Chapter 164: ~ 164
Chapter 164
~ Franklin ~
I woke before dawn, the quiet hum of the estate still wrapped in darkness. My suitcase stood packed and ready by the door. I showered quickly, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, and took one final look around the master bedroom that suddenly felt too large and empty. The morning light hadn’t yet penetrated the heavy curtains, leaving everything in grey shadows. I ran my hand along the edge of the bed—our bed—and the absence hit harder than I’d expected. Every piece of furniture seemed to echo with memories I was trying to suppress. I forced myself to turn away before the weight of it could pull me under.
Before Clarence carried my luggage downstairs, I gathered the household staff one last time in the foyer.
"Remember what I said," I told them firmly. "No uninvited guests. No exceptions. The only people allowed inside are Mrs. Flemington, Security has the same instructions. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Mr. Flemington," they answered in unison, their faces solemn.
Satisfied, I headed to the hospital.
The private ward was dimly lit, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound breaking the silence. I asked Briggs to step outside and give me a moment alone with my grandfather.
"I’m leaving today, Grandpa," I said softly, standing beside the bed. His skin remained deathly pale, his body motionless beneath the crisp white sheets. The sight still twisted something deep inside me. "But I will be back. I promise."
I reached for his cool, frail hand, holding it gently. The fragility of it—so different from the strong grip I remembered—was almost unbearable. "Wish me luck. This deal...it’s the kind you always pushed me to close. The kind that secures our legacy."
My throat tightened. "I love you. Always know that. Goodbye."
I lingered a moment longer, memorizing the lines of his face, then forced myself to turn away.
Outside in the hallway, Briggs stood at attention.
"Secure his room at all times," I instructed. "No one enters or leaves without clearance. If Mrs. Flemington comes to visit, allow her. Olga and the household staff may visit during proper hours. No one else. I repeat—no one else. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"You have your gun?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Use it only when necessary, but don’t hesitate if you must." I paused. "If you need relief, call Dyson. Only him. No one else. Understood?"
"Understood, sir."
I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope. I had written it late the previous night, pouring every unsaid word onto the paper because I knew Octavia wouldn’t answer a call or reply to a text. A handwritten letter felt more honest—more unavoidable. The words had cost me—confession after confession, apology after apology, all the things I couldn’t say to her face because she wouldn’t let me. I’d read it three times before sealing it, each time wondering if it would make any difference at all, or if it would simply become another piece of evidence in her case against me.
"This is for Octavia, my wife," I said, handing it to Briggs. "If she comes to visit my grandfather, give it to her personally. No one else."
"I will do that, sir."
"Remember everything I told you." I gave him one last nod and walked away, the weight of the letter and the distance I was about to put between us pressing heavily on my chest.
The limo glided to a smooth stop outside the private terminal. Glass walls reflected the early morning light, and the space was quiet, efficient, and free of crowds—just the way I preferred it. A staff member opened the car door before I could reach for the handle.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Flemington."
I nodded briefly and stepped out.
"Your aircraft is ready for departure, sir."
"Thank you."
Inside the nearly empty terminal, the process was swift: a quick ID check, a signature, and I was escorted straight onto the tarmac.
My private jet waited on the runway—sleek, polished, and powerful. It had carried me across continents for countless deals, yet today it felt different. Less like a symbol of control and more like a vessel taking me further away from the two people I couldn’t stop thinking about: my unconscious grandfather and the wife who no longer wanted to speak to me.
I climbed the stairs without hesitation. Stopping now would mean thinking too deeply, and thinking would pull me back.
The cabin was low-lit, refined, and quiet. My luggage was secured, and the familiar scent of leather and polished wood greeted me.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Flemington," Captain Harris called from the cockpit. He had been my pilot for years, long before I took the controls myself on shorter flights.
"Good afternoon, Harris."
"Flight time to Bogotá is approximately six hours. Weather conditions are stable."
"Let’s keep it that way," I replied.
I moved deeper into the cabin. Ian Winslow, one of my top legal advisors, was already seated, flipping through documents. Across from him sat Raquel Cruz, the sharp regional business liaison for the Andes Corridor deal. She watched me with keen, assessing eyes.
"Cutting it close," Ian remarked without looking up.
"I’m right on time," I answered.
"Mr. Flemington," Raquel said in her smooth Spanish-accented English, "I trust this trip will be productive."
"It will be," I said simply. It had to be.
I took my seat, buckled in, and tried to settle. But calm refused to come. The engines roared to life, sending a deep, controlled vibration through the aircraft.
As the jet began to taxi, I leaned back and closed my eyes, willing myself not to think about my grandfather lying pale in that hospital bed or Octavia’s guarded silence. This was business. I needed my head clear.
I turned to the window. The bright blue sky slowly deepened as we climbed.
"Prepare for takeoff," Captain Harris announced over the intercom.
Raquel muttered, "I hate turbulence," as she leaned back and closed her eyes.
I kept my gaze fixed on the window, watching the ground fall away. The jet leveled out, slicing smoothly through the clouds. For the next six hours, my purpose was singular: secure the deal that would expand the Flemington empire across South America.
Yet even as the plane carried me farther from New York, two faces refused to leave my mind—my grandfather fighting for his life, and the woman I still loved who no longer trusted me.
