Chapter 188: 188
Chapter 188
~ Octavia ~
The sleek black limo felt like a rolling coffin as I stepped inside. My new bodyguards, Locke and Holt, settled in with a practiced, heavy silence that did nothing to quell the roaring in my ears.
Just as the door hissed shut, my phone vibrated in my palm. The caller ID was a string of unfamiliar digits.
I answered with a breathy, cautious, "Hello?"
"Mrs. Flemington?" The voice was steady, professional, and devoid of the warmth one might hope for in a crisis.
"Yes, this is she."
"This is Officer Reynolds from Aviation Emergency Response."
My heart did a slow, agonizing roll in my chest. This was it. The update. "Yes, please...do you have news? Anything?"
There was a pause. In that silence, I built a thousand scenarios where Franklin was safe, being treated in a village, or walking toward a rescue team.
Then, Reynolds spoke.
"We conducted an extensive aerial search of the primary flight path this morning."
My eyes widened. I leaned forward, my knuckles white against the leather seat. "And?"
"We didn’t find anything, Mrs. Flemington. There was no visible wreckage in the target coordinates, and we have no confirmation of survivors."
The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the wind from my lungs. "What...what do you mean? How can a whole jet just disappear?"
"The canopy is dense, the conditions are difficult—"
"No!" I whispered, my voice cracking. "It’s not possible. He’s out there. You just didn’t look hard enough. You have to go back. Please, don’t stop looking for him."
"We are continuing the search, but I must manage your expectations. The terrain is unforgiving."
Tears blurred my vision, hot and stinging. "He’s alive, Officer. He has to be. He’s too stubborn to let the jungle take him."
There was no reply, only the hollow hiss of the line before the call ended. I lowered the phone, feeling the hope I had been hoarding shatter into a million jagged pieces. It was slipping through my fingers, leaving me cold and hollow.
The following morning, the Flemington estate felt suffocating. I couldn’t sleep; every time I closed my eyes, I saw flames and green darkness. I took a walk through the gardens, eventually finding myself in the stone gazebo. I sat on the cold cement bench, staring at nothing as my mind turned, inevitably, to Dorian Harrington.
A pattern was emerging—a dark, jagged line connecting every tragedy of the last few months. Dorian knew about Frederick’s condition. That fact was a splinter in my brain. It wasn’t public information; it was guarded like a state secret. And yet, he had mentioned it in the boardroom with the casualness of someone discussing the weather.
He knew.
My stomach tightened. I thought about the kidnapping, the cold weight of Anthony Rice’s presence, and the way he had moved with such terrifying certainty. Then there was the "accident" at JeffTech—the shove that had nearly ended my life. And the nude photos sent to my phone to tear me away from Franklin.
"No," I whispered to the empty garden.
But the logic was undeniable. What if these weren’t separate incidents? What if Dorian Harrington was the architect behind it all—the attack, the blackmail, and finally, the plane crash? He was a man who moved like he’d already won because he was the one holding the deck.
I reached for my phone. I needed to know Frederick was safe. If Dorian knew his status, Dorian knew his location. I dialed Dyson, the guard currently on duty at the hospital.
"Mrs. Flemington," Dyson answered on the second ring.
"Dyson, how is he? Is everything okay?"
"He’s stable, ma’am. No change. Still unconscious."
I squeezed my eyes shut. "And the security? Tell me the truth."
"It’s a lockdown. No unauthorized access. I’ve been outside the door since Biggs’ shift ended. No one is getting through."
I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. "Keep it that way. No one—and I mean no one—gets near him without my direct approval. Do you understand? I don’t care if they have a badge or a lab coat."
"Understood, Mrs. Flemington."
I hung up, but the relief was fleeting. Frederick was safe for now, but he was a sitting duck. I was standing there, trying to plot my next move, when the phone rang again. Another unknown number.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Flemington?" It was a man’s voice, raspy and low.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"This is Detective Tate. I was in the employ of your husband before his disappearance."
My pulse quickened. Franklin had hired a private investigator? "How did you get this number?"
"I pulled it from the main server. I’ve been trying to reach you since the news broke."
"What were you investigating for him?" I asked sharply.
There was a heavy pause, the sound of a man weighing his words. "He hired me to look into the ’incidents.’ He wanted to know who sent those photos to your phone, and who pushed you down the stairs at JeffTech."
I gasped, a hand flying to my mouth. "Franklin was investigating that?"
"Yes. He didn’t believe the photos were real, and he certainly didn’t believe your fall was an accident. He spent weeks trying to prove his innocence to you by finding the real culprit. He was drugged the night of that resort meeting, Mrs. Flemington. He wanted me to prove that to you."
The guilt hit me like a wave. All that time I had doubted him, he had been fighting to find the truth for us.
"But the case changed," Tate continued. "A few weeks ago, he reassigned me to a new target. An objective he called ’high priority.’ A man named Anthony Rice."
"Anthony Rice?" I clarified, my heart thundering.
"He wanted me to find him. His network, his funding, his boss. Everything."
"And? Did you find anything?"
There was a long, chilling silence. "Yes. I found enough to know that this goes much deeper than a simple kidnapping.
A cold chill raced down my spine. "Tell me."
"Not over the phone," Tate said immediately.
"I assume my lines are compromised, and yours likely are too. We need to meet."
"Where? When?"
"I’ll send you an address. It’s a quiet spot. Come alone."
"That’s not happening," I said flatly, looking over at Locke and Holt standing near the gazebo entrance.
"Then come with people you can trust your life with, but do not bring a parade. Tonight. Seven p.m."
"I’ll be there," I said, my voice raspy with a newfound resolve.
The line went dead. I stood up, the world feeling sharp and dangerous. I was stepping into the mouth of the lion. Anthony Rice—the man who had tormented me, the "green snake" who had posed as an innocent bystander at the resort while he destroyed my marriage—was just the tip of the iceberg.
Franklin had been hunting the truth. Now, I am going to finish the hunt.
