The months slipped by quietly, the way they do when happiness stops demanding to be announced.
By late summer, the scandal that had once drowned their names in headlines had become little more than a whisper.
The tabloids had moved on, Clara Beaumont had vanished from the public eye, and Alexander had stopped checking the news altogether.
He had better things to look at now — like the way Amelia's belly curved softly under her dresses, or how she laughed every time he spoke to their unborn child as though the baby could actually answer.
Their days found rhythm.
He still worked, though less frantically than before.
She worked from home most of the time, her laptop balanced on her knees while he made tea or pretended to read.
In the evenings, they'd walk through the quiet streets near their new house — the one with the garden she'd chosen.
He'd rest his hand on her back as they went, and people sometimes turned to smile; they looked like a scene out of a storybook neither of them believed they'd ever live.
"Six months already," he murmured one night, watching her from the sofa as she folded tiny baby clothes.
"I know," she said softly. "It feels fast and slow at the same time."
He grinned. "Like waiting for Christmas when you're a child."
"Except with more back pain."
He laughed, crossing the room to kneel beside her, pressing a kiss to the bump that had become his favorite place on earth.
"Hi," he whispered against her skin. "It's your dad. You probably already know that because your mum keeps saying I talk too much."
Amelia rolled her eyes but smiled. "You do talk too much."
"I'm giving motivational speeches in advance," he said solemnly. "Someone in this family has to be ready to lead a company someday."
She laughed, her fingers sliding gently through his hair. "Let them be little first, please."
By early autumn, court proceedings began.
Alexander never let Amelia attend; he didn't want her anywhere near that noise.
All she knew were the brief, dry updates from his lawyers:
Clara's testimony collapsed under cross-examination.
Video surveillance recovered from the hotel confirmed her actions.
Charges upgraded to "defamation with aggravated intent."
When the verdict finally came, he didn't even smile — just exhaled, long and quiet, like a door closing at last.
Clara Beaumont was sentenced to probation, ordered to pay damages and issue a public apology.
He never showed her name to Amelia again.
That night, instead of talking about it, he came home early, made her favorite dinner and simply said, "It's over."
She reached for his hand across the table. "Good. Let's never talk about her again."
"Deal."
And they didn't.
Winter came, bringing the smell of cinnamon and wood smoke.
Their baby was due in early February.
The nursery was ready — soft greens and creams, a rocking chair by the window, and a mobile that cast slow, dancing shadows at night.
Sometimes she'd find him standing there, motionless, just watching the quiet.
He'd always pretend he wasn't.
"I'm checking structural integrity," he'd say, dead serious.
"You're staring at the crib," she'd tease.
"Same thing."
On New Year's Eve, they stayed home.
No champagne, no parties — just a fire, a blanket, and the snow outside falling like forgiveness.
At midnight, she leaned against him, half asleep, his hand resting protectively on her stomach.
"Do you ever think about how strange it is?" she murmured. "How everything we went through somehow led us here?"
He nodded. "Sometimes I think that's what love really is. Not the easy parts. The parts you survive together."
She smiled faintly. "Then we've earned ours."
He kissed her forehead. "More than anyone I know."
The new year arrived quietly, and with it came the steady calm before something neither of them could see coming.
Because peace, as they were about to learn, has its own way of warning you.
That week, Alexander was called to London for a last-minute business summit — nothing unusual.
Just two days, maybe three.
Amelia had insisted she'd be fine on her own.
The doctor said everything looked perfect.
The hospital bag was already packed by the door.
He'd kissed her goodbye that morning, his palm resting against her belly as if to promise he'd be right back.
"Don't lift anything heavy," he'd said.
"I'm literally carrying another human being inside me," she'd replied dryly.
He'd laughed. "Point taken. I'll call before dinner."
That evening, the wind picked up.
Snow began to fall again, heavier this time.
Amelia made tea, curled up with a book, and waited for his call.
Hours passed.
The fire burned low.
She checked her phone. No message.
Outside, the storm howled.
And far away, somewhere on a motorway between London and Manchester, headlights cut through the blinding white, moving too fast, too late.
The storm had turned the city into a blur of white.
Outside the windows, snow fell thick and relentless, swallowing every sound.
Amelia sat on the sofa, the glow of the lamp warm against the shadows, one hand resting absently over the gentle curve of her stomach.
