Chapter 185: ~ 185
Chapter 185
~ Annie ~
The drive back from the Bronx was a blur of neon signs and crowded sidewalks, but my mind was miles away, trapped in the chilling stillness of the estate’s pool deck. The conversation with Uncle Dorian played on a loop in my head, each word he spoke feeling like a drop of cold water down my spine.
Get rid of Octavia.
The proposal was a siren song, sweet and lethal. I wanted Clinton.
I wanted to be the reason he stayed up at night, the person he looked at with a raw, divine hunger that transcended our "brother-sister" history. I wanted a love that was a sanctuary, not a consolation prize. To have that, all I had to do was step into the darkness with Dorian Harrington.
But as I sat in the quiet of my bedroom, the temptation began to curdle. I thought of Octavia. I didn’t even know her, yet I was being asked to destroy her. Why was Dorian so intent on her erasure? He claimed he and the Flemingtons went "way back," but his tone didn’t suggest a shared history; it suggested a blood feud. If he was willing to hurt a member of a family he had worked for, what would he do to a girl like me once I was no longer useful?
It was fishy. It was worse than fishy—it was predatory.
When he’d made the offer, I had only managed a weak, "I will think about it," before he was pulled away by a phone call. Now, the weight of that non-answer felt like a noose. I wasn’t a killer. I wasn’t a saboteur. I was an artist. I couldn’t live with the phantom of a ruined woman haunting my every waking hour. If I took Dorian’s hand, I might win Clinton’s heart, but I would lose my soul in the bargain.
If Clinton wanted to be with Octavia, then let him. I couldn’t build my happiness on the wreckage of someone else’s life.
I needed a distraction before the walls of the mansion started closing in on me. I grabbed my laptop, intending to research mural designs for Candice’s cafe. I needed to focus on color, texture, and light—anything but the darkness downstairs.
But as the screen flickered to life, a news notification popped up in the corner. My breath hitched as I clicked the headline: EXECUTIVE CHAIRMAN OF FLEMINGTON GROUP INVOLVED IN JET CRASH.
I stared at the screen, my eyes widening as I scanned the report. There was a photo of Franklin Flemington—Octavia’s husband. The man was missing, feared dead in the heart of the Amazon.
I felt a sudden, sickening jolt of realization. Dorian’s voice echoed in my head, his eerie smirk flashing in my mind’s eye. This wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. Hours ago, he was asking me to "get rid" of the wife, and now the husband was gone?
It wasn’t just fishy anymore; it was a goddamn massacre.
Could Dorian have had a hand in the crash? Was he systematically dismantling the Flemington family tree, branch by branch? And he wanted me to be the one to prune the final leaf. The thought made me want to retch. He had a hidden vendetta, a deep-seated rot that was finally surfacing. Whatever his end goal was—power, revenge, or something more twisted—I wanted no part of it.
I slammed the laptop shut, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn’t stay here. The "mighty" Harrington mansion suddenly felt like a tomb. I had stopped my house hunting months ago because my mother didn’t want to be lonely, but the stakes had changed. Staying here was no longer just about family loyalty; it was about survival.
I thought back to what Clinton told me the day he left. "Let’s just say my father wanted me to do something I didn’t agree with. When I refused, he disowned me."
The pieces finally clicked into place. Dorian had tried to recruit his own son into this darkness, and Clinton—thank God—had been strong enough to walk away. Now, Dorian was trying the same tactic on me. And if I refused? Would I become a target too? Would he come after me or my mother to ensure our silence?
The fear was a cold weight in my gut. I grabbed my phone, my fingers trembling as I scrolled through my contacts. I found the number for the real estate agent I’d spoken to months ago. He picked up on the first ring.
"Miss Reagan? What a pleasant surprise," he chirped.
"Yes, hi," I whispered, glancing toward my bedroom door. I could almost imagine Kieran, Dorian’s shadow, lurking in the hallway, eavesdropping on behalf of his master. "Remember when I said I wasn’t interested in an apartment? I changed my mind. I need something now. And I need it far from Manhattan."
"I see," the agent said, his tone turning professional. "Would Bayside, Queens, work? It’s a beautiful, lively neighborhood, very self-contained."
"Is it safe?" I murmured, my voice barely audible. "I mean...is it far enough away that someone wouldn’t just...stumble across it?"
"It’s a hundred percent safe, Miss Reagan. It’s a peaceful neighborhood. You’ll have nothing to worry about."
"Okay," I exhaled, a long, shaky breath. "Keep me updated the second you find a suitable place. Price isn’t the priority. Speed is."
"I’ll get right on it," he promised, and the line went dead.
I sank onto my bed, clutching the phone to my chest. I had to convince my mother to leave. She loved this house, she loved the security of the Harrington name, but she didn’t see the monster in the master suite. I would have to tell her we were moving to Queens. She wouldn’t like it, but it was the only way.
And more importantly, I had to get us out of the city for a while. My sister Ayanna’s wedding was coming up in Chicago. I decided right then that we would fly out early—weeks early.
Anything to avoid looking Dorian Harrington in the eye again. Anything to avoid becoming a pawn in a game that ended in plane crashes and "disappearances."
As I looked around my room, the expensive furniture and fine art felt like shackles. I finally understood why Clinton had traded all of this for a modest apartment and a life of uncertainty. He hadn’t just moved out; he had escaped.
Now, it was my turn. I just hoped we could get away before the shadows in the house decided they weren’t finished with us yet.
