It had been a long night.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the way Charles had looked at me—wounded, betrayed, furious. And I kept hearing his words on repeat, over and over again.
"You knew I couldn’t have it. Was this just to torture me?"
I didn’t answer at the time. I couldn’t. But now, with the silence echoing through the apartment and the sky slowly turning from grey to gold, I wished I had.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the hem of his hoodie that I had thrown on at some point during the night. It still smelled like him. That mix of soap, cologne, and something uniquely Charles. I hated how comforting it was. How much I missed him even though I was still angry at the way he had looked at me like I was the villain in his story.
I hadn’t meant to hurt him. God, that was never the intention. I thought… I thought we were in a place where I could share things with him. Where we could dream together. Build something. But maybe I’d miscalculated. Maybe I’d been naïve.
By morning, he still hadn’t come back. No calls. No messages. Nothing.
The silence was loud. Deafening.
I picked up my phone and stared at our last messages. Nothing useful. Nothing angry. Nothing at all. Just void.
Eventually, I called Kate.
She answered on the third ring, her voice still laced with sleep. “Amy?”
“I need to ask you something,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Have you heard from Charles?”
There was a pause, then the rustling of blankets. “No. I thought he was with you.”
“He left last night. After we fought.”
Another pause. Longer. Heavier. “What happened?”
I let out a tired sigh. “It’s complicated. I showed him something I’ve been working on—a setup. And I let him try it on the simulator and then in his own car. It… worked. A little too well.”
Kate didn’t say anything at first, and I could practically hear her putting the pieces together on the other end.
“You think that upset him?” she asked carefully.
“I think I made him feel like I gave him something he could never really have,” I admitted, voice cracking just slightly. “And I didn’t think it through. I wasn’t thinking about how that would feel for him.”
“Have you tried calling?”
“Of course I have.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “Goes straight to voicemail.”
“I’ll try Arthur,” she said after a moment. “Maybe he knows something.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
We hung up, and I just sat there, phone resting uselessly on my lap.
I hated the way the apartment felt without him. Like a space waiting to be filled. Like a breath half-held.
I replayed everything from the day before—his excitement, his shock, the disbelief in his voice when he felt what I’d built, and then… the anger. The bitterness. The feeling of betrayal.
He’d trusted me. And maybe, in his eyes, I’d broken that trust.
The worst part was, I got it. I understood exactly how much it hurt to touch something you’d wanted your entire life, only to be told you couldn’t keep it.
But I hadn’t told him he couldn’t. I just didn’t know how.
And now… I didn’t even know where he was.
-----
Two days.
Forty-eight hours of nothing.
No texts. No calls. No sign of life. Just a suffocating silence that wrapped around me like a weighted blanket I couldn’t pull off. The kind that made breathing feel like work. The kind that kept me from eating, sleeping, thinking straight.
Kate and Arthur hadn’t heard anything either. Neither had his mom. Everyone was starting to get nervous. But no one said the word.
Missing.
Because that wasn’t Charles. He didn’t just disappear. He didn’t ghost people. He got quiet when he was hurting, sure—but this was different. This felt like something had cracked.
I was sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes, trying to focus on anything other than the ache in my chest when my phone buzzed with a dozen notifications at once.
At first, I thought it was just group chats. Maybe Kate, finally saying she’d found him. But when I glanced at the screen, my heart stopped.
"Charles Leclerc seen partying in Ibiza—intimate photos spark controversy amid Ferrari silence."
I didn’t even hesitate. I clicked on it, already bracing for the worst, heart pounding like a drumline in my chest.
And there it was.
Dozens of photos. Charles on a yacht with a group of people I didn’t recognize. Some girls—models, probably—draped around him like they belonged there.
One photo in particular stole the air from my lungs.
A girl with long legs and barely-there clothes sat on his lap, laughing with her head thrown back. Charles was smirking—tipsy, careless, flushed from the sun and probably more than a few drinks. His hand was on her thigh.
He looked free. Like someone who didn’t give a damn.
