Chapter 192

~ Octavia ~

I didn’t sleep that night. Sleep is a luxury for those who aren’t being hunted, and right now, Frederick and I were the primary targets in a game with no rules. By the time the first gray light of morning bled through the tall, arched windows of the Flemington estate, I was already entrenched in Franklin’s study. I sat in his leather chair, staring at the small silver flash drive resting in my palm. It looked insignificant—a tiny piece of hardware that should have been harmless.

But I knew better. Everything I needed to dismantle the nightmare we were living in was contained within that drive.

With a steady hand, I inserted it into the laptop. The screen blinked, the cooling fan whirred to life, and then the files appeared. They were meticulously organized, a testament to Franklin’s thoroughness. My heart hammered against my ribs as I opened the first folder: Financial Records.

At a cursory glance, they looked like standard corporate filings. But as I scrolled, a pattern began to emerge. I saw shell companies with nonsensical names—Blue Horizon Holdings, Apex Logistics, Vesper Trust—scattered across different jurisdictions. Yet, the flow of money was unidirectional. Millions of dollars were being siphoned, layered, and moved. At the center of this web, hidden behind forged signatures and encrypted authorizations, one name acted as the gravitational pull for every cent.

Dorian Harrington.

My breath hitched. It wasn’t a direct line; Dorian was too smart for that. He had buried his tracks under mountains of corporate fluff and legal distance. But the drive contained the Rosetta Stone—the internal memos and private keys that linked him to every transaction.

I clicked into the next folder: Communications.

These were encrypted messages and call logs. My chest tightened when I saw the name Anthony Rice. I still struggled to reconcile the professional, quiet secretary I had known with a man capable of such cold-blooded treason.

I scrolled through the logs, seeing timestamps that aligned perfectly with my darkest days. Coordinates. Movements tracked with GPS precision. And then, there was Bella.

Her name appeared with sickening frequency, linked to security overrides and internal access points. I thought back to that day at JeffTech—the stalled elevator, the heavy silence of the stairwell. My pulse spiked. It wasn’t a theory anymore; it was a documented conspiracy.

I pulled the drive out and snapped the laptop shut. This wasn’t something you simply took to the police; Dorian had people everywhere. This was a war of survival.

"Clarence," I called out as I stepped into the hall.

He appeared almost instantly, his presence as reliable as the stone walls around us. "Yes, Mrs. Flemington?"

"I need you to assign someone," I said, my voice low and brittle. "I need a shadow. Someone with no records, no reports filed through the usual channels, and someone who knows how to disappear."

Clarence’s brows lifted, his eyes sharpening with understanding. "For what purpose?"

"I want Bella Washington watched," I replied. "Every move she makes. Every person she speaks to."

"Bella Washington?" He hesitated, his composer wavering just for a second. "Isn’t that Mr. Flemington’s—"

"I know who she was to my husband, Clarence," I cut him off, my voice turning cold. "We don’t need to discuss her history. Do we?"

"No, ma’am. But may I ask why?"

"Because I don’t like loose ends, and she is the loosest one we have."

Clarence bowed his head slightly. "It will be done immediately. No one will know."

"Make sure of that."

The Flemington Group headquarters felt different today. It was colder, the air heavy with the scent of a regime change. I walked through the lobby with a diamond-sharp focus, ignoring the curious glances of the staff. I headed straight for the executive suite—straight for Franklin’s office.

I didn’t knock. I pushed the heavy oak doors open and stepped inside.

There he was. Dorian Harrington, sitting behind Franklin’s desk as if he had spent his whole life waiting for that chair. He looked up, a sickeningly smooth smile spreading across his face.

"Octavia. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

I closed the door behind me, the click echoing in the large room. "You look comfortable, Dorian."

"I adapt quickly to my surroundings," he said, leaning back and steepled his fingers.

"I can see that," I replied, my voice gritted with a suppressed rage. I walked toward the desk, the space between us charged with enough electricity to spark. "You’re sitting in a chair that doesn’t belong to you."

"Temporary arrangements have a way of shifting into permanent ones, wouldn’t you agree?"

"I’m suggesting you walk away," I said, leaning over the desk until I could see the flecks of gray in his eyes. "Now. While you still can."

Dorian chuckled—a soft, dry sound that made my skin crawl. "And why would I do that? I have the board’s backing. I have the momentum."

"Because this doesn’t end well for you," I said quietly.

"Is that a threat, Octavia?"

"It’s a warning."

He studied me, searching my face for a flicker of weakness or a hint of what I knew. I gave him nothing but a wall of ice.

"You’re grieving," he said after a long silence. "Grief makes people emotional. It makes them imaginative."

"I’m not emotional, Dorian. I’m aware. I’m aware of how quickly things can...fall apart. For everyone."

A flicker of something—uncertainty? Anger?—passed through his eyes before he masked it. "Strength without a position is limited, my dear."

"Then give it back," I countered. "And I’m not asking twice."

Dorian didn’t move. He remained perfectly still, a predator in a tailored suit. "I think we’re quite finished here."

I straightened up, smoothing the front of my jacket. I turned to leave, then paused at the door. "And Dorian? It’s Mrs. Flemington to you. Don’t let your mouth get too familiar with my name again."

I walked out, my heels clicking like a metronome against the marble floor. Locke and Holt were waiting by the elevators, their presence a silent comfort. As the limo pulled away from the curb, my mind raced. The chase the night before, the precision of the tail—it had to be Anthony. He was still the executioner, and Dorian was the judge.

My phone buzzed in my bag. I pulled it out to see Clinton’s name on the screen.

"Hello?"

"Octavia, we need to talk," Clinton said, his voice tight with an urgency that made my heart drop. "It’s important. Really important."

"What is it? Did something happen?"

"Not over the phone. Meet me at Jovita’s at three p.m. Please. Don’t be late."

The line went dead. I stared at the blank screen, the weight of the flash drive in my pocket feeling heavier than ever. Whatever Clinton had to tell me, I knew it was the next piece of the puzzle—or the next explosion in a world that was already burning.