Chapter 8
Dianne kept Franklin close, proudly introducing him to anyone who crossed their path. Politicians, business magnates, distant relatives—each greeted Franklin with polite smiles, though most of their attention remained fixed on Damien's sister rather than the actor himself.
Franklin smiled, nodded, said all the right words. But he couldn't shake the feeling of being paraded around, a trophy displayed at the Carter banquet.
Then, suddenly, the lights dimmed.
The low hum of voices hushed instantly. A single spotlight cut through the grand hall, casting a glow on the staircase.
A girl stood there.
Her dark hair was swept up elegantly, her navy-blue ball gown catching the light like a sea of stars. She descended the stairs slowly, each step graceful, the faint swell of music filling the silence. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as she smiled, white teeth flashing, the picture of a princess in her kingdom.
Franklin's chest tightened. Whoever she was, she had every eye fixed on her.
The light swelled back to full glow just as she reached the bottom. And then—she turned, walking straight toward him.
Before Franklin could process what was happening, she stopped in front of him and extended her hand.
Dianne gave him a gentle push. "Go on," she whispered, beaming.
Caught off guard, Franklin's gaze darted around the hall. His instinct was to look for Damien—for some kind of signal, some reassurance—but Damien was nowhere in sight.
The girl's hand remained outstretched, her smile unwavering.
Awkwardly, Franklin reached for her, his fingers brushing against hers. She grasped his hand with surprising confidence, and in the next moment, he was standing in the very center of the dance floor, all eyes now on him.
As they moved into the first steps of the dance, Franklin's mind spun—until he noticed something strange.
The navy-blue of her gown. The white of his shirt. The navy of his suit.
They matched.
Almost perfectly.
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The music swelled softly, guiding their steps. Franklin placed a polite hand at Emma's waist, careful and measured, while she beamed up at him as if the world had just handed her the sun.
"I can't believe this," she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "You're Franklin Eddie. You're actually here. And you're dancing with me on my sixteenth birthday."
Franklin gave a small, sheepish smile. He was used to fans squealing at events, chasing him outside sets, but here—inside the Carter mansion—everything felt heavier, more surreal. Still, the girl's joy was so pure, he couldn't help but soften.
"Well… happy birthday," he said gently. "Sixteen, right? That's a big one."
Her smile widened, and she nodded eagerly. "The best one. Because of this." She glanced down at their matching colors, then back at him. "We look like we planned it."
Franklin's throat tightened. Planned. Right. He thought of Damien's hand choosing the suit at the boutique, the deliberate navy and white.
Emma giggled, her excitement bubbling over. "You don't know how many times I watched Golden Sky. I saw it at least ten times. And your commercial for Aveline perfume? I memorized every line."
Franklin chuckled lightly, guiding her carefully through the dance. "You might know my own lines better than I do."
She laughed, the sound bright, unguarded, and for a moment Franklin relaxed.
But as they twirled, Franklin's eyes flicked beyond her shoulder—and caught sight of Damien.
He was standing at the edge of the hall, expression unreadable, arms folded across his chest. His gaze was locked not on Emma, but on him.
The song wound down, and Emma gave a graceful curtsy, cheeks flushed pink. "Thank you. This is the best birthday ever."
Franklin bowed his head slightly, smiling as warmly as he could. "Glad I could be part of it."
Applause rippled through the hall, The music faded, but Emma didn't release Franklin's hand. Instead, she hooked her arm through his and tugged him along with surprising strength.
"Come, I have to show you to my friends!" she squealed.
Franklin stumbled a little, nearly tripping over his polished shoes, as a small group of girls surrounded them. Their eyes widened in unison, dreamy stares fixed on him. He recognized the look immediately—it was the same expression he'd seen on countless fans outside studios and airports. Only this time, there was no velvet rope, no security to buffer him. Just him, caught in the spotlight of teenage awe.
Emma leaned closer, eyes sparkling. "You have to follow me on social media. Please. Please, Franklin!"
Franklin laughed softly, shaking his head in disbelief. "You really don't give me a choice, do you?" He pulled out his phone, entered her handle, and hit follow.
Emma let out a delighted squeak. Her friends nearly screamed.
Then her eyes darted across the hall, and her whole face lit up.
"Uncle Dami!"
Franklin followed her gaze. Damien stood off to the side, glass in hand, his presence commanding even in silence. Emma rushed to him, throwing her arms around his waist.
"I love you," she declared.
Damien's hard edges melted instantly. He bent, brushing his hand over her hair. "I love you more, sunshine. Happy sixteenth birthday."
She beamed, spinning on her heel. "Grandpa, look—it's Franklin!"
Franklin's head snapped up. At the center of the hall, a tall man with gray hair was watching him. Older, but the resemblance to Damien was unmistakable—the same sharp jaw, the same piercing gaze. Beside him stood another man, a little younger but carrying the same aura of power.
Emma tugged Franklin closer, ready to explain. "You might not know, but he's—"
The gray-haired man interrupted smoothly, stepping forward and offering his hand.
"Oh, I know him. Franklin Edward… Jones Carter."
Franklin stiffened at the surname but extended his hand, shaking firmly.
"It's good to finally meet the Franklin Eddie," the elder Carter said, his voice deep, steady. "The one my granddaughter has been raving about."
His eyes shifted then, sliding toward his son. Franklin followed the gaze. Damien stood apart, sipping his drink, expression unreadable.
"You look beautiful, my dear," the man beside the elder said warmly.
Emma's eyes widened as he produced a key, jingling it with a smile.
"Happy birthday," the man said.
"Thank you, Grandpa Jerome!" Emma gasped, throwing her arms around him. She clutched the key like treasure, grinning ear to ear.
And then, of course, she turned to Franklin. "Come on, you have to see!"
She dragged him outside before he could protest.
Franklin glanced back, searching instinctively for Damien—but he was still inside, glass in hand, face cold, not looking at anyone.
They stepped outside into the crisp evening air, her friends following curiously. Parked at the base of the grand steps, under a shower of golden lights, was a car unlike anything Franklin had ever seen.
A sweeping two-toned body, curved lines like liquid metal, a hand-crafted masterpiece gleaming navy and silver—sleek, impossible, unreal.
A Rolls-Royce Boat Tail.
Franklin froze. He'd seen it once in a magazine article, hailed as the most expensive car in the world. A price tag that made his luxury endorsements look like pocket change.
Emma squealed again, her friends nearly tripping over each other to take pictures. One already had her phone out, snapping shots for social media.
"Oh my God, I can't believe it!" one of them shouted.
"Let's go for a ride!" another screamed.
Franklin's brows knit. A car like this… for a sixteen-year-old? His stomach twisted. Isn't she too young to drive? But then again, he thought bitterly, the Carters weren't like ordinary people. The Carters weren't just rich, Franklin thought. They owned companies, they backed politicians, they shaped decisions that touched every corner of the country. They didn't just have power—they were power.Rules bent around them.
Emma pressed the fob, and the headlights blinked in answer. She jumped and clapped her hands, her laughter bright and unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls of the Carter estate.
Beside her, Franklin stood in stunned silence, watching a world where wealth had no ceiling—where a car worth more than entire studios was just a birthday gift.