Chapter 24
~ Franklin ~
Every swing of the pendulum of the clock was a second closer to noon — the hour Dorian Harrington intended to behead the Flemington legacy. I hadn't slept a wink. The adrenaline from the masquerade ball last night was still coursing through my veins, a bitter cocktail of caffeine and cold fury.
I paced the length of the study, my eyes fixed on the door until my grandfather, Frederick, finally entered. He looked as though he had aged a decade overnight. The weight of the world seemed to bow his shoulders.
"The deadline is four hours away, Franklin," he said, his voice raspy and thin. He moved toward the sideboard to pour a glass of water, his hand shaking slightly from a rare, uncharacteristic fear. "I've had the legal team on standby, but without a miracle, we are looking at a hostile takeover of your reputation. If those photos hit the press, the board will convene an emergency session by sunset."
"The miracle arrived last night, Grandpa," I said, stopping my pacing abruptly.
He paused, the crystal carafe clinking against the glass. "What are you talking about?"
"I met someone at the gala. Clinton Sancho Harrington."
My grandfather's face went ash-white. "Dorian's boy? Franklin, if you have been talking to him, you are walking into a snare. Dorian is many things, but he isn't a fool. He wouldn't send his son into the lion's den without a muzzle."
"He didn't send him. Clinton came on his own accord," I replied, leaning against the heavy mahogany desk.
"He's disgusted by his father. He's been building his own career as a venture capitalist under a pseudonym to distance himself from the Harrington name. He knows about the blackmail. He knows about the stalkers following Octavia, and he's ready to bury Dorian to end this once and for all."
Frederick sat down heavily in his leather chair, his eyes searching mine for any hint of naivety. "And you trust him? A Harrington? The blood of a snake rarely produces a dove, Franklin."
"My gut tells me I can trust him," I said firmly.
"I saw it in his eyes. He doesn't want the CEO chair; he wants his father's shadow to stop suffocating his own life. He's agreed to help us, provided we give him the platform to expose Dorian's past financial crimes — crimes Dorian thought were erased from the company servers years ago."
"And what about the... the nature of your marriage?" my grandfather asked, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper.
"He knows it's a fraud," I admitted, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "I didn't confirm it, but he isn't blind. He's sharp, Grandpa. But he gave me his word. He knows the fallout would destroy more than just me. He promised his silence on that front."
"Does Octavia even know about any of this?" my grandfather asked.
I let out a sharp, cold breath. "No, and she won't. This is a Flemington war, handled by Flemington men. She's already proved that she can't handle the pressure without acting like a martyr. It's none of her business, even if I told her about Harrington. As long as she plays the part I have assigned her, she doesn't need to know how the gears are turning."
My grandfather nodded slowly, though a flicker of doubt remained in his eyes.
"Very well. If your gut is right, we play his hand. If not... we go down together."
The final meeting took place at 11:30 AM in a high-security conference room on the 42nd floor of a neutral downtown firm. The atmosphere was sterile, the air-conditioning humming with a clinical, biting chill. Dorian arrived early, looking like a man who had already picked out the upholstery for my office. He was smug, draped in an arrogance that made my skin crawl.
"Eleven-thirty, Franklin," Dorian sneered, checking his gold watch.
"You're cutting it close. I trust you have the resignation letter drafted? Or shall I have my contact at the New York Post hit 'publish' on the photo of you and your mistress?"
"I think you'll find the narrative changing, Dorian," I said, sitting across from him with a calmness that clearly unnerved him.
The door opened, and Clinton stepped in. Dorian's face lit up with a sickening, paternal pride. "Ah, Clinton! Perfect timing. Come, sit. Witness the moment the Harrington name finally takes its rightful place at the top of the food chain."
Clinton didn't sit. He stood by the door, his face a mask of profound disappointment. "The only thing that's over, Dad, is your career."
Dorian's smile faltered. "What are you talking about? I'm doing all this for you. Don't you want your future to be secured?"
"The only thing you did was secure a prison cell," Clinton replied. He pulled a tablet from his briefcase and slid it across the glass table toward his father. "I found the back-door accounts, Dad. The ones from three years ago when you were still at Flemington Group. The 'consulting fees' you funneled into the Cayman shell companies. I spent the last twelve hours verifying the signatures with Franklin's forensics team."
Dorian stared at the screen, the color draining from his face until he looked like a ghost of the man who had walked in. "You... you went behind my back? You betrayed your own blood for him?" He pointed a trembling finger at me.
"I didn't do it for him," Clinton said, his voice rising with a rare flash of anger. "I did it because you are a criminal, and I won't have my name dragged through the dirt to satisfy your vendetta. I told you I didn't want the CEO position. I told you I wanted to earn my own way. But you wouldn't listen. You were so blinded by your hate for Frederick that you stopped seeing your own son."
"You ungrateful little bastard!" Dorian lunged across the table, his hands clawing for Clinton's throat, but my security detail was faster. Two guards grabbed his arms, pinning him back into the chair.
"It's over, Dorian," I said, leaning forward until I was inches from his face.
"The photos of me, the woman your men saw me with, and Octavia are being wiped from your servers as we speak. Any leak will be traced back to the evidence Clinton just provided to the authorities. You say one word about my marriage, one word about my personal life, and I will ensure you spend the rest of your life in a maximum-security ward. Silence for silence. That's the deal."
Dorian was hyperventilating, his eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal.
"Fine, deal!" He was so angry, he stormed out of the office.
"Thank you, Clinton," I said, and for once, I genuinely meant it.
"Don't thank me yet," he said, a small, tired smile on his face.
"I'm leaving the city tonight. I need to focus on my venture capital firm—actually build something that belongs to me. I might be back in a couple of years, once I've found my purpose and a city that doesn't smell like my father's mistakes."
He extended his hand. "Good luck, Franklin. Keeping a secret that big...It's a full-time job. Try not to let it consume you."
I watched him walk away, a man finally free of his chains, and felt a strange, fleeting envy.
The coast was clear for now, as my only remaining obstacle was my arranged marriage to Octavia.
…
When I entered the house, the silence was absolute. I walked into the living room, intending to head straight for the bar, but I stopped.
The lamp in the corner was dimmed to a warm, amber glow. Octavia was curled up in the oversized velvet armchair, her head tilted back against the cushion, fast asleep.
Her laptop was still open beside her, a half-finished spreadsheet glowing on the screen. She must have been working on the Herman integration until her body finally gave out.
I stood there, frozen, staring at her.
Without the mask of cold indifference she wore during the day, she looked...different. Soft. Elegant.
The way her eyelashes cast long shadows on her cheeks and the gentle rise and fall of her chest made something in my gut tighten. I realized then that she was undeniably beautiful—stunning, even. There was an elegance to her that had nothing to do with the silk she wore and everything to do with the quiet resilience I had seen in her over the last forty-eight hours.
For a heartbeat, I felt a strange urge to walk over and brush the hair away from her forehead. I felt a flicker of something that wasn't hatred, something that wasn't purely business.
But then, the image of Bella flashed in my mind. Her laughter, her fire, the history we shared, entwined.
Octavia was an intruder in that history. She was a contract. A beautiful, complicated asset, but an asset nonetheless.
I stiffened, my face hardening back into the mask of the CEO. I couldn't afford to see her as anything else. If I let myself feel pity or attraction, the "fraud" would become even more difficult to manage.
Before she could stir and catch me staring, I turned on my heel and walked silently up the stairs toward my bedroom.