Chapter 299: ~ 298
Chapter 298
~Franklin~
Tonight was supposed to be a relaxing, quiet "guys’ night." Clinton, Flynn, and I were supposed to be having fun while the women celebrated Annie’s bachelorette party somewhere downtown.
The reality? It was boring.
"They haven’t texted in exactly two hours and fourteen minutes," Clinton muttered, his voice strained as he paced a tight, frantic circle around the sofa. He snapped his wrist up, glaring at his watch for what had to be the hundredth time since sunset. "Not a single update. Annie said she’d send pictures. Do you think their phones died? All of them? Simultaneously?"
Flynn sat on the edge of an armchair, his thumb furiously hammering against his glowing phone screen. "I’m refreshing Victoria’s social media location tags every thirty seconds, man. Nothing. No check-ins, no stories, no vague background music. They completely vanished off the grid the moment they left the bridal shop." He groaned, throwing his head back against the cushion. "She told me they were just going to a nice lounge downtown. Why all the secrecy?"
I let out a low, controlled breath, though a familiar knot of possessive restlessness was tightening in my own gut. "Calm down, both of you," I said, my deep voice cutting through their spiraling panic. "I have it completely under control. You think I’d let Octavia step foot in the city center at night without eyes on her?"
Clinton stopped pacing, his brows furrowing as he looked at me. "What do you mean by that, Franklin?"
Before I could answer, my phone sounded.
I picked it up. It was a text from the elite security I had secretly assigned to shadow the girls from a safe, respectful distance. I swiped the screen open. The message contained a live GPS pin, followed by a brief, formal update detailing the exact name of the venue.
Clinton didn’t even wait for permission. He marched over and leaned heavily over my shoulder, his sharp eyes scanning the text screen. In a fraction of a second, the color completely drained from his face. His jaw slackened, his eyes widening in absolute, unadulterated horror.
"What is it?" Flynn demanded, leaning forward so fast he nearly tipped his chair over. "Franklin, where are they?"
"It’s not a regular dance club," Clinton choked out, his voice hoarse, his fingers gripping my shoulder so hard his knuckles turned white. "It’s The Velvet Vault. Franklin... that’s an exclusive female-centric strip club. They’re at a live male strip show."
Absolute, chaotic pandemonium erupted in the lounge.
"What?!" Flynn screamed. "A strip club?! Victoria literally looked me in the eyes this morning and promised me they were just getting casual drinks! She swore it!"
Clinton looked like a man possessed, his chest heaving as a terrifying wave of alpha male jealousy completely took over his features. "Male strippers," he whispered, his eyes flashing a dangerous, volatile shade of dark. "There are strange, half-naked men breathing the same air as my future wife right now. I am going to tear the doors of that building completely off their hinges."
My own jaw clamped shut so tightly a sharp pain shot up my temple. A heavy, burning wave of raw, primitive possessiveness slammed into my chest, suffocating any sense of corporate diplomacy I possessed.
Octavia. My sweet wife was sitting in a club watching other men take their clothes off. The mere image made my vision turn entirely red.
Within two minutes, the three of us were sprinting out of the mansion. We didn’t wait for a chauffeur. I grabbed the keys to my SUV, threw the vehicle into reverse and drove out.
I pushed the engine to its absolute limit, driving through the late-night city traffic and breaking every single speed limit on the map, driven by pure, unadulterated jealousy.
When we finally pulled up to the neon-lit, VIP entrance of The Velvet Vault.
The bass from the music inside was vibrating. We brushed past the towering bouncers at the door, our expressions so dark and imposing that the security guards didn’t even dare to ask for our IDs or cover charge.
We burst through the curtains into the main room. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, expensive alcohol, and sweat. The night lights flashed blindingly, and the crowd of hundreds of women was screaming at the top of their lungs as a group of muscular men on stage began unbuttoning their shirts mid-routine.
Clinton didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t look for Annie first. Instead, he marched straight past the main bar, his towering six-foot-four frame cutting through the crowd and cornered the terrified venue manager near the VIP ropes.
Before the manager could even open his mouth to protest, Clinton whipped out his exclusive black American Express card and slammed it directly onto the manager’s clipboard.
"Shut the music down. Now," Clinton snarled, leaning down into the man’s face, his voice carrying an authority that gave room for no argument. "I am booking this entire place for the rest of the night. Name your price, triple it, and charge it to this card. Do it, or I will buy the entire block by midnight and fire you myself."
The manager’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Within seconds, everything was off, and the pounding music abruptly cut into a screeching halt. The confused crowd began to complain, but the security team quickly began clearing the venue, ushering the male dancers backstage.
As the sea of people began to thin out under the bright, exposing house lights, my eyes scanned the central VIP booth.
There she was.
Octavia was sitting right in the center of the leather booth, holding a bright pink cocktail glass halfway to her mouth. She was wearing a breathtakingly sexy, incredibly short black silk dress that showed off every single inch of her flawless legs. Next to her, Victoria, Annie, Ava, and Sarah were staring at us in stunned silence.
The moment Octavia’s big, beautiful eyes locked onto mine, she froze. The color rushed into her cheeks, and her jaw dropped slightly. She looked completely stunning, utterly captivating, and entirely guilty.
I didn’t say a word to the rest of the group. I simply walked over to the booth, my footsteps echoing on the floor, my gaze locked onto my wife. The dark, dangerous smirk on my face made her breath catch sharply.
"Franklin," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as I stopped right in front of her.
"Stand up, sweetheart," I murmured, my voice dangerously smooth.
I reached down, my hand wrapping firmly around her wrist, and gently pulled her out of the booth, completely excusing us from the shell-shocked group without looking back.
I guided her away from the clearing dance floor, leading her down the quiet, dimly lit back hallway toward the private, secluded back row of the VIP lounge where the house lights couldn’t reach.
The moment we were completely alone in the shadows, I turned her around and pressed her body firmly back against the soft leather seats. I leaned down, trapping her between my arms, my chest pressing against hers until she could feel the frantic, roaring beat of my heart.
Octavia looked up at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with a mix of thrill and nervous anticipation as she swallowed hard.
I leaned in closer, my lips brushing teasingly against the shell of her ear, my breath hot against her skin. I let my hand slide down her waist, gripping the smooth silk of that ridiculously short dress.
"You know you’ve been a very bad girl tonight, sweetheart," I whispered huskily, my voice dropping into a low, possessive growl that made her entire body shiver. "And all bad girls get punished."