I blinked hard. Once. Twice. Hoping the image would change. Hoping it was a mistake, a trick of the angle. But it wasn’t. And it wasn’t just one picture—there were five, six, seven versions of the same story.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.
There it was—plain as day.
His left hand.
No ring. Of course. Of course he’d taken it off.
I zoomed in just to be sure. My throat tightened. Empty. Completely bare.
I didn’t even think. I didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t do anything dramatic.
I just opened the family group chat—the one we had with Kate, Arthur, maman, and even Pascal who never said a word but always had the damn read receipts on. The same chat that had gone quiet for the past two days, full of "any news?" and "has anyone heard from him?" and "just let us know you're okay."
I uploaded the photo. The one with his stupid smile and the girl in his lap and the hand that used to hold mine now resting on someone else's thigh.
Amy: “You guys can stop worrying. He’s doing just fine.”
I didn’t wait for the typing bubbles. I didn’t wait for a response.
I put the phone face down on the kitchen counter and walked away, because if I didn’t, I would’ve thrown it straight through the nearest window.
I wasn’t angry.
No, angry would’ve been easier.
What I felt was something quieter. Something heavier.
Like disappointment soaked in grief.
-----
The silence in the apartment was deafening.
Every corner echoed with memories I didn’t want anymore. His laughter bouncing off the walls, the way he used to lean against the counter while I cooked, or how his cologne lingered on the pillows. It felt like a tomb now. Not a home.
And maybe that was the moment I realized—
He was out there, living. Laughing. Drinking. Posing for pictures like nothing had happened.
And me?
I was here… mourning.
No. No more of that.
I stood up, grabbed the suitcase we used for short getaways—how ironic—and started throwing things in. Clothes, toiletries, my laptop, notebooks. I didn’t even fold them. I just needed out.
The elevator ride down felt like shedding skin. By the time I stepped out into the cool Monaco morning, I felt lighter. Not healed, not even close. But lighter.
At the airport, I bought a one-way ticket to London.
----
London didn’t feel like home. Not yet.
But it felt… safe. Far enough. Quiet in all the right ways and loud in the best ones.
My first night back, I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t even unpack. I dropped my suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ceiling like it had answers for me.
Then the texts started.
“You’re in London?? Drinks tonight?”
“Girls night. 9pm. No excuses.”
“You owe us a night out.”
And maybe they were right.
Maybe I did owe myself something.
By ten o’clock, I was walking into a club in Shoreditch with three of my closest friends from university. The music pulsed like it was syncing with my heartbeat, the lights throwing shadows and glitter across the room. I wasn’t trying to be noticed—but I didn’t exactly mind when we were.
I laughed harder than I had in months. Drank a little too much. Danced like the version of me that existed before him.
Phones were out everywhere. I didn’t care. Let the world see me—dressed in black, heels high, lips painted red like I meant it.
Let them try and guess what I was thinking.
Let him.
-----
The sun was far too bright for the amount of tequila I had in my bloodstream.
I could still taste last night on my lips—lipstick and regret.
Somewhere between reaching for water and trying to remember if I’d said anything embarrassing, my phone lit up. Over and over again.
Texts. Mentions. Notifications I didn’t want to check.
Kate: “Please don’t do anything stupid when you see this.”
I sat up slowly, a knot already forming in my stomach. My fingers moved before I could second-guess myself, opening the message fully.
There it was.
A photo.
Charles.
Sitting across from her.
Anna.
They were at a restaurant, dim lighting, wine glasses between them, and he was laughing at something she said. He looked relaxed. Comfortable.
I stared at the screen, feeling something inside me fracture in a quiet, devastating way. It wasn’t rage. Not yet. It was… emptiness. A cold, hollow kind that spread through my chest and settled deep in my bones.
He hadn't messaged. Hadn't called. Hadn't said a single word since the day he stormed out.
And now this?
My thumb hovered over the screen, and before I could stop myself, I forwarded the photo to the family group chat.
