“A Knock Echoed in Two Lifetimes”

Chapter 1: A Knock in the Rain
(Aurelia’s POV)

The building's glass doors sighed closed behind me as I stepped out into the cool dusk, London’s moody sky already threatening rain. The air smelt like ambition and exhaust fumes. Another long day of interning, that barely scratched the surface of what I wanted to create.

I had come a long way from Montreal—from crisp winters, poutine-filled study nights, and my father’s towering hotels gleaming across Canadian skylines. Oxford had been a dream I chased and caught, but London? London was the real test. My internship here was everything I had worked for—and more exhausting than anyone warned.

I adjusted my coat collar with one hand and unlocked my car with the other. Just as I slid into the driver’s seat, something tugged at the edges of my awareness. A sleek black car sat parked across the street. Windows tinted. Still. Almost too still.

But this was London. People had drivers. Or worse—paparazzi.

I’m reading too much into it, I told myself.

I drove off, weaving through the wet city streets, letting the hum of traffic drown out my unease. I stopped by a local boutique, browsed mindlessly, picked up some macarons at my favorite patisserie, and finally headed home. But the car never lost me. Every turn I made, every red light I stopped at, it was there—patient and unhurried.

By the time I parked outside my townhouse, the drizzle had begun. London rain—soft, cold, creeping like an old friend who had bad news to deliver.

I took the groceries inside, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed onto the couch. The silence wrapped around me.

Or so I thought.

Knock. Knock.

My heart did something funny.

Two firm knocks echoed through the quiet hallway. I froze. For one breath. Then two.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.

I opened the door slowly, cautiously. And there he was.

Tall. Rain-slicked. Dressed like he belonged to the night itself—dark coat, steady eyes, and that car still waiting behind him, headlights low and humming. I scanned his face quickly. Nothing familiar. But the moment stretched like an unanswered question.

I didn’t speak at first. I rarely do.

“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced,” he said, voice smooth but holding something urgent beneath. “I’m... Arthur. Arthur Miller. Ria’s brother.”

Ria. My godmother.

I blinked, still unsure whether to invite him in or call the police.

“My mother’s been trying to reach me,” I said, filling in my own blanks. “And when she couldn’t... they sent you.”

He nodded once. “She was worried. They all were. So was Ria. They asked me to check on you—quietly.”

Something inside me crumpled, just a little. I hadn’t meant to worry them. Work had been exhausting. It's kind of exhausting that you don’t have the energy to explain.

But now there was this man. This stranger. Sent by my people. Standing in the rain.

And suddenly, the quiet I had wrapped around myself didn’t feel like comfort anymore—it felt like armor.
Heavy. Cold.

“Alright,” I said, stepping aside. “You might as well come in.”

He crossed the threshold like he belonged to some untold past.


And that’s where it begins—
A tale of two people who didn’t know they were destined.

But with a knock.


Chapter 2 – The Godmother Files
(Aurelia’s POV)

“Tea or coffee?” I asked, waving a spoon like a wand.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, amused. “Whichever you’re better at.”

“Ha. Rude. So… tea, because I once exploded a coffee machine.” I flashed a guilty smile and spun toward the kitchen.

From the open kitchen, I could see him sitting comfortably on the sofa, phone in hand, no doubt texting Ria to assure her I wasn’t missing, kidnapped, or buried.

As I dropped a tea bag into a mug, the sound of boiling water and faint jazz from the speakers filled the silence. It felt… too quiet. He wasn’t the chatty type, and I? I was every teacher’s parent-teacher conference nightmare.

But his silence reminded me of someone else.

Ria.

Ria Morgan. My godmother. Calm, composed, the kind of woman who could deliver soul-shattering advice and a sarcastic jab in the same breath without moving a single hair out of place.

I grew up believing she was some kind of British fairy godmother in heels.

Then there’s her husband. Adrian Morgan. Hotel mogul, silent sentinel, and… probably the only man I’ve seen win an argument with Mum without raising his voice. I don’t know how they work, but they do. They were childhood friends.

And Mum—Milly Wyndham—she’s the exact opposite.

