The first snow of December had started to fall — light, delicate, the kind that dusted the rooftops without quite settling.
The whole city seemed to hum with the quiet excitement of the season: lights in every window, shopfronts dressed in gold and green, people carrying more hope than sense.
For Amelia, the days leading up to the company's annual Christmas Gala were a blur of work, nerves, and stolen moments with Alexander.
She'd been invited officially, of course — her name neatly printed beside his on the event's guest list.
But that didn't make the idea of facing the entire board, hundreds of employees, and the press any less terrifying.
Which is why she called Emma.
"Right," Emma said, tossing her scarf over one shoulder as they stepped into the boutique. "You're the CEO's girlfriend. We are not leaving until we find something that screams elegance, class, and maybe just a little bit of 'don't mess with me.'"
"Emma," Amelia laughed, "I don't want to scream anything. I just want to look—"
"Perfect," Emma interrupted. "And you will. But not the HR kind of perfect. The 'he fell in love with me and now the world gets to see why' kind."
Amelia groaned. "You're impossible."
"Correct," Emma said, grinning. "Now, let's hunt."
The shop was pure luxury — soft music, champagne offered in crystal flutes, racks of silk and velvet that shimmered under the lights.
Amelia moved hesitantly between dresses, fingers brushing against fabric that probably cost as much as her rent.
Emma, on the other hand, was in her element.
She plucked gowns from hangers like a general assembling her army.
"Too conservative," she muttered, rejecting a navy gown.
"Too revealing," she said of another.
"Too boring," she declared, shoving a sequined one back with disdain.
Finally, she stopped in front of a simple garment — understated, elegant.
It was a deep emerald silk dress, sleeveless with a gentle drape at the back and a fitted waist that hinted at her figure without showing too much.
When Amelia stepped out of the dressing room wearing it, the world seemed to pause.
Emma gasped. "Okay. That's it. That's the one."
Amelia turned to the mirror, barely recognising herself. The colour made her eyes look impossibly blue, her skin warm against the cool green.
"It's beautiful," she murmured.
Emma crossed her arms, satisfied. "It's you. Subtle. Graceful. And dangerously unforgettable."
Amelia laughed, a little shy. "You really think so?"
"I know so," Emma said, eyes softening. "He won't be able to breathe when he sees you."
The evening of the gala arrived wrapped in lights and snow.
The Manchester Grand Hotel looked like a palace — chandeliers glowing through tall windows, the sound of music spilling into the marble lobby.
Cars pulled up one after another, guests stepping out in furs and tuxedos, laughter echoing in the cold air.
Alexander's car stopped at the entrance. He stepped out first, the epitome of composure — black tuxedo, bow tie, coat over his arm.
But the moment he turned to help her out of the car, all that control faltered.
She stepped into the light, the emerald silk catching every reflection, her hair falling in soft waves over one shoulder.
For a moment, he forgot the cameras. The people. Everything.
"Amelia," he said quietly, his voice lower than the music behind them. "You're… breathtaking."
She smiled, nerves flickering behind her calm. "You don't look too bad yourself."
He offered his arm. "Ready?"
"Not even slightly."
"Good," he said with a grin. "Neither am I."
Inside, the ballroom shimmered — gold lights strung like constellations, a string quartet playing softly in the corner, waiters weaving through the crowd with glasses of champagne.
The moment they entered, a subtle ripple passed through the room.
Whispers, glances — admiration wrapped in curiosity.
Alexander's board members approached first, smiling politely but clearly intrigued.
"Alexander," said Sir Malcolm Wren, one of the senior partners. "I see you've brought company."
Alexander nodded. "Yes. This is Amelia Clarke, from Human Resources."
"Ah," Malcolm said, shaking her hand. "We've heard a great deal about you."
Amelia smiled graciously. "I hope at least half of it is true."
The man chuckled. "I can see why he looks so proud."
Alexander's expression softened. "I am."
Later, as they mingled, Amelia felt the occasional flash of doubt — the weight of eyes, the murmured tones.
But every time it rose, he was there beside her, his hand brushing hers, his presence a quiet anchor.
At one point, as they stood by the grand staircase, he leaned closer and whispered, "You're doing perfectly."
She smiled nervously. "How can you tell?"
