Manchester's rain had a strange sound that night — soft, steady, almost kind.
Inside her apartment, though, there was only silence.
A silence that pressed on Amelia's chest like a weight she couldn't lift.
She sat on the sofa, motionless, her phone abandoned on the coffee table, its screen face down and cracked from when she'd dropped it earlier.
It had been buzzing on and off for hours.
Calls. Messages.
She hadn't looked at a single one.
The only light in the room came from the street outside — golden threads slipping through half-closed blinds, stretching across her bare hands like something fragile and unreal.
Her fingers trembled. She couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or heartbreak.
A week ago, she had stood in the same bathroom, clutching a small white stick that had changed everything.
Two pink lines.
Her heart had stopped, then exploded all at once.
She hadn't told him immediately.
She'd wanted to be sure.
The following days had been a blur of emotion — part joy, part fear.
She'd woken early that morning and, unable to resist, taken another test.
The same result. Clearer this time.
Positive.
She'd laughed and cried at once, whispering, "He's going to be so happy."
She'd spent the whole morning planning how to tell him — maybe over dinner, maybe with that little silver box from the florist on Deansgate. Something beautiful, symbolic.
It was supposed to be their moment.
And then, just hours later, everything had shattered.
The photo had come without warning — no message, no explanation.
Just an image.
Alexander.
A bed.
A hotel room she didn't recognise.
And the timestamp in the corner: today.
Her stomach had dropped as though the floor had vanished beneath her.
She'd stared at the screen until the edges blurred, until her heart felt like it was splitting open.
And then she'd run.
She didn't even remember the walk home.
By the time she reached the apartment, her tears had dried to salt on her cheeks.
She hadn't screamed. She hadn't thrown anything.
She'd just… stopped.
Hours passed.
The rain kept falling.
Her phone kept vibrating.
She couldn't bring herself to touch it.
Each ring was a ghost of what she'd thought they were.
Because it didn't make sense — he didn't make sense.
He wasn't that man.
He couldn't be.
But the image was there.
Cold. Clear. Unforgiving.
And so she sat in the dark, her mind an endless loop of disbelief and pain.
By morning, she hadn't slept.
The kettle was boiling when the news began to play on the small kitchen TV.
She wasn't listening — not really — until she heard his name.
"Breaking news: Alexander Harrington has filed a criminal complaint against former model Clara Beaumont for defamation and alleged unlawful sedation. Sources confirm police have recovered forensic evidence from a Manchester hotel."
The mug slipped from her hand, shattering against the tiles.
Her breath caught.
She stood there, frozen, eyes wide.
"Legal representatives for Mr. Harrington have stated that their client was the victim of a premeditated attempt to damage his reputation, with chemical sedatives found in his bloodstream."
The room swayed.
Sedatives.
The word echoed through her like thunder.
Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, pieces of porcelain scattered around her.
Could that be true?
Her hands shook as she picked up her phone.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Seven messages.
Her heart pounded as she opened them one by one.
Amelia, please. It's not what it looks like. I was drugged. I'd never hurt you.
The police and lawyers are involved. Please, love — come home.
You don't have to forgive me now. Just tell me where you are. I need you safe.
The last one broke her.
Her throat tightened.
Tears blurred her vision until she could barely see the words.
She pressed the phone to her chest and sobbed — hard, helpless sobs that shook her whole body.
She wanted to believe him.
God, she wanted to believe him.
And deep down, she knew.
Every instinct inside her screamed that it was true.
That Clara had done this.
That Alexander had been caught in the middle of something monstrous.
But the pain of the image — the betrayal she'd felt when she saw it — still clung to her like a bruise.
By midday, the story was everywhere.
Clara Beaumont photographed outside a solicitor's office, her expression pale and defiant.
Newscasters speculating about legal consequences.
Reporters quoting anonymous hotel staff who'd seen her there hours before Alexander's meeting.
It was all falling apart for Clara — but that didn't make Amelia's heart any lighter.
She could see the truth now.
But knowing and feeling weren't the same thing.
She'd loved him so fiercely that it scared her — and that kind of love didn't fade in one night.
It just hurt differently.
As the afternoon light dimmed, she found herself standing by the window, wrapped in one of his old sweaters — the one he'd left there weeks ago.
It still smelled faintly like him.
She closed her eyes and let that comfort her for a moment.
Her hand rested on her stomach.
The quiet between heartbeats was full of thoughts she couldn't say out loud.
He doesn't even know yet.
He deserves to know.
She turned, eyes falling on the little silver box she'd bought for the announcement — the one that was supposed to make him smile.
It sat unopened on the counter, waiting.
She walked over, picked it up, and held it tight in both hands.
That evening, the television in the background murmured another update.
"Lawyers representing Mr. Harrington have confirmed that criminal proceedings against Clara Beaumont have begun. Early toxicology results verify the presence of lorazepam in his system, confirming sedation."
The air left Amelia's lungs.
Her hands trembled.
The world around her blurred into white noise.
It was true.
All of it.
He had been telling the truth all along.
She pressed a hand over her mouth, a small, broken sound escaping her throat.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the empty room. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry."
Night fell again.
The rain had stopped.
The city lights flickered below her window, calm and indifferent.
Amelia packed a small bag — not much, just a change of clothes and the silver box.
She didn't know exactly what she was going to say when she saw him, or if she even had the strength to say it.
But she knew one thing: she couldn't stay away any longer.
She needed to see his face, to hear his voice, to tell him the truth — not just about her doubt, but about their truth.
About the tiny heartbeat that had already bound them together in a way no lie could ever undo.
She took one last look at the apartment, turned off the light, and stepped into the night.
Somewhere across the city, Alexander was still awake — pacing, waiting, calling every number he could find.
He didn't know it yet, but she was already on her way back to him.
And when she arrived, the storm they'd survived would finally start to break — not into silence, but into something new.
Something worth fighting for