Sunshine in human form. Or chaos, depending on the day. But she loves fiercely. Wholeheartedly. She’s the reason I grew up laughing too loud, loving too much, and dreaming far too big.

Dad? Liam Wyndham. Cool-headed, warm-hearted. Canadian billionaire hotelier with the patience of a monk. Fell for my mum's glitter bombs and stayed, because apparently love really does make millionaires do silly things.

Triplet logic is simple, by the way: I, Aurelia, am the eldest. So clearly the wisest. Cassian is the overthinker, and Zinnia is the wild card. Together, we’re either a sitcom or a psychological study. But I’d die for those two. No questions asked. Except maybe who took my hoodie again.


Back to reality.

Arthur looked… painfully composed.

That kind of guy who’s born with permanent posture and crisp energy. The silent, broody type every high school movie shoves into a leather jacket, except he’d swap that for a charcoal blazer.
His dark brown hair was slightly messy—purposefully so, I guessed, because no one gets tousled hair that perfect by accident. It curled just enough at the nape of his neck to look poetic, like some tragic book character with a secret. Ugh.

Six foot one, give or take. Lean frame, but he moved like someone who’d win in a fight without even trying. And those sharp cheekbones? He could cut a diamond. Or a conversation. Or both, depending on the mood.

I poured the tea into their respective cups, letting the steam fog up my glasses for a second.

Why was I noticing all this again? Oh right—because I have a thing for reading people like open books and annotating them in my head like some chaotic librarian.

Plus, when a man is that quiet, your brain starts working overtime to fill in the blanks.

I passed Arthur the tea. He gave a quiet “thanks” and sipped it like it might burn.

“So,” I said, perching on the arm of the couch, “my godmother sent you here to check if I’ve been kidnapped or murdered?”

His lips twitched, almost-smile. “She said unreachable. You added the drama.”

“Well, I was working,” I huffed. “Interning. Building my career. Feeding my ambition. You know… grown-up things.”

“You ignored thirteen missed calls.” he said.

“Eleven were from Mum. One from Ria. And one from Cassian, who only calls when he thinks he’s dying or needs help with laundry.”

Silence.

I blinked. “Okay, so maybe I ghosted them a little.”

Arthur just nodded slowly, sipping tea, and I suddenly felt like the scolded child. He wasn’t even talking. How?

And then, softly, the rain started again.


Chapter 3: Echoes from the Fire
(Aurelia’s POV)

The tea had gone lukewarm, but neither of us seemed to mind.

Arthur sat across from me, his frame too large for my little cozy living room, but somehow he fit in—like a piece of a puzzle I hadn’t realized was missing.
The rain outside murmured against the glass, a soft rhythm to our cautious silence.

“I hope you like Earl Grey,” I offered, more to fill the space than anything else.

“It’s good,” he said, eyes steady on the steam curling from his cup.

I leaned back into the chair, letting my shoulders relax. It felt strange. Comfortable. Unfamiliar.

Then, like a feather dropped from nowhere, a memory floated into my mind—something from years ago. I must have been twelve, maybe younger. Ria had been sitting beside me on the bed, brushing my hair after a nightmare. She used to do that—brush the fear away. That night, she told me a story. About her mother. About her twin brothers. A fire. And a man who had run inside to save them.

'Adrian', she’d said, with that soft reverence only she could have.

Without thinking, I said aloud, “You know… my godmother once told me that you were in a fire. You and your twin. That Adrian saved you.”

I hadn’t realized I’d spoken until I saw Arthur’s expression shift.

His grip on the cup tightened. His jaw tensed, eyes darkening with something unspoken—like smoke curling from a long-dead ember.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, heat rushing to my face. “That was forward. I didn’t mean to—if you’re not comfortable—”

He didn’t speak at first.

Just the sound of rain. The clink of ceramic as he set the cup down gently.

Then, quietly, he said, “Adrian did save us. But he never forgave himself for not being faster.”

The silence after that was different. Heavier.

I felt it in my chest—this ache I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just pity. It was... understanding. The kind that came from carrying your own quiet grief.

