The sky over Manchester was the colour of steel — cold, heavy, waiting.
Inside the Harrington offices, the world looked perfectly normal: suits, coffee, the soft hum of printers. But beneath it all, something enormous was about to crack.
Amelia's morning had begun with quiet excitement.
She'd taken the pregnancy test just after dawn, staring at the tiny pink lines through trembling fingers.
It felt impossible, fragile, miraculous.
For several minutes she sat on the bathroom floor, crying softly — not from fear, but from the sudden, overwhelming certainty that her life had just changed forever.
By mid-morning, she had a plan.
She'd leave work early, pick up a small silver box from the florist on Deansgate — a symbolic gift, nothing elaborate, just something beautiful — and surprise Alexander at home that evening.
It was going to be their moment.
She smiled all through the day, her secret lighting her from within.
Across the city, Alexander was in a meeting at The Whitmore Hotel — a working lunch with two investors.
He'd arrived early, professional as always, calm despite the last week's circus.
Clara's accusations had done their rounds through the tabloids, yes, but they hadn't touched the markets.
He'd already filed a defamation suit through his solicitors.
It was official, clean, surgical.
She'd underestimated him.
You don't dismantle empires by gossip.
The meeting began; the first glass of wine was poured.
He didn't finish his. The taste felt off.
The last thing he remembered clearly was the room tilting slightly as one of the investors laughed about the stock index.
Then —
Darkness.
He woke to silence.
A thin strip of daylight leaked through half-closed curtains.
The sheets beneath him smelled unfamiliar.
His head pounded, his mouth dry. He blinked twice, three times, trying to understand where he was.
A hotel room.
The same hotel where he'd had lunch.
He pushed himself upright — dizzy, heart racing — and that's when he saw her.
Clara Beaumont.
Sitting by the window, scrolling through her phone as though waiting for applause.
"What the hell is this?" His voice cracked.
She didn't look up immediately. "Oh, good. Sleeping Beauty's awake."
He stared, disoriented. "What did you do?"
"Relax," she said smoothly, finally meeting his eyes. "You were out cold. I had help getting you up here. It's amazing what a little sedative can do if you know who to ask."
His blood ran cold. "You drugged me?"
She smiled faintly. "Such an ugly word. I prefer strategic intervention."
He was already on his feet, furious, searching for his jacket.
"What do you want, Clara? Money? Attention? What is this?"
She stood, calm, predatory. "What I want, Alexander, is balance. You destroyed my image — my reputation. I told the world the truth, and now they think I'm crazy. So I decided to give them a better story."
He froze. "What story?"
"This one," she said, lifting her phone and turning the screen toward him.
It was a photograph — a single, damning image of him unconscious in that bed, the light cruel, the implication unmistakable.
"You're insane," he whispered.
"Oh, I'm strategic," she corrected softly. "And your little girlfriend is going to see this before you do anything about it."
He lunged forward, snatching the phone, but it was too late.
The message had already been sent.
Clara smiled, stepping back. "Don't worry. I made sure it looked authentic. The angle, the timing, everything. She'll never believe otherwise."
He stared at her, horror dawning. "What did you do?"
"What I had to," she said coldly. "Welcome back to the spotlight, darling."
At that exact moment, a notification lit up on Amelia's phone as she left the office.
A message from an unknown number.
She opened it absently, expecting a work update —
And the world stopped.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The photo burned in her hands, sharp and undeniable.
Alexander, asleep in a bed she didn't recognise.
The date-stamp in the corner said today.
Her vision blurred. The city around her seemed to dissolve — traffic, footsteps, the sound of rain on glass.
Her mind tried to explain it, rationalise it, find a loophole — but her heart simply shattered.
She walked the whole way to her apartment without remembering how she got there.
When she closed the door behind her, the silence screamed.
The little silver box on the counter — the one she'd planned to give him — sat unopened.
She sank to the floor beside it, shaking, the phone still clutched in her hand.
No tears came at first.
Just the slow, unbearable weight of disbelief.
Across the city, Alexander was already gone from the hotel.
He'd torn out of the room, ignoring Clara's laughter echoing behind him, fury boiling through his veins.
He called Amelia. Once. Twice. Then again.
No answer.
He called her office. She'd left early.
His stomach dropped.
He called again. Voicemail.
By the time he reached their apartment, it was empty.
The lights off, her coat gone, the faint scent of her perfume still lingering in the hallway.
"Amelia?" he called, his voice breaking. "Amelia, please. It's not what it looks like—"
No answer.
He tried again. Nothing.
He stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, his phone buzzing endlessly in his hand with new messages from reporters.
He didn't care.
The only person he needed to reach wasn't answering.
At the same time, in a quiet corner of the city, Clara Beaumont leaned back in the back seat of a waiting car, watching her own reflection in the window.
The rain outside blurred the lights into gold and silver streaks.
She smiled faintly and whispered, "Checkmate."
…
The apartment was silent.
Too silent.
