Contract Marriage After a Crazy Night

Chapter 198: ~ 198

Chapter 198

~ Annie ~

After the words left my mouth and Octavia absorbed them, I felt a strange, hollow lightness in my chest. I walked away from the bench, the sound of my suitcase wheels clicking against the pavement of Central Park, marking a rhythmic goodbye to the person I used to be. I hailed a taxi at the edge of the park, my hand trembling only slightly as I pulled the door shut.

"JFK," I told the driver. "And please, I’m in a hurry."

The driver nodded without a word and merged into traffic. I settled into the backseat, resting my head against the cool window. Outside, New York moved as if nothing had changed. People hurried across crosswalks balancing coffee cups, cyclists squeezed between yellow taxis, and street vendors called out to passing customers. Life carried on with its usual indifference, while mine felt as though it had split into two separate paths. One belonged to the frightened woman who had spent months living under Dorian’s shadow. The other belonged to the woman finally choosing herself, no matter how uncertain the road ahead looked.

I had already played my part with Dorian. I had gone to him with a mask of uncertainty, telling him I needed time to "process" his proposal. I told him that while I was away for my sister’s wedding, I would weigh the cost and give him my answer upon my return. In reality, there was nothing to weigh. I wasn’t going to be his puppet, and I certainly wasn’t going to be a murderer.

To my surprise, he had leaned back in that leather chair of his and nodded, his eyes cold and predatory. He agreed to wait, likely believing his manipulation had already taken root. But my stomach turned at the thought of leaving my mother behind in that house. I had made her promise—swearing on every happy memory we owned—that she would stay close to Clinton. I needed him to be her shield while I was gone.

Even after she’d agreed, worry refused to loosen its grip on me. Dorian wasn’t the kind of man who accepted losing control gracefully. Every smile he wore hid another calculation, another plan waiting to unfold. I could only pray that the few days I spent away would pass quietly.

As the taxi crawled through the midmorning traffic, my mind drifted to the man I was leaving behind. Was Clinton still planning to come to Chicago for Ayanna’s wedding? After the birthday disaster, after the silence, would he actually show up?

I missed him. It was a dull, persistent ache that sat right behind my ribs. I had confirmed it today: Octavia didn’t love him. She was a woman possessed by the memory of her husband, a woman fighting a war for a man who might be at the bottom of the ocean. So why was Clinton waiting? Why was he standing in the rain for a woman who would never open the door, while I was right here, holding the key?

Was love always this blinding?

My mind flashed back to a summer afternoon when the world was smaller and kinder. We were teenagers, standing in the backyard of the old house. The air smelled of cut grass and tomato plants.

"I like you, Annie-bell... I...I mean, I love you," Clinton had said. His voice was transitioning then, a deep, resonant rumble that he hadn’t quite learned to control yet. He was fifteen, awkward and beautiful, following me everywhere. He helped with the grocery bags, he stood over the stove with my mother learning how to flip pancakes, he carried the laundry baskets without being asked. He was just... there. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

I remembered the way he’d rubbed the back of his neck after blurting out those words, refusing to look me in the eye. His ears had turned bright red, and I had almost laughed—not because I found him ridiculous, but because I’d never seen him so nervous. For someone who was always brave enough to defend me from bullies or climb the tallest tree in the neighborhood, confessing his feelings had somehow terrified him the most.

"Let’s be friends instead, Clint," I had said, my thirteen-year-old voice still high and girlish. I was terrified of my mother’s reaction if she found out I was falling for the boy she was raising like a son. I chose safety. I chose the "friend" label to protect the fragile peace of our home.

Now, as adults, the roles had reversed with a cruel irony. I was the one chasing, and he was the one looking through me.

I sighed, hauling my suitcase into the terminal and eventually onto the plane. I found my seat by the window and stared out at the tarmac, watching the luggage carts zip back and forth.

"I wish you were here, Clint," I whispered against the cold glass. "I miss you."

Images of us flickered like a film strip: the heat of his skin against mine, the quiet intimacy of the breakfasts I’d made him, and then the jagged, ugly shards of our last argument on his birthday. I had stormed out, and the silence since then had been deafening.

My phone buzzed. A text from Ayanna: freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY, ANNIE?

I typed back:

YEAH. MAKE SURE MY FAVORITE MEAL IS READY BY THE TIME I REACH THERE.

OF COURSE IT WILL BE! SLOPPY JOES ARE EASY TO MAKE, she replied with a wink emoji.

I chuckled softly, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips. Maybe Chicago was exactly what I needed. A wedding, a sister’s laughter, and a break from the Harrington shadow.

For the first time in weeks, the knot in my chest eased ever so slightly. I pictured Ayanna fussing over flower arrangements, laughing too loudly at her own jokes, insisting everyone taste the food before the guests arrived. The image warmed me. It reminded me that not every Chapter of life had to be filled with fear. Some moments were still allowed to be joyful.

The flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom: "Attention everyone, please turn off all portable electronic devices, including cell phones, laptops, and tablets. Any device with a transmit function must be switched off or placed in airplane mode..."

Just as I reached to swipe the power button, the screen lit up. A contact photo I knew by heart appeared.

Clinton Harrington.

My heart thudded. I felt a surge of heat—half irritation, half longing. Was he calling to apologize again? Was he calling to tell me he’d messed up, only to do it all over again next week? I looked at the vibrating phone for three long seconds. The man I loved was on the other end of that signal, but I couldn’t do it. Not yet.

My thumb hovered over the green answer button. Part of me wanted nothing more than to hear his voice, even if only for a few seconds. Another part remembered every sleepless night, every tear, every disappointment that had followed loving him. If I answered now, I knew my resolve would crumble.

I slid the power bar to the right. The screen went black.

I leaned back into the headrest, buckling my seatbelt and pulling it tight. I stared out the window as the engines began to roar, the vibration humming through the floorboards and into my bones. New York was about to become a distant, glittering memory.

As the plane accelerated down the runway, I felt the familiar pull of gravity. My body was lifting into the clouds, heading toward Chicago, but my heart remained anchored back on the ground, somewhere between a park bench and a man who didn’t know how to stay.

I closed my eyes. For now, the only thing that mattered was the sky.