The Saturday of the dinner arrived far too quickly.
Amelia had spent the morning helping her mother set the table and arranging flowers, all the while trying not to imagine the conversation that would unfold that evening.
Every few minutes, her phone lit up with small messages from Alexander:
Still alive. Slightly terrified.
Is there a dress code for meeting the most important people in your life?
Would it be strange if I brought flowers for your mum and a bottle of wine for your dad? Or too predictable?
She smiled at her screen each time, feeling a warmth she couldn't quite hide.
Predictable is good, she replied. They'll love that.
By six-thirty, his car pulled up outside the small detached house in Stockport.
The street was quiet, lined with sycamore trees and the smell of someone's dinner cooking nearby.
He sat for a moment before stepping out, adjusting his tie, exhaling slowly.
He had closed deals worth hundreds of millions, spoken before heads of state — but this?
This felt far more important.
He rang the bell, clutching the bottle of Rioja in one hand, a small bouquet of pink tulips in the other.
Amelia opened the door, smiling nervously. "You came early."
"I was afraid I'd be late," he admitted. "Then I got here too soon and panicked about looking desperate, so I sat in the car for five minutes pretending to answer emails."
She laughed softly, reaching out to take his hand. "You'll be fine. They're not the press."
"Thank God," he muttered, earning another laugh.
Inside, the smell of roast chicken and herbs filled the house.
Her mother, Helen, was the first to appear — a woman with kind eyes, wearing an apron dusted with flour.
"You must be Alexander," she said, smiling. "Welcome. I've heard far too much about you already."
He straightened slightly, smiling politely. "All good things, I hope?"
"We'll see," she teased, shaking his hand warmly. "And these are beautiful."
He handed her the tulips. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I went with what reminded me of her."
Helen blinked, pleasantly caught off guard. "Well, that's quite a start."
From behind her came a low voice. "He's good with words, then?"
It was her father, Richard — tall, slightly gruff-looking, with the air of someone who fixed what was broken rather than replaced it.
Alexander turned, extending his hand. "Sir, it's a pleasure to meet you. I've brought wine. Spanish. 2012."
Richard accepted it with a grunt that might have been approval. "You didn't have to do that."
"I wanted to," Alexander said. "It's the least I can do after stealing your daughter's weekends."
That earned a small, reluctant smile from him. "She used to spend them reading. Now she actually goes outside. I'll allow it."
Amelia groaned. "Dad…"
But the ice had already started to melt.
Dinner was set in the small dining room, candles flickering, the table neatly arranged with mismatched plates and linen napkins.
Alexander, used to marble tables and silver service, found it oddly comforting — the warmth, the laughter, the way everyone spoke at once.
Helen served the food, insisting, "It's nothing fancy," to which Alexander replied sincerely, "It smells better than any restaurant in London."
Her mother beamed. "Flattery will get you dessert."
Halfway through the meal, the conversation turned to his work.
"So," Richard said, carving another slice of chicken, "you run one of the biggest investment firms in the country?"
Alexander nodded, modestly. "I do my best to make sure it doesn't run me."
Helen smiled. "And how does someone like you even meet someone like our Amelia?"
Amelia flushed. "Mum…"
"No, it's alright," Alexander said gently. "At work, actually. She joined the HR department. I remember seeing her walk through the building on her first day."
Richard raised an eyebrow. "And you noticed her right away, did you?"
Alexander smiled faintly. "I noticed her focus first. She was the only one who didn't look impressed by the place. She looked… determined. Like she already knew she belonged there."
Amelia looked down at her plate, cheeks pink.
Helen chuckled softly. "And what about this difference in age everyone likes to mention? Doesn't bother you?"
Alexander hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Nine years is a number. What matters to me is that she makes me feel more alive than anyone I've ever met. She's thoughtful, kind, and infinitely more mature than most people twice her age."
Helen smiled knowingly. "Good answer."
Richard leaned back in his chair, studying him. "You know the papers call you 'the young titan,' right?"
Alexander winced slightly. "I try not to read what they write about me. Most of it's exaggerated — or outdated."
"And the parties?" Richard asked, a hint of teasing in his tone. "The yachts, the models, the headlines?"
Alexander smiled, half-embarrassed. "Those were different days. I was young, lost, and trying to live up to someone else's idea of success. But that's not me anymore."
Helen looked at him for a long moment, then smiled softly. "Well, whatever you've become, it seems to suit you."
Richard nodded. "You seem steady. And you clearly care for our girl. That's what matters."
Alexander met his gaze with quiet conviction. "More than anything."
After dinner, they moved to the living room for tea.
Helen showed him family photos, and Alexander listened, genuinely interested — laughing at stories of Amelia's school days, her stubbornness, her obsession with perfection even as a child.
"She hasn't changed much," he said fondly.
"No," Helen smiled. "But it's nice to see her with someone who makes her laugh again."
That line caught him off guard. "Again?"
Her mother nodded softly. "She used to carry the world on her shoulders. Always afraid to make mistakes. I think she finally learned how to breathe."
He looked toward the kitchen, where Amelia was laughing with her father over the kettle.
"I think she taught me the same thing," he said quietly.
When it was time to leave, Richard shook his hand firmly. "You're welcome here anytime, son."
Alexander smiled, visibly relieved. "Thank you, sir. That means a great deal."
Helen gave him a quick hug, surprising him completely. "Take care of her. She's special."
He nodded, voice low. "I know."
In the car on the drive back, Amelia reached across and took his hand.
"You survived," she teased.
"Barely," he said with a smile. "Your father nearly interrogated me."
"He likes you," she said. "He only teases people he likes."
Alexander exhaled, his hand tightening around hers. "You know, I've faced board members, investors, even politicians. But tonight? I've never been that nervous in my life."
She smiled. "Why?"
"Because I've never wanted anyone's approval as much as I wanted theirs," he said softly. "Not because of what it means for me… but because of what you mean to me."
Her heart caught in her chest. "Alexander…"
He turned to her at the red light, eyes warm, voice quiet. "They raised someone extraordinary. And I don't ever want to be the reason she forgets that."
And as they drove through the sleeping city, her hand still in his, Amelia realised something she hadn't before —
it wasn't his power, his charm, or his brilliance that made her fall in love with him.
It was this — the man who could walk into her parents' modest home, nervous and humble, and still look at her as if she were his entire world.