Chapter 284: ~ 283
Chapter 283
~Octavia~
For hours, Franklin and I just sat together on the edge of the mattress. He hadn’t paced, and he hadn’t raged; instead, he sat completely still, he tried to process the fact that his Aunt Maria’s decades-old malice was fueled by a twisted, unrequited obsession with his father.
I stayed right beside him, shifting closer, wrapping my arms securely around his broad shoulders. I didn’t try to fill the silence with empty, reassuring words. I just let him lean his heavy forehead against my neck, breathing him in, letting him know through my touch that no matter what it was, we will get through it together .
"She hated me because I look like my mum and dad," Franklin murmured, his deep voice thick, rough, and entirely exhausted. He pulled back slightly, staring blankly at the floor. "Every time she looked at me, she didn’t just see her nephew. She saw the man who rejected her for my mother."
"It’s a sick mind, Franklin," I whispered softly, gently smoothing down the rumpled collar of his shirt.
Franklin let out a long, shuddering breath. He turned his head, his dark, intense eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, raw vulnerability that made my chest tighten. He reached out, his large thumb gently tracing the line of my jawline. "I just realized something, Octavia."
"What is it?"
"In all the time we’ve been together... through everything we’ve built, I have never taken you to their graves," he said, his voice dropping into a quiet, solemn promise. "My mother and father. I’ve avoided it for years because the air always felt too heavy there. But you’re my wife. I want to take you there. I promise I will, the moment this storm with Flynn settles."
"I would love that, Franklin," I breathed, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss against his warm lips. "Whenever you’re ready."
Within thirty minutes, the heavy exhaustion completely claimed him. Franklin fell into a deep sleep, his massive frame sprawled across the pillows.
Around two o’clock in the morning, the soft, low chime of the baby monitor on my nightstand woke me. It wasn’t a sharp cry, just the familiar, hungry shifting of baby Lael waking up for her late-night feeding.
I slipped carefully out from under the heavy duvet, making sure not to disturb Franklin, and quietly padded across the hallway into the nursery. I scooped Lael up from her bassinet, cradling her tiny, warm body against my chest as I sat down in the chair. She latched on immediately, her tiny hand resting against my collarbone as she nursed quietly in the dark.
I watched her, tracing the delicate curve of her nose. After she finished feeding, I gently burped her, checked her diaper, and laid her back down into the blankets. She shifted once, letting out a soft sigh before drifting back into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Satisfied that she was perfectly safe, a sudden wave of dry throat hit me. I quietly closed the nursery door and walked down the staircase, heading toward the kitchen to get a cold glass of water.
As I passed the threshold of the grand foyer, heading toward the back corridor, a strange, terrifying sound cut through the quiet house.
It was a violent, raspy, choking sound.
I froze, my heart instantly leaping into my throat. It sounded like someone was actively suffocating, gasping desperately for air that wouldn’t come. I abandoned my route to the kitchen, turning sharply toward the source of the noise.
I pushed past the glass doors, revealing who was standing there. Flynn.
Flynn collapsed on the cold tile floor.
His body was violently trembling, his knees pulled tightly up toward his chest as he clawed frantically at the throat of his sweater. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and completely glassy with a primal, blinding terror.
He was hyperventilating so rapidly that his chest was heaving in short, jerks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as a terrifying, wet wheeze tore out of his chest.
"Flynn!" I gasped, dropping to my knees right beside him on the hard floor.
The second I reached out, his hand shot out, his fingers locking onto my wrist with an incredibly tight, bruising grip. His skin was ice-cold, covered in a thick, slick layer of cold sweat. He didn’t even seem to recognize me immediately, he was just a drowning man trying to breathe.
"I can’t—I can’t breathe," he choked out, a raw, strangled sob tearing from his throat as his upper body convulsed. "Octavia... help me... I can’t get... air..."
"Flynn, look at me! Look right at my face," I commanded, my voice dropping into a firm, steady, and authoritative register as I placed my free hand firmly over his trembling chest, feeling his heart hammering very fast. "You are having a panic attack. Put your hands in mine."
I pulled his shaking, frozen hands away from his throat, clamping them tightly between my own warm palms, forcing him to feel the solid reality of my touch.
"We’re going to do the 5-4-3-2-1 method, Flynn. Right now," I urged, leaning down closer so he could hear me over his own ragged gasps. "Inhale for four seconds... one, two, three, four... good. Now, name five things you can see in this room right now. Look at them. Tell me."
His bloodshot eyes darted frantically around the room, his jaw trembling violently. "The... the bulb," he wheezed out, his chest heaving. "The... the cotton. Your... your sweater. The... the flower vase. The floor."
"Perfect. That’s five," I encouraged, squeezing his hands firmly, anchoring him to the present moment. "Now, give me four things you can physically feel. Concentrate on them, Flynn."
"Your... your hands," he whispered, a long, ragged shudder racking his entire frame as his breathing finally began to decelerate from a frantic sprint to a heavy jog. "The... the cold tiles beneath me. My... my watch. The... the air."
"Deep breath in, Flynn. Follow my count," I instructed, demonstrating a slow, deep belly breath. "In... and out. You’re doing great. The danger is gone. You are completely safe in this room."
We sat on the cold floor for what felt like an eternity, the silence slowly rebuilding itself as his hyperventilation finally subsided into quiet, exhausted tremors. His grip on my hands relaxed, slipping away as he slumped back, completely drained, his face completely pale.
He looked so small, so entirely broken, that the image of the confident, smirking cousin.
Before I knew it, Flynn closed his eyes, a single, heavy tear escaping his eyes. He let out a broken, hollow whisper, his voice cracking with a terrifying childhood trauma.
"I’m sorry..." he muttered, his head shaking weakly against the planter. "I’m so sorry, Octavia... her voice.... It’s just... it’s always in my head. I can’t... I can’t do this anymore."
Before I could even process what he had just confessed, Flynn weakly pushed himself up from the floor. He didn’t look at me, his eyes cast downward in absolute shame, and he slipped out of the conservatory like a ghost, disappearing into the dark corridor.
I remained sitting alone on the cold tile floor, my hands still tingling from the freezing sweat of his panic attack, my glass of water completely forgotten.
I was left staring into the empty shadows, my heart pounding with a fresh, terrifying realization. Flynn looked like a deeply broken, traumatized weapon being violently manipulated by his mother’s unhinged obsession, and the side of his hidden trauma left me deeply shaken to my absolute core.