Chapter 168: ~ 168
Chapter 168
~ Octavia ~
A few days later, my mother drove me back to the hospital for a wound check on my head. The nurse’s news was encouraging—the injury was healing rapidly. With time, I would be able to wash and style my hair properly again. Since the heavy bandage had been in place, I had relied on dry shampoo and conditioner, which I disliked but had no choice but to use. Now, the thought of real shampoo felt like a small luxury.
After the dressing and a quick consultation with Dr. Aris, I decided to visit Frederick in his private ward. My mother waited for me in the hallway, giving me space.
When I stepped inside, Briggs sat across from the bed, quietly reading a magazine. He looked up as I entered.
"Hey, Biggs," I greeted softly.
"Mrs. Flemington... good day," he replied, standing respectfully.
I turned toward Frederick. He still looked the same—motionless, pale, and fragile. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room like a somber heartbeat.
"Any progress?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"No, Mrs. Flemington," Briggs shook his head gently.
"There’s something I want to give you," he added.
I tilted my head, confused. "You want to give me something?"
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope, handing it to me.
"This is a letter from Mr. Flemington. He instructed me to give it to you whenever you came to visit Senior Flemington."
I stared at the envelope. Franklin’s familiar handwriting was on the front: To Octavia.
"Did he say why he wrote it?" I asked, my fingers tightening around the paper.
"He didn’t explain. He just asked me to deliver it to you personally."
I slipped the letter into my purse without opening it. The weight of it felt heavier than it should.
"Thank you, Biggs."
"My pleasure, Mrs. Flemington."
I turned back to Frederick and gently took his limp, pale hand in mine. "You will be fine," I whispered, patting it softly before letting go. "I’m leaving now."
"Have a nice day, Mrs. Flemington," Briggs said.
I nodded and stepped out.
"How is Frederick?" my mother asked as soon as I joined her.
"Still the same," I sighed, looking down sadly.
Seeing my expression, she wrapped her arm around my shoulders as we walked toward the elevator. "With time, he will wake up. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine."
"I hope so," I mumbled.
We drove home in quiet companionship.
That evening, I told my parents I was going out with Clinton to celebrate his birthday.
"Dressed like that?" my father asked, eyeing my outfit.
I looked down at the red strapless flowing dress I had chosen. I had worn it only once before—to a JeffTech gala during my early internship days. I was glad it still fit perfectly. Paired with black heels, I felt elegant yet comfortable.
"What’s wrong with my dressing?" I asked, frowning.
"Everything," my father replied bluntly.
"I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it," I said, growing defensive.
"Do I have to remind you that you’re still married to Franklin?" he sighed.
"Yeah? So?" I frowned deeper.
"Patricia? Honey, can you explain what I’m saying?" my father turned to my mother.
She stepped forward gently. "Sweetheart, what your father means is that you’re still a married woman. Going out with a man who isn’t your husband while dressed like that... it looks wrong."
"But Clinton isn’t my boyfriend or anything. He’s just a friend who invited me to his birthday dinner," I explained.
"Still, if you look at it from the outside, it could be seen as cheating on Franklin," my mother said cautiously.
"Cheating on Franklin?" I scoffed. "Well, he cheated on me multiple times, Mom. Multiple times."
The painful memories rushed back—the hurt, the betrayal, the nights I had cried because of how he treated me.
"So this is your way of getting back at him?" my father asked.
"No, it’s not. It’s just an outing, Dad. Nothing more. You don’t have to be so dramatic about it."
"Okay," his expression softened slightly. "But do you really have to go? You haven’t fully recovered yet."
"I’ll be fine, Dad. Trust me. Besides, Clinton is picking me up, so you both don’t have to worry."
"Alright," they said in unison.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
"That must be Clinton," I said, walking to the door and opening it.
"Hey," I greeted with a smile.
"Hi," he replied, his eyes lighting up.
"Come on in."
He stepped inside and greeted my parents politely. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Herman."
"Good evening," they replied.
"I’ll go get my coat," I told Clinton, then headed to my bedroom.
