile she wore for the press.
"Don't push your luck," I warned.
"Mr. and Mrs. Flemington, over here!" a paparazzo shouted, gesturing wildly.
To sell the image of the besotted husband, I turned and leaned in, capturing Octavia's lips in a kiss. It took her by surprise—I felt her frame go rigid for a split second—but she comported herself immediately. She leaned into it, playing the part so no one would see the cracks. The crowd applauded the "spontaneous" display of affection.
"You could have given me a head's up," she hissed under her breath as we pulled away, her smile never wavering for the lenses.
"Sometimes being spontaneous makes things perfect," I told her, my eyes already scanning the room.
I had less than twenty hours left on Dorian's clock. Every second was a grain of sand slipping through my fingers, and I was losing my grip on the hourglass. We moved through the crowd, playing the part of the untouchable power couple. I shook hands, accepted hollow congratulations on our "beautiful union," and felt the bile rising in my throat with every lie I told.
"I need to use the restroom," Octavia said abruptly after a grueling conversation with a major shareholder.
"Don't be long," I warned, my hand tightening briefly on her arm in a silent command. "We have the board members to greet in ten minutes."
She didn't reply. She simply pulled her arm away and vanished into the sea of masked strangers.
I stood alone by a marble pillar, signaling a waiter for a glass of scotch—my favorite numbing agent. I needed the burn to dull the roar of anxiety in my skull. As I took a sip, I felt a presence beside me. A dark-haired man in a simple white bird-like mask had stepped into my peripheral vision. He wasn't tall, but he carried himself with a quiet, grounded energy that stood out in a room full of preening peacocks.
"It's a heavy crown, isn't it, Mr. Flemington?" the stranger said.
I stiffened, my eyes narrowing behind the obsidian. "Do I know you?"
"Most people in this city know your face, even behind the mask," he replied softly. His voice lacked the oily sycophancy of the usual crowd. "But I'm not here for an autograph. We need to talk. Somewhere private."
"I don't take meetings in ballrooms with masked men," I said, turning to walk away.
"It's about my father... Dorian Harrington."
I froze. The name hit me like a physical blow. I turned back, my heart hammering against my ribs. "What did you just say?"
"My name is Clinton Sancho Harrington. Dorian is my father," the man said, tilting his head slightly. "And if you want to keep your title as CEO, you'll listen to me before your twenty-four hours are up."
I scanned the room for eavesdroppers. Octavia was still gone. Two of my bodyguards moved closer, sensing the shift in my posture. I held up a hand to signal them to stay back.
"Fine," I hissed. "Follow me."
I led him through a set of heavy velvet curtains into a small, dimly lit gallery of Greek sculptures. The silence of the stone gods was a stark contrast to the thumping bass of the ballroom. I turned to face him, my shadow stretching long across the floor.
"Talk," I commanded. "And make it fast before I change my mind."
Clinton pulled off his white mask. His face was nothing like Dorian's. Where Dorian was sharp and predatory, Clinton had a softness to his features—eyes that looked tired, perhaps even disappointed.
"I know my father came to see you today," he began, his voice steady. "He told me everything. He's forcing you to step down so that I can take your place. He's been pressuring me for weeks to join his crusade to 'reclaim' what the Flemingtons did to him. He claims your grandfather never acknowledged his efforts, and now he wants revenge for being fired from the board."
"And I suppose you're here to measure the drapes in my office?" I stepped into his space, my voice a low, dangerous growl. "You think you can just walk in and take a seat you didn't earn?"
"That's the thing, Franklin — I don't want your chair," Clinton said, and the sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. "I hate his selfish desires. I hate the way he uses people like chess pieces. He thinks he's building a dynasty for me, but he's really just building a monument to his own ego."
I stared at him, searching for the lie. "Then why are you here? If you aren't the puppet, what are you?"
"I'm a man trying to build his own life," Clinton said firmly. "I'm a venture capitalist in the tech industry. I've worked under a different name to avoid his shadow. I'm trying to prove to him that I'm not worthless just because I won't be his weapon. I refused the CEO position. I told him I wouldn't do it, but he won't listen. He's obsessed."
I let out a harsh, dry laugh. "Obsessed? He's a blackmailer, Clinton. He has photos. Photos that prove my marriage is a 'fraud.' He's ready to burn the Flemington Group to the ground."
Clinton sighed, looking down at the marble floor. "I know. He's been stalking you, especially your wife. He's had men following her on the road, using different vehicles to track her every move, checking to see the cracks in your relationship. He showed me the files today. He's obsessed with the foundation." He looked up, his gaze searching mine. "But is it true, Franklin? Is the marriage a fraud?"
A coldness settled over me. "That," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly chill, "is absolutely none of your goddamn business. You're a Harrington. Why should I trust a word out of your mouth? For all I know, this is just another layer of the trap."
"Because I'm the only one who can get close enough to stop him," Clinton countered, ignoring my hostility.
"He thinks I'm on his side. He thinks tomorrow morning I'm going to walk into that board meeting and accept the interim title. But I won't. I'm going to try to talk him out of this one last time, and if he doesn't listen..."
Clinton's jaw set. "I have evidence of my own. Financial irregularities from his time at the firm that he thinks he buried. I will put my own father in jail before I let him destroy more lives."
The tension in the room was palpable. I could hear the muffled music, a reminder of the world I stood to lose. I studied him. He was an anomaly—kindhearted, yet born from the serpent I loathed.
"We don't have time for a family intervention," I said, checking my watch. "The deadline is noon tomorrow."
"Then we need a counter-strategy," Clinton said. "We need to make his evidence look like a personal vendetta. If you and Octavia can survive the next twenty-four hours without a single slip-up—if you look like the most devoted couple in New York—it weakens his hand. I will provide you with the locations of his 'scouts.' I know where his men are positioned tonight."
"You'd betray him? Just like that?"
"It's not betrayal if I'm stopping a crime. I want to be something great, Franklin. On my own merit. Being a pawn in a blackmail scheme isn't part of my plan."
I looked at him for a long moment, then slowly extended my hand. "If you are lying to me, Clinton, I will make sure you never work in this city, or any other, ever again."
Clinton took my hand, his grip firm. "I would expect nothing less from a Flemington."
A click of heels on marble sounded outside the curtains. Octavia.
"Go," I whispered. "If she sees us, it complicates things. I'll contact you via the encrypted line on your father's old server. I know you still have access."
Clinton nodded, slipped his mask back on, and disappeared through a side exit into the shadows of the Egyptian wing.
A moment later, Octavia pulled back the velvet curtain. Her silver mask caught the dim light, making her look like a ghost from a different century.
"Who were you talking to?" she asked, her eyes darting around the empty gallery.
"Nobody," I replied nonchalantly, stepping toward her and taking her arm in a firm, possessive grip. I didn't care about her feelings. I cared about the war.
"Just a business associate who had too much to drink. Let's go. The board members are waiting, and we have a performance to finish."
"You are hurting my arm," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Then keep up," I replied coldly.
As we walked back into the gold-drenched ballroom, my mind was spinning. Clinton Harrington was the wild card I never saw coming. If he was telling the truth, I had a chance. If he was lying, I was walking straight into the mouth of the beast.
But as I looked at Octavia, smiling for the cameras while her soul withered beside me, I realized the "fraud" wasn't just the marriage contract. It was me.
And the price of my kingdom was becoming more expensive with every passing hour.
We had less than twenty hours left. And tonight, the masquerade was only beginning.