“I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like,” I said, my voice softer now. “But... I’m glad you made it.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

And for a second, I saw a flicker of something—recognition, maybe. Like he saw me not as a stranger, but as someone who could listen. Someone safe.

“There’s a darker side to my childhood,” he murmured, his gaze falling to the floor. “But... that’s not a story for today.”

A soft chime from my phone broke the moment. I picked it up—
Weather Alert: 'Severe storm warning. Worsening winds. Travel not advised.'

I glanced at the rain-speckled window. It was falling harder now, wind rattling the panes.

“You probably shouldn’t drive now,” I said, biting my lip before the next words came out. “There’s a storm warning. Just… stay until it calms down a bit?”

He met my eyes again. This time, his reply came without hesitation.

“Alright. Just for a while.”

But something in his voice—quiet, uncertain—made me wonder if he wasn’t just talking about the rain.


Chapter 4: Beneath the Silence
(Aurelia’s POV)

The storm had crept in like a secret—slow, quiet, and suddenly everywhere.

Thunder rolled gently in the distance. The lights flickered once, but held strong. I glanced at Arthur, who was still seated on the couch, his tea long gone, his shoulders less tense now than before.

The soft glow of the lamp bathed the room in warmth, and the silence between us had grown… companionable.
We ended up settling in front of the television, scrolling half-heartedly through shows until we landed on a British crime drama that was all the rage lately. Some series with a twist every ten minutes. We weren't watching as much as just sharing space.

And then the screen flashed flames.

A fire scene. Screams. Smoke.

Arthur flinched.

He looked away sharply, his jaw tightening, eyes flickering with something that wasn’t there a second ago. Something buried.

Something that hurt.

Without saying a word, I picked up the remote and turned it off.

The silence that followed was louder than the show.

I got up quietly and poured him a glass of water. He took it, his fingers brushing mine—cool, trembling slightly. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

I sat beside him, not too close, not too far. And waited.

“I don’t know,” he began vaguely, voice barely above a breath. “I don’t know what exactly happened... because I was just a baby. Austin and I—we were two. And this is what my mother told me.”

I watched him closely now, and without realizing, I was leaning closer. His eyes—dark hazel, rimmed with long lashes—were like the quiet woods after rain. Deep, unreadable, but strangely comforting. There was a sadness in them, buried beneath years of trying to forget.

He paused, eyes on the carpet now.

“We were at an official family get-together. My father’s company had arranged it. All of us were there... my parents, Austin, me, and my older sister, Ria—your godmother.” He let out a breath. “And then she disappeared. Got kidnapped. And someone took us... as hostages.”

I felt my breath catch. He didn’t look at me. His voice didn’t shake, but the silence between his words screamed.

He shook his head, like trying to clear fog.

“There’s nothing much to tell, really,” he said with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“We were kept locked in this small house for Eight years. Same routine. Every single day. My mother... She tried her best. She taught us what she could. Basics. A bit of reading, a bit of counting. Whatever she knew.”

A long pause. Then, quieter, “When I was around four or five, one day my father just... disappeared. I barely remember it. Just my mother, sobbing. She kept saying, ‘He went to God.’ I think that’s what she told us... the way a mother tries to protect her children.”

I nodded slowly, letting him speak, not daring to interrupt. Something in my chest ached—some invisible weight that pressed against my ribs for a boy who grew up in the shadows.

“Then one day, the house caught fire. I don’t even know how. Smoke. Screams. My mother tried to get us out. But Austin—my brother—he...”

His voice cracked for the first time. “He didn’t make it.”

He looked up then. And God, those eyes.

“Adrian found us. Somehow, he found us. He saved my mother. He saved me. Not in time for Austin… but he came for us.”

I reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“They helped me. Ria. Adrian. They got me through therapy. Education. The nightmares. They gave me a second life.”
The storm outside raged now, wind howling softly against the windows, as if nature itself had paused to listen.

“And now,” he said, softly, “I’m here. Running a consultancy. Advising billion-dollar firms. Wearing suits and shaking hands and pretending I wasn’t broken once.”

“You’re not broken,” I whispered.

He turned to me then, really looked. And for the first time, I saw him—not the tall, intimidating man from earlier, but a boy who had survived something unimaginable. A boy who had learned to live again.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

I squeezed his hand gently. “It’s... I’m glad you trusted me.”

