Twisted Plot

CHAPTER 12

Harmony stood on the balcony of her apartment, her hands resting gently on her growing belly. The autumn air nipped at her skin, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts were elsewhere always with him.

She often imagined what she would say to Ramiel if she ever saw him again. Would he even remember her? Would he understand? Or would he see her pregnancy as a betrayal of their moment?

She ran her fingers along her stomach and whispered, “You are not a mistake. You are a miracle.”

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The night Harmony went into labor, rain fell in steady whispers outside the clinic. Sonia clutched her hand tightly as Harmony fought through waves of pain, sweat glistening on her brow, teeth gritted in silence. She had always been strong, but nothing had prepared her for the ache of bringing life into the world.

After hours of struggle, a sharp cry pierced the room.

Harmony collapsed back onto the bed, tears falling freely as they placed the tiny, wriggling form on her chest. A girl. Her daughter. Aria Rose.

She was perfect delicate fingers, a soft tuft of dark hair, and eyes that blinked open with surprising calm, as if she already knew her mother had braved storms for her.

The following weeks blurred into a beautiful chaos. Diaper changes, lullabies at midnight, and stolen moments with a brush and canvas when Aria napped. Painting became her sanctuary again a way to breathe, to grieve, to heal.

Aria was her muse. Harmony’s art flourished with a new tenderness, pieces filled with warmth and quiet strength. Her online presence grew, and galleries began requesting more of her work.

But still, a part of her longed for home.

So one bright morning, with Aria cooing softly in her arms, Harmony set up a Zoom call with her family. Her heart pounded as the camera lit up.

“Harmony! Finally!” her mother beamed—until she saw the bundled baby in her arms.

There was a stunned silence.

Her father’s voice was stern. “Harmony. What is this? Whose child?”

“This is Aria Rose,” Harmony said calmly, her voice firm but gentle. “She’s my daughter. And I’m raising her.”

Her mother’s hand flew to her mouth, tears welling up. Reilly sat back, clearly speechless. Her father looked like he had swallowed fire.

“I trusted you, Harmony,” he said, his voice low.

“I didn’t betray your trust,” she replied, swallowing hard. “I made a choice. It may not have been perfect, but it was mine. And I don’t regret it.”

There was another heavy silence.

And then the baby giggled,a high, delighted sound that shattered the tension like glass.

Her mother let out a soft sob. “Oh, she looks just like you when you were little,” she whispered.

Reilly leaned in. “Wait… is she... smiling at me?”

Her father cleared his throat. “What’s her name again?”

“Aria Rose.”

He sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Aria Rose. Hmph. A strong name.”

By the end of the call, they were all laughing—arguing over who she looked like more, who would hold her first, who would spoil her the most. Her father grumbled, “Bring her home. We’ll sort this out like a family.”

Harmony wept quietly after the call. Not from shame—but from relief. She was still loved.

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As weeks passed, she decided it was time to return to Africa. Her visa was nearing expiration, but more than that, her heart longed for home for the soil that raised her, for the warmth of her roots. And part of her hoped, silently, foolishly, that fate might let her cross paths with Ramiel again.

Meanwhile, Ramiel's world spiraled. He had become a ghost of himself. His health was slipping frequent fatigue, nausea, and persistent pain in his lower back. He ignored it at first, burying himself in work.

As his health faltered, so did his patience. His mother, Lady Miriam Grayson, tried to distract him with blind dates—daughters of diplomats, heiresses, and one forgettable actress. But none of them stirred even a flicker of interest in him. He smiled politely, played his role, but each dinner left him feeling more hollow than the last.

He’d fallen for a ghost—a woman who existed only in memory, in sketches of a night under Paris lights. He didn’t know her name. Just her warmth. Her eyes. Her silence.

And he couldn't let her go.

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