The last morning in Sardinia arrived wrapped in sunlight and the sound of the sea.
The air smelled of salt and ripe figs; a breeze drifted through the open balcony doors.
Amelia stood by the window, watching the waves roll against the shore one last time, the white curtains brushing against her skin.
Alexander came up behind her, arms circling her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder.
"Stay a little longer," he murmured.
She smiled. "You said that yesterday."
"And the day before."
She turned in his arms, eyes meeting his. "If you keep saying it, I might start believing we never have to go back."
He brushed a kiss against her forehead. "One day, we won't."
The flight back to England was quiet. She fell asleep against his shoulder, her hair soft against his shirt, while he stared out the window — not at the clouds, but at everything waiting below them.
He wasn't afraid. Not anymore.
He had made his decision on that island: this was his life now, and she was part of it.
When they landed in Manchester, the sky was grey and heavy, the air cooler than they remembered.
Outside, flashes from a camera caught Alexander's attention.
A journalist — or maybe just someone who recognised him — took a quick photo before they slipped into the car.
He didn't flinch.
He just took Amelia's hand.
"Let them talk," he said quietly. "They always do."
Monday morning.
The first day back.
Amelia stood in front of the mirror, smoothing her skirt, telling herself she was ready. But her hands trembled slightly.
The memories of Sardinia — sun, laughter, the warmth of his hand in hers — felt almost too bright compared to the cold light of the office she was about to walk into.
Still, she went.
When she entered the building, the usual rhythm of chatter and heels on marble greeted her. But the air felt different — more alert, almost expectant.
Eyes lifted subtly as she passed.
"Morning, Amelia," said Claire from HR, smiling politely.
But the smile lingered a little too long.
Amelia forced one back. "Morning."
Upstairs, Alexander's day was already full — meetings, calls, briefings. But his mind wandered.
When his assistant walked in with a new schedule, he noticed her pause.
"Sir," she said carefully, "there's been… some talk."
He looked up, unbothered. "About what?"
She hesitated. "You and Ms. Clarke. People saw photos of you together in Sardinia. They're circulating online."
He leaned back, calm, expression unreadable.
"Let them circulate," he said. "We went on holiday. That's not a crime."
"Yes, but—"
"I don't care, Olivia." His tone was quiet, steady. "The only people whose opinions matter already know the truth."
By lunchtime, the whispers had begun to hum through the building like static.
Some were admiring.
Some were envious.
A few, quietly judgmental.
In the staff lounge, Amelia heard her name once, then twice.
"…well, it explains the promotion rumours…"
"…can't say I'd blame him, though. She's beautiful."
Her stomach twisted, but she stayed silent.
When Margaret found her later, she closed the office door and crossed her arms.
"Tell me I'm not hearing this from other people before I hear it from you."
Amelia froze. "Margaret—"
"Oh, relax," Margaret said, sitting down. "I'm not here to scold you. I just wish you'd told me before the internet did."
Amelia exhaled slowly, sinking into the chair opposite her. "We didn't plan for it to happen this way."
Margaret smiled, almost fondly. "No one ever does. But he's serious about you, isn't he?"
Amelia nodded quietly. "He doesn't want to hide anymore."
Margaret sighed. "Then you might as well hold your head high. There's nothing shameful about being loved by someone who respects you. Just… be ready. People will talk."
"I know," Amelia said softly. "They already are."
That evening, when the office finally emptied, she took the elevator up to the top floor.
He was there, standing by the window, city lights reflecting off the glass.
"How was your day?" he asked without turning.
"Interesting," she said wryly. "Apparently, we're trending."
He smiled faintly. "I heard."
She walked up beside him, the city stretching out below. "I hate that people think they get to decide what's appropriate for us."
He turned to her, taking her hands in his. "Let them talk. They're not the ones living it."
She looked up at him. "You really don't care?"
"I care about you. Everything else is noise."
She smiled softly. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," he admitted. "But nothing worth it ever is."
He hesitated then, brushing his thumb along her hand.
"I've been thinking," he said. "You've got those two weeks of holiday coming up. What if we go somewhere again? Somewhere just ours. Not to hide — to live."
She smiled faintly. "You're insatiable."
"I'm in love," he corrected gently.
Her heart caught. "You keep saying things like that."
"I'll keep meaning them."
She laughed quietly. "Where would we go?"
He thought for a moment. "Anywhere you want. Italy again? Greece? Or maybe somewhere quiet — a villa in Tuscany, no cameras, no interruptions. Just us."
She hesitated, then whispered, "You're really not afraid anymore, are you?"
He shook his head. "No. And you shouldn't be either."
When she walked toward the elevator later, he caught her hand.
"Amelia," he said softly.
She turned, smiling. "Yes?"
"Come to my place tonight."
She blinked, surprised. "Now?"
"Dinner's already waiting," he said, eyes warm. "I don't want the day to end the way it began — with you worrying about what other people think."