He gave a quiet nod, then added, voice rougher now, “There’s still a lot I don’t know. Ria... she never really talked about what happened to her. But I know she suffered. She was just thirteen when it happened. And by the time we were reunited as a family, she was already married... to Adrian Morgan. The hotel mogul.”

“She kept her story close. Maybe one day she’ll tell me. It’s hers to share,” he said, almost protectively.

The wind howled outside, shaking the window ever so slightly.

Our eyes met again.
And this time, I didn’t look away.

After a great sigh, he said softly, almost to himself,

“But one thing is clear—there was a huge plot and play behind all this chaos. All for greed.”

And for the first time that night, I knew—I wasn’t just letting him in. He was letting me in too.


Chapter 5 – “The Way You Make Me Feel”
(Aurelia’s POV)

The beep of my phone made me glance away from the mirror, where I had been obsessively adjusting the ruffles of my cream blouse for the past ten minutes.

“I’m outside.” – Arthur.
Two words. Two butterflies.
One full-blown grin.

I twirled once in front of the mirror, inspecting my pastel green skirt, the way it cinched at my waist and flowed just above the knees. My hair was tied up in a loose bun with a few tendrils framing my face—playfully messy, deliberately soft. A swipe of lip gloss and I was out the door.

As my hand touched the doorknob, my mind wandered—back to that night.
The storm. The story. The silence that lingered even after Arthur had left, somewhere near midnight. He had offered his number—told me to call if I ever needed anything.

Well… I didn’t need anything. But I wanted to talk to him. So, I texted.

Once. Twice. Eight times.

He replied once.

For all eight messages.

In one neat, precise paragraph.

I had laughed out loud that day, reading his message like it was some rare collectible.

Every day since then, I made it my morning ritual to text him. About my oat milk disaster. My grumpy internship mentor. Every little nonsense in my head.

He always replied—slowly, but thoughtfully.

We had spoken over the phone a few times too. Well—I had spoken. He mostly listened. Sometimes I even caught myself rambling just to keep his quiet presence on the other end of the line. But it was never awkward.

And then, last night, his message came:
“Coffee tomorrow? My treat.”
I screamed into my pillow.


Arthur was already leaning against his black sedan when I peeked through the window. He wasn’t looking at the door—he was looking at his phone, like always, like the world didn’t faze him much.
But when I stepped outside, his head lifted, and for a second, just a second, I swear I saw his lips twitch in approval. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

“You’re late,” he said, deadpan, sliding his phone into his pocket.

I grinned. “You’re early.”

“Or maybe I just didn’t want to miss the show,” he said, letting his eyes sweep down and back up—slowly. Not in a creepy way. In a very Arthur way. Casual. Blunt. Lethal.

My cheeks flushed. “Show?”

“You. That skirt. It’s... dangerous.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. “Arthur! Was that your version of flirting?”

He opened the car door for me, not even blinking. “Not really. More of a public safety warning.”

I got in, hiding a smile. The ride was short, and—as expected—I did all the talking. He didn’t mind. He never did. He just listened, like the things I said had weight. Even when they were about the time I tripped over a yoga mat or burned popcorn so badly the microwave screamed.

“I talk too much, don’t I?” I asked, stealing a glance at him.

His fingers tapped the steering wheel softly. “You fill the silence I forgot I hated.”

And there it was again—that casual drop of something heavy that made my heart hitch.

The café was a dream. Small, warm lights, the smell of cinnamon in the air, and a jazz playlist that made everything feel soft and golden.

He pulled the chair out for me.

Gentleman. Obviously.

“So,” I teased, setting my clutch aside, “are you always this charming, or is today special?”

He stirred his coffee like it owed him answers. “I don’t do this often.”

“Coffee?”

“People.”

I paused.

“Well,” I said, trying to match his calm, “I’m honored.”

He looked at me, straight and steady. “You should be. You talk ten times more than I do, and I still wanted to see you again.”

I raised a brow. “Compliment or roast?”

He took a sip. “Both. I multitask.”