Me: “You can stop worrying. I'm perfectly fine.”
I put the phone down and just sat there.
My heart wasn’t racing. It wasn’t even breaking anymore. It had just… stopped hoping.
He chose not to reach out. He chose to disappear. And then he chose her.
----
He had his dinner dates.
I had my future.
I got dressed — black jeans, boots, and one of my favorite leather jackets. No makeup. Hair still damp. But I looked like me again. Not the version of me that waited around. The one that built empires in silence.
I grabbed my phone and called the one person I’d been avoiding.
“Zak?”
He picked up on the second ring. “Amy? Everything okay?”
I smiled. Not because anything was okay. But because something was about to be.
“I’m in London. I want to come by the tech center. There’s something I want to test.”
He didn’t hesitate. “You’re always welcome here."
As I hung up, I grabbed my notebook — the one with sketches, numbers, and notes that had kept me up so many nights.
I zipped up my bag, slipped on my sunglasses, and looked at myself one last time in the mirror.
He moved on.
Now it was my turn.
------
I had just pulled the zipper of my coat up when the door clicked shut behind me. The London air was sharp against my cheeks, but I welcomed the sting — anything to distract from the war still raging in my chest.
My suitcase rolled behind me with a soft hum on the pavement, wheels slightly uneven on the old cobblestone as I turned the corner of the street.
And then I stopped. Dead in my tracks.
He was there.Charles.
Right there, at the other end of my street. Hands in the pockets of a jacket I hadn’t seen before, head slightly down — like he didn’t want to be recognized. But I would’ve known that silhouette anywhere.
He hadn’t seen me yet. His eyes were scanning the numbers on the buildings, counting his way up the road.
And suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
Of all the times, of all the streets in this goddamn city… why now?
His gaze finally lifted — and landed on me.
He froze. Like seeing a ghost.
And maybe I was one. I felt like a version of myself that had died in Monaco, buried somewhere between silence and betrayal.
“Amy.”
My name on his lips hit harder than it should’ve.
“Don’t.” I held up a hand, even though my voice cracked. “Don’t say anything. What are you even doing here?”
“I came to talk to you. To explain.”
I let out a dry laugh, loud in the still morning. “Little late for that, don’t you think? Where the hell have you been?”
“Looking for a way to fix it,” he said, stepping closer. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to face you after Ibiza. After the factory. I screwed everything up.”
“You didn’t just screw things up, Charles. You made me feel like I was nothing to you. And now you’re standing here, what—hoping I’ll just forget all of it because you showed up on my street?”
He flinched. Good.
“I didn’t come to ask for forgiveness,” he said, his voice lower now. “I came because not seeing you is worse than whatever hell I’ve put myself through these last few days. And I needed to know if it’s too late.”
I stared at him for what felt like forever.
“It is,” I whispered.
My voice was quiet, but steady. Deadly clear. "You made sure of that."
I watched the words hit him, saw the way his jaw tightened, how his fingers curled into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. He didn’t argue. He didn’t deny it. Because he couldn’t.
There was one last thing I needed to do.
I reached into the pocket of my coat, pulled out the small silver key I’d carried on my chain.
The one that used to mean home. Safety. Us.
I turned back to him and held it out.
"Here."
He looked down at my hand, confused for a second, then his eyes flicked to the key.
"Amy, don’t—"
"Kate will pick up the rest of my things," I said, my voice steady even though my chest was on fire. "I won’t be back there."
I dropped the key into his hand.
His fingers curled around it slowly. Like it hurt.
I took a breath. Then slid my fingers to the ring on my left hand.
The one I hadn’t stopped wearing. Not even when I saw the pictures. Not even when I got on the plane to London. Some stupid part of me had still held on.
But not anymore.
I pulled it off. Felt the ghost of its weight vanish from my skin.
I didn’t hesitate as I stepped forward and pressed it gently into his other hand.
"I meant it when I said yes," I told him, my voice breaking just slightly. "But I won’t keep holding onto something you were so ready to throw away."