She hesitated for only a moment before nodding.
"Okay," she said softly. "But you're cooking next time."
He grinned. "Deal."
As they drove through the city later, lights sliding across the windshield, Amelia glanced at him — calm, self-assured, completely hers — and thought, so this is what it feels like to stop running from happiness.
For the first time, the world could say what it wanted.
They had already chosen their truth
By the time they reached his apartment, the world outside had gone quiet.
The building, tall and glass-walled, looked like a constellation suspended above the streets.
Amelia followed him inside, shaking the rain from her hair.
The apartment was warm, softly lit, music playing low from the speakers — something old and timeless, a jazz record humming in the background.
"Did you plan this?" she asked, slipping off her coat.
"Define 'plan,'" he said with a grin. "I had food delivered, candles lit, and I may or may not have threatened the concierge with my life if he forgot the wine."
She laughed, shaking her head. "That counts as planning."
"Then yes," he said, pouring her a glass.
Dinner was easy — pasta, salad, wine that tasted of summer.
They talked about everything and nothing: the chaos of the office, Margaret's dry humour, how she'd once scolded him for answering emails during a staff Christmas party.
By dessert, she was relaxed, barefoot on the rug, her laughter mixing with the sound of rain against the windows.
"Do you ever stop working?" she teased.
"Only when someone gives me a good reason."
"And what counts as a good reason?"
He leaned closer, smiling. "You."
She rolled her eyes, trying not to smile too much. "You're terrible."
"I'm sincere."
When they finished eating, she helped him clear the table. The small domestic rhythm of it — rinsing dishes, brushing against each other in the kitchen — felt strangely intimate, almost like a glimpse into a future neither dared to imagine too clearly.
At one point, while drying her hands, she turned to him and said quietly, "Alexander, there's something I've been thinking about."
He looked up instantly, sensing her tone shift. "Go on."
She hesitated, fiddling with the edge of the towel. "I was wondering if… maybe it's time you met my parents."
For a second, he froze.
"Your parents?"
She nodded quickly, blushing. "Not like a big thing, I just— they've heard me talk about you, and… well, I'd like them to know who you are."
His expression softened completely. "You want them to meet me?"
"I do," she said, voice almost a whisper. "If that's something you'd want too."
He set down the glass he was holding and crossed the room until he was right in front of her.
"Amelia," he said, his tone gentle but full of warmth, "you have no idea what that means to me."
She smiled shyly. "It's not a big deal, it's just dinner."
"It's everything," he said, brushing a hand along her cheek. "No one's ever asked me to be part of something real like that. Thank you."
Her eyes softened. "You make it sound like you've never done this before."
"I haven't," he admitted. "Not like this. Not with someone who matters."
They sat down again, closer this time.
Outside, the rain slowed, the city humming softly beneath them.
"Where do they live?" he asked.
"Stockport," she said. "Not far. You'll like them. My mum will probably grill you about your intentions, and my dad will pretend he's not nervous while he polishes the wine glasses."
He laughed quietly. "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? They can be intense."
"I can handle intensity," he said, smiling. "I work with Margaret."
She laughed, covering her mouth. "Fair point."
They sat there for a while, her legs tucked under her, his arm resting behind her shoulders.
Then his phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up, read something, and smiled faintly.
"What is it?" she asked.
"An email from the board," he said. "The annual Christmas Gala is confirmed. December 15th, at the Manchester Grand Hotel."
She nodded. "I remember Margaret mentioning it last week."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "It's tradition for me to go with a guest."
Her heart skipped. "And this year?"
"This year," he said, voice soft but sure, "I'd like to go with you."
She blinked, stunned. "Alexander…"
He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady on hers. "If we're going to live this, Amelia, we live it honestly. No secrets. No hiding."
She hesitated, the air between them thick with both fear and hope. "Are you sure? That's a very public event. There'll be press. Photos. Board members."
He smiled faintly. "Good. Then they'll see what happiness looks like."
Her chest tightened, torn between nerves and affection. "You make everything sound simple."
He shook his head. "It's not simple. It's just worth it."
She exhaled slowly, eyes bright but uncertain. "Alright," she said finally, smiling despite herself. "Then I'll go with you."
He grinned. "Really?"
"Really."
"Then it's settled."
She laughed softly. "I don't even have a dress."
"We'll find one," he said. "Something unforgettable."
She raised an eyebrow. "You have a lot of faith in your shopping skills."
"I have a lot of faith in you," he said quietly.
Later that night, as they stood by the window, the city lights shimmering below, Amelia leaned her head against his chest.
He looked down at her and murmured, "Your parents. The gala. The holidays. It feels like the start of something big, doesn't it?"
She smiled softly. "It feels like life."
He kissed her hair, holding her close. "Then let's live it — all of it."
And somewhere beneath the quiet hum of the city, both of them knew that from this moment forward, there would be no more pretending — only love, in the open air.