After coffee, he didn’t drive. He just started walking, hands in his pockets, glancing back once like he trusted I’d follow.
I did.

We walked in silence for a while—well, his silence. I kept rambling about the café playlist and my love-hate relationship with decaf.

And then it happened.
His fingers brushed mine. Once. Like a flicker. Accidental.

Maybe.

The second time—it lingered. Just enough to set my skin on fire. Just enough to make me forget every word in the English language.

Then came the first drop. Then two. Then a full pour.

“Oh, come on!” I laughed, looking up at the sudden downpour. “London, you traitor!”

Arthur didn’t say anything. Just shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over my head. Smooth. Unbothered.

“You’ll get drenched!” I squealed, pulling it closer.

He smirked, completely soaked. “Good thing I’m waterproof.”

We ducked under a half-broken bus stop canopy just down the street. The rain poured in silver sheets around us, thunder humming like a distant applause.

I was laughing, breathless. My hair was sticking to my cheeks and Arthur’s jacket clung to my shoulders like a second skin.
When I turned toward him, he was already looking at me.

And not just looking.

His eyes—stormy, steady—searched mine like they held something he lost a long time ago. A single strand of my wet hair had fallen over my cheek, and he reached out to tuck it back, fingers brushing my skin so delicately I barely felt it.

But I did.
I felt everything.

He didn’t speak. Just kept staring into my eyes, and then—his gaze flicked. To my lips. Then back up. Then again. The movement of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed—it should’ve been such a simple thing.

But it wasn’t.
It was mesmerizing.

And in that moment, I knew.
I knew he liked me. Maybe more than just liked. Maybe he didn’t have the words yet—but I could feel them in the silence, in the way he was standing close but not touching, in the way he was trying to hold back.

Then he didn’t.
He closed the gap between us.

And under the soft flicker of lightning and the distant crack of thunder, Arthur kissed me.

His lips were soft. Featherlight. Like he was holding something fragile and breakable and precious.

Me.

I trembled. Every inch of me, alive and burning. And ever so slowly, I started to kiss him back.

We weren’t official. There was no declaration. No labels. No promises.

But I didn’t need any of that.

Because in that kiss, Arthur was already writing his name into the walls of my heart.


Chapter 6 – “The End Before It Begins”
(Aurelia’s POV)
Bridal Room – 24 Months Later

The soft rustle of satin, the shimmer of morning light filtering through French windows, and the scent of lilies—all wrapped around me like a prelude to forever.

I sat in front of the vanity mirror, my reflection a blend of nerves, love, and endless memories. My gown—an ethereal ivory piece embroidered with pearls and delicate floral lace—hugged my figure in all the right places, flowing like a dream from my waist to the floor, with a cathedral-length veil pinned just right.

Zinnia, with her practiced fingers, curled strands of my hair, occasionally teasing me about crying before the ceremony even began.

Cassian, my ever-annoying and lovable brother, barged in once to make a joke and got kicked out by Milly Wyndham—who looked every inch the proud mother, dabbing her eyes with tissue and adjusting my jewelry like it was her own wedding.

Ria Morgans, graceful and poised as ever, gently swiped a final coat of gloss on my lips. Next to her stood little Sweetie Morgans—now grown enough to hold a makeup brush steady and dab blush onto my cheeks. They both giggled like best friends, not like mother and daughter.

And in the middle of all the laughter and commotion—myself, drifting.

Flashback Reflection: The Past 24 Months.

Two years. 730 days of loving Arthur.
Of watching him lean against doors with that quiet strength, folding laundry while I did karaoke in the living room, waiting patiently while I threw mini tantrums over late deliveries or broken nail polish.

He didn’t change.
He was still the man who texted one-word replies to my fifty-line rants.

Still the man who listened more than he spoke—but when he did speak, I’d fall in love with the silence between his words too.

And me? Well, I was still in chaos with a crown. The sun with a storm tucked under my tongue. But I've grown. A little.

Because love with Arthur wasn’t just about passion—it was about peace.

We weren’t teenagers chasing fireworks. I was 24. I knew what I wanted. And my entire family knew it too—because no one else could handle me like Arthur did.

