Chapter 184 053
AMELIA had not planned to check Charles’s phone.
It was one of those quiet afternoons when the house seemed to breathe slowly, sunlight filtering through the curtains, the ticking wall clock loud in its steadiness. Charles had stepped into the kitchen to get a cup of milk, leaving his phone on the arm of the couch where he had been sitting with her moments earlier. Amelia sat there, flipping through a magazine, pretending not to notice it.
But cheating had a way of planting seeds that refused to stay buried. Right?
She glanced at the phone once. Then again.
Her heart thudded, not with suspicion exactly, but with fear. Fear born from experience. From wounds that never truly healed. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she reached for it. The screen lit up easily; she knew his passcode because he had given it to her without hesitation weeks ago. And she tried it now, it worked so easy, like a piece of cake. Which only meant one thing. He hadn't changed it after telling it to her. He was truthful.
There was no panic in her chest as she scrolled. Just a quiet, methodical need to know.
His messages were open. Conversations with colleagues, his close friends, his sister, a group chat with distant friends planning a charity event. Then she saw her own name in another chat, his conversation with Julian.
‘She hates lies,’ Charles had written. ‘And I don’t blame her. I won’t be the reason she ever doubts herself again, you know.’
Amelia swallowed.
She went further, to emails, call logs, social media. She even checked for hidden apps, she saw none. There were no muted or archived chats. No carefully curated lies. Even his deleted messages folder was empty. Painfully empty.
She put the phone down slowly, her throat tightening. The shame came swiftly, shame at doubting him, at letting her past reach into her present and grip it by the throat. Charles wasn’t hiding anything. He wasn’t performing transparency; he was living it.
A few minutes later he hadn't return from the kitchen, was the cup of milk that heavy to carry?
That was when the raised voices floated in from the kitchen.
At first, Amelia thought she imagined it. Then Hazel’s sharp tone cut through the calm like a blade.
“Why are you always in my business?”
Charles’s voice followed, firm but controlled.
“Hazel, watch your tone. I only asked a simple question.”
Amelia frowned and stood, moving toward the kitchen as the argument escalated.
“You are not my father,” Hazel snapped. “You don’t get to question me like that.”
There was a pause, a heavy and dangerous one.
“I may not be your biological father,” Charles said slowly, “but I am an adult in this house, and I deserve respect.”
Hazel scoffed.
“Respect is earned.”
“That attitude right there,” Charles replied, frustration bleeding through, “is exactly what I’m trying to address.”
Amelia stepped into the kitchen then, the sight stopping her cold.
Hazel stood by the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes blazing with defiance. Charles stood a few feet away, tall and steady, hands clenched at his sides, the patience he prided himself on thinning visibly.
“What is going on here?” Amelia demanded.
Hazel turned immediately.
“He is policing me. Again.”
Charles exhaled sharply.
“I asked where you were coming from and why you ignored my questions.”
“And I said I don’t owe you an explanation!” Hazel fired back.
Amelia’s eyes hardened.
“Hazel.”
The girl flinched but did not retreat.
“What?”
“That is not how you speak to him,” Amelia said firmly. “Or to any adult.”
Hazel laughed bitterly.
“So now we are pretending?”
“Enough,” Amelia snapped. “I will not have you disrespect my fiancé in this house.”
Hazel’s eyes flashed.
“Your fiancé. Exactly. Not my father.”
Charles opened his mouth, but Amelia lifted a hand, stopping him. She stepped closer to her daughter, lowering her voice but sharpening it with authority.
“You may be angry. You may be confused. But you will not take it out on him. Charles has done nothing but try to be there for you.”
Hazel shook her head, her lips trembling now.
“You don’t see it.”
“See what?” Amelia asked.
“That he is replacing him,” Hazel whispered fiercely. “That you are moving on like none of it mattered.”
Amelia’s chest ached.
“Moving on does not mean erasing the past.”
“Well, it feels like it,” Hazel said, grabbing her bag. “I can’t breathe in this house.”
She turned and stormed out, her footsteps quick and furious, the front door slamming moments later.
Silence fell like dust.
Charles ran a hand down his face, exhaustion etched into every line.
“I didn’t mean for it to escalate.”
Amelia turned to him, guilt flooding her eyes.
“I know.”
He looked at her, voice quiet now.
“She hates me.”
“She doesn’t,” Amelia said, stepping closer. “She is hurting. And she doesn’t know where to put it.”
Charles nodded slowly.
“I try to be patient. But sometimes… it feels like no matter what I do, I’m the villain.”
Amelia reached for his hands, lacing her fingers through his.
“You are not. And today—” she hesitated, then sighed. “Today reminded me of something important.”
He searched her face.
“What?”
“That I trust you,” she said softly. “And that matters. Especially to someone like me.”
His expression gentled. He pulled her into a quiet embrace, resting his chin against her hair.
“We will get through this,” he murmured. “All of it.”
Amelia closed her eyes, holding him tighter. As she held him, her face was a mask of softness, but behind her closed eyelids, her mind was a cold, humming engine.
‘We will get through this,’ he had said. He sounded so convincing. Even his phone had sounded convincing.
But that was the problem. The phone was too clean. No deleted folder with a stray ghost of a file? No archived chats from his ‘business deals’? No mess at all? Charles was a man who couldn't even keep the living room tidy, yet his digital life was as sterile as an operating room.
She remembered the girl at the porch. She remembered the ‘Marcus’ lie.
And now she had seen the messages to Julian. They were perfect. Too perfect. They were written exactly the way a man would write if he knew his fiancée might one day go snooping. He wasn't living transparency; he was performing it for an audience of one.
She felt the steady beat of his heart against her chest and felt a flicker of genuine pity for him. He thought he was winning because she had said the word ‘Trust.’ He didn't realize that for a woman like her, "I trust you" was often the last thing she said to an enemy before she lowered the axe.
She wasn't praying for Hazel to see what she saw. She was waiting for the moment Charles felt safe enough to stop performing. Because that was when he would get sloppy. And that was when she would take back everything he had stolen, starting with her pride.