Chapter 28
Seraphine's POV
Octavius glanced at me, and before I could form a single word, a dry, humorless smile touched his lips. “You don’t actually think I’m still the same fool I was before, do you? Pining after something so ethereal, so impossible.”
My mouth opened, then closed. What could I possibly say to that?
“Forget it.” He waved a dismissive hand, already reaching for his phone. “The next time I have a use for you, you can repay this favor then.” He didn’t wait for my agreement, simply dialing a number and setting the device on the coffee table, the speakerphone activating with a soft chime.
“Mr. Capulet.” Flynn’s crisp, efficient voice came through the line.
“The situation outside the hospital. Handle it.” Octavius commanded, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
“Understood. We’ve already been monitoring the movements of the primary media outlets driving the narrative.”
“Good.” Octavius’s gaze swept over me, a chillingly detached assessment, before he returned his attention to the phone. “Get our own media outlets on a counter-offensive. I want reports out immediately. Emphasize the fact that Seraphine was framed, that her allergic reaction was a setup. Magnify Brielle’s incompetence at the press conference. And contact the media conglomerates we hold controlling stakes in. Issue a press release. The headline…” He paused, a low, caustic hum in his throat. “‘The Whitaker Group’s Heiress: Vicious, Incompetent, and Faking a Suicide Attempt to Frame Her Sister.’”
I listened, stunned into silence. It was no wonder everyone feared him. His ability to dismantle a crisis was a brutal form of art.
“And one more thing.” Octavius added, his voice dropping to a frigid, dangerous register. “Identify the two outlets making the most noise. I want them acquired within the half-hour. Their first order of business will be to issue an official apology and fire every journalist involved in the false reporting.”
Cradling the glass of water in my hands, I sat on the sofa and looked up at him. He stood there, orchestrating the destruction of a storm that had formed around me, his presence radiating an aura of indomitable, ruthless power. So this was the real Octavius Capulet. With this level of capability, there was no conceivable way Mitchell could have bankrupted him in my past life. The only reason he had ever been vulnerable, the only chink in his armor, had been a weakness known to all: me.
Last time, I was the one who destroyed him. The thought was a bitter acid in my throat. How could I possibly deserve this—this fierce, unwavering protection—after the way I had broken him?
“It’s done. The stories will disappear shortly.” Octavius ended the call, cutting through my spiraling thoughts as he sat down beside me. His proximity was a tangible force, a sudden weight in the air that seemed to press in on me from all sides.
He turned his head, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “From this point forward, not a single media outlet will dare to publish anything negative about you.”
My lips parted. I wanted to say thank you, but the words felt laughably inadequate, a feather trying to balance a mountain of debt. I quickly lowered my gaze, desperate to hide the turmoil I knew was plain on my face.
“Octavius.” I began, my voice raspy with unshed emotion. “Thank you. Not just for today… but for all of it.”
He was silent for a long moment, the quiet stretching between us until it was a taut wire. When he finally spoke, his voice was a lower, more somber timbre than before. “Seraphine, I’m willing to establish a long-term partnership with the Whitaker Group.”
The abrupt shift in topic caught me off guard. It was, however, undeniably good news. A genuine smile, the first I’d felt all day, broke through my anxiety. “Thank you. You’ve seen the new product line—I know it won’t disappoint you.”
“My agreement has nothing to do with your new products.” He arched an eyebrow, his expression turning inscrutable, profound. “You’ve been seeking me out for one of two reasons: to secure a business deal, or to use me as a shield against Mitchell. I can grant you both.” He paused, leaning closer, shrinking the space between us until the air grew thick and charged. “But you have to answer one question for me. In all the times you’ve come to find me these past few days, was there any part of it,” his voice dropped to a low, intimate murmur, “that was simply because you wanted to see me?”
A knot tightened in my chest. “It was for work,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “but it was also to see you. I know how terrible I was to you before. I want to make amends. I want to apologize.”
Every word was the absolute truth. Beyond my quest for revenge, the one person who occupied my thoughts, my regrets, was Octavius.
The admission fell into a profound silence that filled the vast living room. Octavius said nothing, his gaze a dissecting instrument, searching for the slightest hint of deception. The seconds ticked by, stretching into a small eternity where I felt as though time itself had frozen. Then, finally, he moved. He lifted his hand, and his fingers, cool against my skin, gently brushed a stray lock of hair from my temple. The brief, almost accidental caress of his fingertip against my earlobe sent a jolt through me, and I held my breath, pinned in place by his unwavering stare.
He said nothing more, and his expression gave no indication that he believed me.
“Stay here. Go back when the storm has passed.” With that, Octavius stood, grabbing his car keys from the table.
“Where are you going?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
“I have work to attend to. My people should have everything cleaned up by eight tonight. Just wait.” He turned and walked out without a backward glance.
The enormous villa fell silent, leaving me utterly alone. The day had been a marathon of emotional attrition, draining me of every last ounce of strength. I curled up on the sofa, clutching a throw pillow, and before I knew it, a heavy, dreamless sleep pulled me under.
But the peace did not last. I fell into a kaleidoscope of nightmarish visions: Brielle’s triumphant, gloating smile from my past life; Mitchell’s cold, dismissive eyes; the blinding flash and roar of the explosion. And then, at the very end, the image that always broke me—Octavius, rushing toward me, his eyes filled with a desperate, all-consuming love as the world burned around him.
'Don’t die… Octavius, please, stop loving me. I don’t deserve it.'
A sharp, insistent knocking at the door shattered the dream. I jolted awake, my heart hammering against my ribs, disoriented. It took a moment to remember I was in Riverside Villa. Outside, the daylight was gone, replaced by a thick, inky darkness. The knocking continued, urgent and unyielding. The phantom pain of the dream, of watching Octavius sacrifice himself for me, was still a fresh, open wound in my chest.
I pressed my fingers to my brow, taking two slow breaths to steady myself before smoothing my wrinkled jacket and running a hand through my disheveled hair. I walked to the door and peered through the peephole.
Standing on the doorstep wasn't Octavius. It was a woman with immaculate makeup, wavy long curly hair. Her eyes, deep and captivating as the ocean, were instantly recognizable.
It was Quinlan.
What was she doing here, at this hour? My heart plunged, a cold, heavy stone sinking into my stomach. A sour, unfamiliar feeling—jealousy—surged through me. Were she and Octavius already so intimate that she could show up at his private residence, unannounced, late into the night? With a hand that felt strangely numb, I unlocked and opened the door.