Much like how Dad Liam Wyndham worshipped my mum Milly, and how Ria and Adrian Morgan moved like poetry written in glances and gestures... I knew her love story was one worth telling.

Because this... was just the beginning.


The soft music swelled as the grand oak doors opened, revealing me.
Aurelia Wyndham.

Every head turned, every camera paused, and I felt like time itself held its breath.

I stepped forward slowly, arm looped through my father’s, my gown trailing like liquid stardust. My eyes, though focused forward, found him.

Arthur stood beneath the archway dressed in a classic black tuxedo, no smile on his face—only a stillness that betrayed how deeply moved he was. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes never leaving mine.

Zinnia and Sweetie Morgan walked just ahead, bridesmaid bouquets clutched to their chests, beaming with pride and excitement.
On the other side, the twins—Justin and Jayden Morgan—stood beside Arthur, mirroring each other in tailored suits and shared grins as his best men.

Our eyes met again.
He blinked like he was memorizing me, as if he couldn’t believe I was walking toward him—like all the waiting, all the slow-burning love, was finally settling into this one moment.

As I passed the seated guests, I caught glimpses of everyone—my mother, Milly, already weeping into my brother’s shoulder, Cassian pretending he wasn’t tearing up, Adrian and Ria holding hands, Adrian nodding solemnly at Arthur like he knew exactly how much this girl—me—was about to change his life forever.

Arthur’s hand reaches for mine as I near the altar.
Just a brush of fingertips.

I blush like the first time he touched me, two years ago under the storm’s hush, my breath hitching as our fingers met.

He mouths, “You’re late.”

I mouth, “Worth the wait.”

Laughter dances in my chest and happiness shimmers in my soul—because this wasn’t just a wedding. This was two lifetimes finally catching up to one another.

The vows are spoken, our eyes never breaking.

The world fades to a blur—just our hands, our hearts, and every word soaked in meaning.

And when the officiant finally says:
“You may now kiss the bride.”

Arthur steps forward gently. Reverently.
Like I am still made of thunder and porcelain.

Our lips meet—not in a rush, not in fire, but in a softness that echoes across years and storms and scars.

A kiss that feels like home.
A kiss that seals a promise once whispered on a rainy day.
A kiss that belongs in a story titled…

“A Knock Echoed in Two Lifetimes.”


Epilogue: A Stranger Comes to Your Door. What Happens Next?
(Aurelia’s POV)

Five Years Later

The soft sunlight of a lazy Saturday filtered through sheer curtains, painting golden strokes across the living room floor. The Miller household pulsed with gentle chaos—blocks scattered, books left open, and laughter ringing off the walls like music.

I sat cross-legged on the plush rug, my laptop balanced on one knee, my youngest—a curly-haired, wide-eyed one-year-old girl—nestled in my lap, trying to grab the moving cursor on the screen.

My four-year-old son was building a spaceship with magnetic tiles beside me, wearing a serious expression that reminded me so much of Arthur. Meanwhile, the three-year-old—a girl with my spark and her father’s deep eyes—was scribbling on the whiteboard, narrating stories about princesses, dragons, and pizza parties in the clouds.

Amidst this whirlwind of love, Arthur walked in with two mugs of coffee on a tray—one hand in his pocket, the other offering me caffeine with a smirk.

“You’re working again? I married a romantic and got a CEO,” he teased, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

I rolled my eyes but smiled, accepting the mug. “Don’t complain. I’m the reason your second branch is winning awards.”

“And you’re the reason I forgot where I put my shoes last night,” he countered, grinning.

The kids giggled.

In seconds, the five of us were wrapped in a warm, messy family hug—full of squeals, tickles, and that quiet, sacred joy only love can craft.

Arthur pulled all of us close—his arms wide enough to hold the world he’d built with me.

And as I leaned into Arthur, my thoughts drifted like a melody—

How it all started.
A simple knock.
A stranger at the door.
A pause in my timeline that rewrote everything.

I looked around—at my family, at my dreams, at a life blooming in the most unexpected way.

What happened next?
This.
This love. This life. This forever.

A Knock Echoed in Two Lifetimes.