Chapter 81
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THE house held a golden hush, the kind that fell between lunch and the deepening afternoon, when light pooled in the corners and even the dust motes seemed to breathe slower. Amelia sat heavy on the couch, one arm draped over her bump, the other curled around a cushion like a talisman. The weights of the lives inside her was steady and real beneath her palm; it grounded her in a way nothing else had lately.
Across from her, Clara lounged on the other sofa, one ankle tucked under her, eyes sympathetic and soft. The two friends turned sisters had fallen into a rhythm of awkward ease, words flowing, stopping, then starting again as if testing the temperature of each other’s feelings. Outside, somewhere down the hall, the faint clatter of the house reminded them life had to keep going: Hazel’s laughter from an earlier call, the distant hum of the washing machine, the soft thump of her mom moving about, setting things in order. Amelia appreciated how the ordinary things kept her tethered.
“So, Amelia,” Clara said, voice light at first. “How have you been? I can see how heavy you have become.” She smiled, hand lifted lightly as if to measure the air. “You carrying two now, can you imagine p>
Amelia let out a breath that was almost a laugh and almost a sob.
“Well, as you can see, we are pushing.” She glanced down at her belly and then looked up, her eyes softening. “All thanks to Mom, really. She has been… she has been trying. Taking care of Hazel and I. Making sure I don’t have to worry about everything.” The corners of her mouth lifted. “She is cooking like a woman possessed p>
They both laughed, thin, grateful laughter that sounded fragile and brave in the same beat. Then Amelia’s expression shifted; curiosity, then a quick, private unease passed over her face.
“That reminds me… how is Leonard? The last time we spoke you mentioned something about his health p>
At the name, something in the room changed. Clara’s smile flattened, the warmth in her eyes dimming like a lamp being turned down.
Her face tightened, the memory was new and jagged. She swallowed, and then, because silence felt worse than the truth, she began to speak. She told the story in careful, halting sentences the doctor’s office, the tests, the words that had landed like a punch.
“He… he had been coughing for weeks, you know,” Clara said, voice low. “They took blood, urine. We waited forever. Then the doctor, she looked at us, and she said it flatly: HIV. I could see Leonard’s face go white. I could see the regret, the ‘had I known!’ written boldly on him.” Her hands trembled, and she pressed them together as if to hold herself whole. “But we are separating. The divorce papers are being drawn up p>
The words landed heavy between them. Amelia’s hand tightened on her bump; her knuckles white against the soft skin. For a moment she didn’t move. The room felt too small for the surge of things that wanted to tear out of her
chest.
“Thank God,” she heard herself whisper, and the words shocked even her. She tried to steady them, found a steady, brittle clarity. “Thank God you stopped sleeping with him when you did. Thank God.” Her voice grew steadier.
Clara sighed.
“Honestly, I can’t imagine-” She stopped, shook her head as if dislodging a bad dream. “Right now all I want is to focus on staying alive. For me and for the kids. That is it. That is all p>
Amelia reached across and placed her hand on Clara’s arm, an anchor in the storm.
“I know,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry, Clara. Ahl HIV-“Her throat hitched. She looked up, eyes raw. “I wasn’t
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expecting it to turn out this way though. I swear I wasn’t p>
Clara just nodded slowly and sighed again.
Amelia’s laugh was short and incredulous.
“Men will mess things up, then look at you as if you caused it,” she said bitterly. “They scatter their sins and expect us to gather them into neat little piles.” Her gaze found Clara and lingered, studying the familiar face as if trying to see through to the girl she once knew. “It is like they hand us wreckage and ask us to build something beautiful with it p>
Clara scoffed, but the sound was more of a sob disguised.
“I can’t believe it either,” she murmured. “HIV… I’m still reeling p>
“Yeah,” Amelia breathed, the word barely more than a ghost. “Jeez. HIV. God.” She let the reality sit between them, naming it as if naming could keep it docile.
They sat in silence a while, the kind that didn’t need to be filled. Clara studied Amelia: the way her shoulders hunched, the careful tenderness with which she cradled the life growing within. Then, practical and stubborn as she had always been, Clara tilted her head.
“Have you told Adrian?” she asked, her voice small and cautious.
Amelia’s face folded into its private map of grief.
“Tell him what?” she asked, though she already knew Clara’s meaning.
“Sis, listen-” Clara tried to step in, searching for the right words.
But Amelia cut her off with a tired, almost tender impatience.
“Look, he has been calling. He has been… trying to reach me. But I need my peace of mind, Clara. I need to breathe. I need to… be. I can’t keep explaining myself. I’m fine now. Better. That is what I need to hold onto p>
Clara’s lip trembled.
“But these are his babies too,” she said quietly. “He deserves to know. How long do you intend to keep hiding it from him p>
Amelia smiled then, not warm, but steady. It was the smile of someone who had learned how to guard her heart.
“He can get to know,” she said. “But it is not my concern. Not anymore. I value my peace of mind more than his permission to exist happily. I’m not ready-” She closed her eyes. “This isn’t bitterness. It isn’t about revenge. It is about surviving. About the children. Life is small now, Clara. My days are about rhythms and safety, not fault- finding p>
Clara watched her, the friend who had once wanted nothing more than to topple Amelia’s comforts. Now she saw only the quiet ferocity of a woman protecting a future.
“I understand,” she whispered. “Whatever you need, I will be here p>
Amelia’s hand moved across her belly as if to reassure the small lives within.
“That is all I ask,” she said. “Just let me be. Let me keep what is left whole,” she concluded.
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Cedella
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.