The fire had gone out an hour ago.
The tea on the table had gone cold.
But she hadn't moved.
She kept glancing at her phone — first every ten minutes, then every five, now every few seconds.
No message.
No call.
Alexander was never late to call. Not once in all these months.
She tried to laugh it off. He's probably still in a meeting.
But the laughter died before it reached her lips.
Something deep inside her — that strange, wordless instinct that only comes when two lives are truly intertwined — whispered that something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
By midnight, she was pacing.
She'd called his assistant, Olivia. No answer.
She'd called his driver — straight to voicemail.
Her heart hammered in her chest.
She was about to call again when the sound came — sharp, unexpected — the doorbell.
For a heartbeat, she thought it's him.
He'd forgotten his keys. He'd smile, kiss her forehead, tell her she worried too much.
She ran to the door, breathless — but froze when she saw the faces on the other side.
A man and a woman.
Police.
"Mrs. Harrington?" the officer said gently.
The name hit her like cold water. "It's… Miss Clarke," she stammered automatically. "What— what's happened?"
The woman officer spoke softly. "Your partner, Mr. Alexander Harrington. There's been an accident."
Amelia's vision blurred. The room seemed to tilt.
"He's alive," the officer added quickly, stepping forward. "He's alive, but he's in critical care at Saint Mary's Hospital. We need someone to authorise the next of kin paperwork."
The words came in pieces — alive, critical, hospital — crashing into her like waves.
She didn't remember grabbing her coat, or shoes, or the keys.
Only the drive through the snow, the sirens in the distance, the blur of lights on wet glass.
Saint Mary's smelled of antiseptic and winter.
Fluorescent light. The sound of machines. The silence between them heavier than any noise.
A nurse guided her through a corridor that seemed endless.
She clutched her belly without realising it, whispering over and over, "Please be okay. Please."
When they reached the door, the nurse paused. "He's stable, but unconscious. They've induced a coma to manage swelling."
"Swelling?"
"Head trauma," the nurse said gently. "But he's strong. The doctors are optimistic."
Optimistic.
The word barely meant anything.
Amelia nodded, though she didn't hear half of what came next.
When the door opened, the world seemed to stop.
Alexander lay there, pale against the white sheets, his face still beneath a tangle of tubes and wires.
Machines hummed softly beside him, a steady rhythm of beeping that marked time in a way clocks no longer could.
For a long moment, she couldn't move.
Her legs simply refused.
Then, slowly, she crossed the room and sat on the edge of the chair beside his bed.
Her hands were shaking so badly she had to fold them together to keep from falling apart.
"Hey," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You said you'd call before dinner."
The monitor beeped softly, indifferent.
Her throat closed.
"You're not allowed to do this to me," she whispered, leaning forward, her fingers brushing the back of his hand. "You promised me peace. You promised we were done with storms."
Her tears fell silently onto his skin.
"I forgive you for everything," she said, voice breaking. "Just— just wake up. Please. You don't even have to talk. Just open your eyes."
Hours passed.
The snow outside kept falling.
Doctors came and went, checking charts, adjusting lines.
Someone offered her tea, she didn't taste it.
At some point, Olivia arrived, eyes red from crying.
She knelt beside Amelia and whispered, "The doctors say he's responding. It's early, but he's fighting."
Amelia nodded numbly, staring at the steady line of the heart monitor.
Fighting.
Of course he was.
He'd fought for her, for the truth, for their child.
He wasn't going to stop now.
As dawn began to lighten the sky outside, Amelia reached out and laid his hand gently against her belly.
"Do you feel that?" she whispered. "They kicked. I think they know you're here."
Her tears fell again, but this time they came with a small, trembling smile.
"I told them you talk too much. You'll probably start giving them advice before they can even walk."
The monitor kept its steady rhythm.
She took it as an answer.
By the time the nurses returned to check him again, she hadn't moved.
She sat there, his hand in hers, whispering softly — stories, promises, the sound of their baby's name they'd never picked yet.
Somewhere deep inside, she was sure he could hear her.
Because love, once it had fought through everything they had survived, didn't stop at silence.
It waited.
It held on.
And in the quiet hum of machines and winter light, Amelia whispered,
"We're still here. Both of us. So you have to come back."