Alexander stood in the middle of the living room, phone in hand, staring at the empty space where she should have been.
The air still carried her perfume — jasmine and something warm — but it was fading fast, like the echo of a life he'd just lost.
He dialed again.
"Come on, Amelia… please."
Voicemail.
Her voice — soft, calm, recorded months ago — broke him more than the silence ever could.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, heart pounding. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe.
Then the rage came.
Clean. Focused. Sharp.
He grabbed his phone again, this time scrolling to a different contact.
"Olivia," he said the moment she answered, his voice low but steady, "get the legal team and come to my apartment now. I don't care what time it is."
"Sir—"
"Now, Olivia. Bring everyone we need — legal, private security, medical. I want tests run tonight. Every detail documented."
She didn't argue.
She'd never heard that tone before — a calm that meant war.
He went to the bathroom, splashing water on his face, trying to steady himself.
He caught his reflection in the mirror — his eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched — and barely recognised the man staring back.
In the sink, there were faint traces of the sedative's aftermath: the dryness in his throat, the fog at the edge of his memory.
Someone had planned this. Down to the last drop.
The door buzzer rang twenty minutes later.
Olivia entered first, pale and composed, followed by George Shaw, the firm's head of legal affairs, and two other senior partners — names that could silence half of London's courts.
"Sir, what happened?" Olivia asked.
"I was drugged," Alexander said flatly. "At the Whitmore Hotel. During a business meeting. I woke up in a room with Clara Beaumont. Someone took photographs. They've already been sent to Amelia."
George swore softly under his breath. "Jesus Christ. Do you have any memory gap?"
"Yes. About three hours."
"Symptoms?"
"Dizziness. Disorientation. Metallic taste in my mouth. The usual signs of benzodiazepine sedation."
George nodded grimly. "We'll need a toxicology screen immediately."
"Already arranged," Olivia said. "A doctor from Saint Mary's is on the way."
Alexander's voice hardened. "I want a forensic sweep of that hotel room within the hour. I want to know who booked it, who had access, and which cameras are missing footage. Call our security consultants — all of them. No NDAs. Full disclosure."
"Understood," said George. "And about Miss Beaumont?"
Alexander's eyes turned to steel. "File a criminal complaint. Drug administration, assault, defamation, malicious intent. I want every possible charge on record before sunrise."
As the team began making calls, Olivia hovered near the window, watching him.
"Sir… Amelia?"
He stopped moving.
"She saw the photo," he said quietly. "I can't reach her."
Olivia hesitated. "She probably just needs time. Once this is cleared—"
"There's no time," he snapped, then immediately softened. "I'm sorry. She's pregnant."
Olivia froze. "What?"
"She doesn't know I know," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "But I saw the test in the bathroom last week. She must've wanted to tell me."
The room fell silent.
Even George looked up from his laptop.
Alexander pressed a hand to his eyes, his voice raw. "And now she thinks—"
He couldn't finish.
Olivia stepped forward gently. "We'll find her, sir. I'll make some calls. Quietly."
He nodded, fighting to keep control. "She won't answer. But I have to try."
Half an hour later, the private physician arrived.
He took blood samples, recorded symptoms, and confirmed the early results: traces of lorazepam — a strong sedative — still active in his system.
George exhaled sharply. "That's enough to open a criminal case. Clara just moved from scandal to prosecution."
Alexander barely reacted. "Good. Make it public."
"Public?" Olivia asked, startled. "You want the press involved?"
"Yes," he said, eyes cold. "She used the media to destroy someone I love. Now they'll print the truth. Every word."
He picked up his phone again, hands shaking slightly, and called Amelia one more time.
No answer.
So he texted.
Amelia, please. It's not what it looks like. I was drugged. I swear to you I'd never hurt you. The police and the lawyers are already involved. Please, love — come home. I need to see you. I need you safe.
He sent another.
You don't have to forgive me now. Just tell me where you are. Please.
Still nothing.
By two in the morning, the team had confirmed surveillance footage from the hotel — showing Clara arriving alone an hour before he'd been taken upstairs, speaking briefly to a waiter, slipping something into a glass.
The waiter's shift log matched his lunch reservation.
George looked at him across the table. "This is premeditated. It's criminal."
Alexander's hands clenched into fists. "Then make her pay for it."
When the room finally emptied, and only Olivia remained, she spoke quietly.
"Sir… what will you do when you find her?"
He looked toward the city, his reflection fractured against the window.
"I'll tell her everything," he said softly. "And if she still walks away…"
He swallowed hard.
"…then at least she'll know the truth."
Outside, the storm that had started days ago still raged in the press, but now it was shifting.
Already, whispers were spreading — that Clara Beaumont had gone too far, that Harrington & Co. was preparing a massive legal retaliation.
But none of that mattered to Alexander.
Because somewhere in that same city, the woman carrying his child sat alone, terrified, believing a lie he hadn't created but couldn't erase.
And until he found her, nothing else would exist.