The invitation came as a quiet message on a Wednesday morning:
Alexander: Dinner at my grandmother's this Friday? She insists.
She also promised not to terrify you. I only half believe her.
Amelia smiled at her screen, her heart skipping just a little.
She typed back:
Then I'll brave it.
Friday evening arrived with soft golden light spilling through the streets of Wilmslow.
The drive to Eleanor Harrington's estate was silent but comfortable — Alexander's hand resting on hers the whole way.
He was in a dark grey suit, effortlessly elegant, while she wore a simple ivory dress with a pale shawl that softened her shoulders.
When they reached the gates, Amelia's breath caught. The house wasn't ostentatious; it was stately, timeless — ivy climbing its pale stone, a garden of white roses glowing faintly in the dusk.
"Are you nervous?" he asked quietly, parking the car.
"A little," she admitted. "It's not every day I meet the person who raised you."
He smiled. "You'll love her. She already loves you."
Eleanor Harrington met them at the door herself.
"Finally," she said, smiling warmly at her grandson before turning to Amelia. "So this is the young woman who's been keeping him from his spreadsheets."
"Guilty," Amelia said softly, smiling despite her nerves.
"Good," Eleanor replied, taking her hand. "He needed someone to make him late for once in his life."
They laughed, and the tension broke.
Dinner was served in a candlelit dining room overlooking the garden.
Everything about it felt intimate — the clink of silverware, the scent of roses drifting in from the open window, the easy flow of conversation.
Eleanor spoke like someone who had spent her life watching the world quietly — observant, wise, gently teasing.
Amelia quickly found herself laughing, forgetting that she was sitting across from one of England's most formidable matriarchs.
At one point, Eleanor leaned back and said, "Alexander, dear, I haven't seen you this quiet since you were ten and broke my favourite vase."
He smiled. "That's because you're doing all the talking."
She raised an eyebrow. "And yet, the way you look at her says more than words ever could."
Amelia blushed, dropping her gaze to her plate.
"Grandmother," he murmured, though his smile betrayed his fondness.
"Oh, please. If you think you can hide this, you're far less clever than I thought," she said, eyes twinkling.
After dinner, Eleanor led Amelia out to the terrace while Alexander took a call inside.
The night air was cool and still, scented with rain and jasmine.
For a while, they stood in comfortable silence.
Then Eleanor spoke quietly, "He's serious about you."
Amelia glanced at her. "He said you already knew about me."
"I did. I could tell just by how he spoke your name. Alexander has spent most of his life learning to hold everything together. You're the first person he's allowed to hold him."
Amelia looked down, her fingers brushing the edge of her shawl. "It still feels strange, sometimes. Being with him. The difference between our worlds."
Eleanor smiled faintly. "Love isn't about matching worlds, dear. It's about creating a new one in between."
Amelia met her eyes then, touched by the warmth in them.
"I worry people will talk. That it'll make his life harder."
"Oh, they will," Eleanor said, unbothered. "That's what people do when they can't understand something pure."
Amelia swallowed. "He said he wants to make it public. To stop hiding us."
"And how do you feel about that?"
"I don't know," Amelia admitted. "Part of me wants to protect what we have. The other part…"
"Wants to be seen," Eleanor finished gently. "Because love deserves light, Amelia. Even when the world isn't kind to it."
Later, when they left the terrace, Alexander was waiting in the hallway, jacket in hand. He smiled at the sight of them.
"I should've known you'd get along."
Eleanor smiled. "You chose well, my dear. Don't ruin it."
"Not planning to," he said, his tone soft but sure.
The drive back to the city was quiet. The kind of silence that didn't need filling.
When they reached a long stretch of road lined with trees, he finally spoke.
"I meant what I told her. I don't want to hide us anymore."
Amelia turned her head toward him. "Alexander, people will talk."
"They already do," he said simply. "The difference is, this time, I want them to be right."
She smiled sadly. "You're not the one they'll tear apart."
He looked at her then, eyes steady on the road but voice soft. "Let them try. I've built empires under pressure, Amelia. But this—" he glanced at her, "—this is the only thing that's ever felt worth protecting."
Her breath caught. "You sound certain."
"I am."
Back at his apartment, they sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
The skyline shimmered, reflected in the glass like a dream.
He poured them both a glass of wine, his expression thoughtful. "You've got two weeks off soon, don't you?"
She nodded. "In three weeks."
He smiled slightly. "Good. Because I'm thinking of disappearing with you."
Her eyes widened. "Disappearing?"
"A proper break. Somewhere warm, quiet. Italy, maybe. Or the south of France. No calls, no cameras. Just us."
She laughed softly. "You're serious."
"Completely."
"Alexander… I don't know if it's a good idea. What if people find out?"
He leaned closer, eyes gentle but firm. "Then they'll find out. I'm not living my life like I'm apologising for being happy."
She hesitated. "It's a lot to take in."
He reached for her hand. "Then take it one heartbeat at a time. But don't doubt what we have, Amelia. I've waited my whole life for something that feels like this."
Her voice trembled. "And if it doesn't last?"
He smiled softly. "Then at least we lived it fully."
She looked at him for a long moment, her chest rising and falling slowly. Then she whispered, "You really think love can last forever?"
He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingers. "If it starts with truth, yes."
Outside, the city lights blurred into gold and silver.
Inside, two people sat side by side, a world apart from the noise — choosing love, even when it wasn't easy.
And as she rested her head against his shoulder, Amelia thought that maybe, just maybe, Eleanor was right:
Some love stories weren't meant to be hidden.