He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak.
"Goodbye, Charles."
"Amy, wait."
His voice was rough, like gravel under pressure. I didn’t stop walking.
"Please—don’t go."
I paused, slowly turning around. My fingers still clenched around the key and the ring I’d just given back.
"Why not?" I asked. My voice came out quieter than I expected, but laced with exhaustion. "You disappeared, Charles. You went to Ibiza while I was here, losing sleep, losing my mind. You didn’t call. You didn’t text. Nothing."
He stepped forward, his expression full of regret.
"I know." His voice cracked. "I wasn’t thinking straight. I was angry, confused. I thought you showed me that setup just to mess with me."
That hurt more than I expected. I looked away.
"So you partied your way through the pain?"
He exhaled harshly. "Yeah. I did. I was pissed off and selfish. But then I got back and... the test results were waiting for me."
That made me blink. My chest tightened.
"What test results?"
"The paternity test." He met my eyes. "I’m not the father, Amy. I never was."
I stared at him, waiting for the part that made this better. Waiting for it to fix the ache in my chest. It didn’t come.
"I needed to look her in the eyes when I told her I knew. I needed to hear her admit it. I needed closure. Not... not her. Just the truth."
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes glassy. "I wanted to punish you for making me feel powerless. For showing me a future I couldn’t have. But the truth is..."
He shook his head, voice falling. "That future only made sense because you were in it."
The street was too quiet. The air too heavy.
Part of me wanted to run to him. The other part didn’t trust that he wouldn’t run again the moment things got hard.
"And now what, Charles?" I asked, voice sharp. "You say all this and expect it to fix what’s broken?"
He looked like he wanted to say yes. But instead, he said nothing.
I shook my head and laughed bitterly. "You know what’s the worst part? I imagined it. I imagined you—out there in Ibiza, doing God knows what with God knows who. Different girls every night, drinking like nothing ever happened. And I kept thinking… yeah, that’s probably exactly what he’s doing. Because that’s what you should be doing, right?"
His eyes widened. "Amy, no—"
"Don’t. Don’t lie to me." My voice cracked then, the truth cutting sharper than I expected. "I was here, grieving something that was apparently already dead. I kept wondering what I did wrong, how I could fix it. Meanwhile, you were busy forgetting me."
He stepped forward like he wanted to close the distance, to touch me. I stepped back.
"You left, Charles. You took the silence and turned it into punishment. You knew exactly how that would feel for me."
“Yes, I went to Ibiza. I drank too much. I wanted to shut it all off, and I thought maybe if I could just pretend for one night that none of this was happening, it would hurt less.”
I looked away, jaw clenched.
“But it didn’t. It was worse. all I could think about was how badly I’d fucked up. How the only person I wanted to talk to was the same person I’d pushed away. I didn’t do anything with anyone,” he said, the words spilling out in a rush, like they’d been sitting on his tongue for days. “I swear to you"
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, shaking my head slowly.
“I’m tired, Charles.”
His face fell instantly.
“I’m tired of this back and forth. Of us crashing into each other, over and over, hoping we’ll stick instead of shatter. We’re supposed to be growing together, but it feels like we’re stuck in the same damn loop.”
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything. Just stood there, listening.
“I needed you to be my partner,” I went on, voice trembling despite how hard I tried to keep it steady. “Someone I could trust. Someone who didn’t make everything feel like walking on glass."
He looked like he wanted to argue, to deny it—but he didn’t. Because he couldn’t.
“I lost trust in you, Charles,” I said, softer now, and it hurt to say it aloud. “And once that’s gone, what are we even holding on to?”
His eyes were shining now, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.
“Maybe we’re just not meant to do this. Maybe stopping now… before we destroy whatever good is left… is the mature thing to do.”
I watched the words land on him like punches, one after the other. He looked like he was unraveling right in front of me. But I didn’t have the strength to stitch him back together this time.
“I think it’s better if we end this now,” I whispered. “Before it hurts even more.”