Chapter 6
~ Octavia ~
After the call, I texted Franklin my office address, my mind racing with questions. How had he gotten my private number? And why, of all things, did he want to take me to lunch?
I tried to suppress the nervous energy bubbling inside me; I knew Victoria was watching, and she wouldn't hesitate to tease me if she caught me smiling at my phone.
I stood up to head to the restroom, but as I stepped out of the cubicle later, someone slammed into my shoulder.
"Oops. Sorry," Bella said. The apology was paper-thin, dripping with false sweetness.
"Just watch where you're going," I snapped, rolling my eyes.
"Or maybe you should watch your back," she fired back.
I frowned, stopping in my tracks. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She gave me a sharp, bitchy smirk.
Before I could retort, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
"Saved by the bell," she whispered, sauntering away.
I pulled the phone from my blazer, my heart skipping as I saw the name. I had finally saved his number. The text was blunt:
I'M LEAVING THE OFFICE NOW. BE THERE IN A BIT.
I sighed, clutching my phone to my chest. My heart was drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
What is wrong with me? I felt like a blushing teenager, not a professional woman. Why did it feel like I was falling for a man I barely knew?
I retreated to my desk, but the change in my demeanor was obvious. Victoria poked her head over the partition.
"Everything okay? You look like you've seen a ghost—or a very handsome devil."
"Oh! Yeah, everything's fine," I said quickly, fixing my eyes on my computer screen.
I spent the rest of the morning buried in spreadsheets, trying to drown out my thoughts.
By noon, the second buzz arrived. Franklin was outside.
It was officially lunch break, and I bolted. I grabbed my purse and slipped toward the elevators before Victoria could suggest we grab a salad together.
Outside, the midday heat hit me, but my focus was on the curb. A black limo sat idling, flanked by a custom Cadillac.
As I approached, a driver hopped out of the limo and gestured toward me. I crossed the street, squinting at the dark tinted glass, wondering if Franklin was watching me.
"Good day, Miss Herman," the driver greeted, opening the rear door.
"Good day..." I replied tentatively.
I slid into the plush interior and found Franklin already seated. He was impeccably dressed in a black three-piece suit and polished black brogues. He sat with his legs crossed, looking every bit the cold billionaire the tabloids described.
His expression was stern—completely different from the tone he'd used on the phone earlier.
"Get in," he muttered, his voice strained.
I obeyed, and the driver softly clicked the door shut.
As we pulled into traffic, Franklin turned his icy gaze toward me.
"You could have moved more quickly. I'm not in the mood for another round of scandalous headlines."
I bristled at his tone. "Where are we going?"
"Someplace quiet to discuss the preparations for our..." He paused, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "...marriage."
I didn't blame him for the hesitation. I could hardly wrap my head around it myself.
Married to a stranger? A man who was nothing more than a blurred, breathless memory of a one-night stand?
The limo drove to the outskirts of the city, stopping at a discreet, high-end establishment called The Obsidian Room. It was a "members-only" fortress designed for power plays—all deep leather booths and soundproofed walls. It felt less like a restaurant and more like a courtroom.
As we stepped out, the Cadillac behind us emptied. Four men in matching black suits stepped out, flanking us instantly.
"Let's go," Franklin muttered, ushering me inside.
The interior was dim and oppressive.
"I rented the entire place for the hour," Franklin said as we sat. "I don't want interruptions."
I nodded, feeling the weight of his presence.
He signaled to a waitress standing a few feet away. After we placed our orders — mine chosen at random because my appetite had vanished — Franklin signaled one of his bodyguards.
The man stepped forward and handed Franklin a heavy black binder and a fountain pen.
Franklin slid the binder across the table. It landed with a heavy thud.
"Before lunch arrives, you need to read this," he said flatly.
I opened it.
The heading was bold and uncompromising:
MARITAL SETTLEMENT & COHABITATION AGREEMENT.
"I haven't even agreed to marry you yet, Franklin," I scoffed, feeling a surge of defiance. "And you're already shoving a contract in my face?"
"You will agree," he said, his blue eyes turning to ice. "Because if you don't, your family's debt remains exactly where it is: on the verge of burying you. I know you don't want to watch your parents lose everything."
"I can find another way," I insisted, though my voice lacked conviction.
"There is no other way, Octavia. As much as I might dislike this arrangement, it's the only solution. It saves your family's legacy, and it secures mine. If I don't marry, I lose the Flemington Group — the company my grandfather built with his blood and sweat."
I looked down at the legal jargon.
If I signed this, I was signing away my freedom. I'd be caged in a cold, calculated arrangement.
But if I didn't?
My parents would be crushed by bankruptcy.
To them, this marriage wouldn't be a sacrifice; it would be the success they'd been planning for me since I turned twenty.
Franklin leaned forward, holding out the gold fountain pen.
"So, what's it going to be, Octavia? Are you going to sign, or are we done here?"