As I grabbed my coat and the small gift I had prepared for him, I paused to stroke Nola’s soft fur. She was curled up peacefully on my bed. Franklin’s letter still sat unopened on my vanity table. I had no heart to read it yet. It would be filled with apologies, declarations of love, and explanations I wasn’t ready to face. I planned to return it to him the moment he came back to the States.
When I returned to the living room, my parents were talking to Clinton. He looked slightly uncomfortable, and I knew my father must have said something pointed.
"What’s going on?" I asked, glancing between them.
"Nothing, honey. I was just reminding Mr. Harrington here to be careful when he takes you out," my father said, then turned to Clinton. "Isn’t that right, Mr. Harrington?"
"Yes, it is," Clinton nodded with a nervous smile.
"Happy birthday, Clinton," my mother added warmly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Herman."
"I’ll walk him to the door," I told my parents.
"Bring her back before midnight, Mr. Harrington," my father called after us.
"Oh, come on, Dad. We’re not teenagers," I sighed as I closed the door behind us.
"Sorry about that," I told Clinton once we were outside.
"It’s fine. I totally understand where he’s coming from—especially since everyone knows you’re still married and you’re going out with a single man."
"Don’t let his or my mom’s words get to you," I sighed.
"They’re just looking out for you, and I understand that," he said as we walked toward his car.
"By the way, you look stunning tonight," he complimented.
"I was afraid to say it inside because of your parents, but now that we’re alone... you look beautiful."
"Thank you," I replied, feeling a small flutter of warmth.
"My pleasure." He smiled as he opened the passenger door for me.
"But we should stop acting like teenagers. We’re adults, for crying out loud," I said as I got in.
"Well, if you’re still staying at your parents’ house, you’re technically still a teenager in their eyes," he teased, making me laugh.
Once he was in the driver’s seat, he turned to look at me again.
"What?" I asked.
"You look pretty tonight... so pretty," he said sincerely.
"Thank you. Is the compliment ever going to stop?" I teased.
"Nah," he shook his head, grinning.
"Happy birthday, Clinton," I said, handing him the small gift bag.
"Thank you." He took it curiously. "What’s in it?"
"You’ll have to wait until we get to your apartment to find out."
"Okay. Let’s hit the road then. I can’t wait to open it," he said, starting the car.
We drove off into the evening, the city lights beginning to glow around us.
When we arrived at his apartment, I slipped off my coat. Clinton set the gift bag down and headed to the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses.
"My doctor said no alcohol for now—until I’m fully recovered," I reminded him.
"Oh, my bad. I didn’t know," he gave me an apologetic look and returned the wine to the kitchen.
"No, it’s fine. You didn’t know," I assured him.
He came back with a pack of apple juice instead. "Is this okay?"
"Sure, it is," I nodded.
He poured the juice into two glasses. "So, what’s for dinner?"
"I was thinking of ordering Chinese. Is that okay with you?"
"It’s your birthday, birthday boy. You’re in charge," I said, sipping my drink.
"I know, but I still wanted to check if you’re okay with it. I can’t enjoy it if you don’t like it."
"I’m perfectly okay with Chinese," I told him.
"Cool." He grabbed his phone and placed the order.
Once he was done, he picked up the gift bag. "Time to open the gift the gorgeous Octavia got for me."
I chuckled as he pulled out a sleek new cologne and a stylish leather wallet.
"I know it’s a simple gift for a man. I tried to find something better, but—"
"I love it," he cut in sincerely. "Thank you. I’ll cherish it. It’s not simple at all."
"It’s not?" I asked, narrowing my eyes playfully.
"No." He reached for my hand. "Thank you."
"You’re welcome," I smiled. "I’m glad you like it."
"I love it," he corrected.
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
"That must be the delivery guy with our dinner," he said, getting up to answer it.
When he opened the door, I noticed his back suddenly tense. I frowned and poked my head out.
"Annie?" he said, surprise clear in his voice.
"Annie? Is that the name of the delivery guy now?" I chuckled, standing up and walking toward the door.
Only then did I see her—a strikingly beautiful, slim woman holding a small carton and a gift bag. When our eyes met, she glared at me sharply.
At that moment, I knew something was very wrong.
And I knew this woman was part of Clinton’s life.