"Because every time you walk past someone, they forget what they were saying."
She laughed, covering her mouth. "Stop flattering me."
"Never," he said simply.
Toward the end of the night, when the music shifted from formality to warmth, he led her to the dance floor.
It wasn't a fast song — something slow, timeless, the kind that belonged to candlelight and whispered promises.
She hesitated. "Alexander, everyone's watching."
"Then let them," he said, taking her hand.
They began to dance — his hand at her back, her fingers against his shoulder. The noise of the room faded until there was only the rhythm of the music and the steady beat of their hearts.
He bent his head slightly. "You realise this means the rumours will spread?"
She nodded. "I know."
"And you're alright with that?"
She met his eyes. "You're worth it."
He smiled, a touch of wonder in his expression. "You have no idea what it does to me when you say things like that."
"Maybe I do," she teased softly.
They moved in quiet harmony, the world watching, the two of them utterly oblivious to anything beyond each other.
As the song ended, he didn't let go immediately.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
"You once told me you didn't want to live your life being careful," he murmured. "Tonight, you proved you don't have to."
She smiled against his shoulder. "With you, I don't feel like I have to protect myself anymore."
He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Good. Because I plan on spending a lifetime protecting you."
And as the orchestra began another song and the lights glittered like snowfall, Amelia realised that the fear she'd carried for so long had finally vanished.
Whatever came next — the whispers, the attention, the inevitable noise — they would face it together.
When Amelia woke, the first thing she heard was the rain.
Gentle, rhythmic, the kind that made the city look silver through the window.
She turned slowly beneath the sheets, finding Alexander still half-asleep beside her — one arm over his eyes, the other resting lazily across her waist.
The night before felt like a dream she'd accidentally stepped into — chandeliers, music, the weight of his hand on hers as the world finally saw what they already knew.
Now, in the soft grey light of morning, it all seemed impossibly calm.
"Good morning," he murmured without opening his eyes.
She smiled. "Good morning."
He shifted closer, voice still rough from sleep. "You're quiet. Regretting the public scandal yet?"
She laughed softly. "Not at all. I think it suits me."
He opened one eye, mock-surprised. "Scandal suits you?"
"Apparently. I looked online this morning — 'Alexander Harrington's mystery woman finally revealed.'"
He groaned. "Please tell me they didn't use that photo of us dancing."
"They did," she said, grinning. "And you look hopelessly in love, which, I suppose, is accurate."
He smiled, tracing a finger along her hand. "Let them write whatever they want. I've stopped living for headlines."
She turned on her side to face him. "You really don't mind?"
"Amelia," he said softly, "I've spent years controlling narratives. This is the first one I don't want to edit.
She smiled, touched. "Then I won't hide either."
A few hours later, she was sitting cross-legged on the sofa in his apartment, scrolling through articles on her phone while he prepared coffee.
The news was everywhere — glossy magazine covers, business pages, anonymous gossip blogs.
"'The tycoon and the HR girl,'" she read aloud, amused. "That one's my favourite so far."
He came over with two cups, setting one beside her. "Creative. I'll give them that."
"Do you think it'll cause trouble at work?"
He sat beside her, arm over the back of the couch. "I spoke to Margaret early this morning. She told me to enjoy my day off and not to 'let the tabloids ruin her HR metrics.'"
Amelia laughed. "That sounds like her."
He smiled. "You've earned her respect, Amelia. She's not worried. Neither should you be."
She nodded, taking a sip of coffee. "I'm not. Not anymore. I just want to work, live my life, and go home to someone who makes me feel safe."
He looked at her, a small smile forming. "That sounds dangerously like you're describing me."
"Maybe," she teased.
They spent the rest of the morning in quiet domestic rhythm — tidying the kitchen, sharing the newspaper, bickering over who made better coffee.
It was the first truly ordinary morning they'd shared, and that made it extraordinary.
Around noon, he leaned against the counter, watching her butter toast.
"Amelia," he said carefully, "I've been thinking."
"That's rarely good," she said, smiling.
"This time it might be."
She turned to face him. "Go on."
He hesitated, fingers drumming lightly against the marble surface. "We spend most nights together anyway. Half your clothes live here. The other half are perpetually in your car or my office. I was thinking…"
Her eyebrows rose. "You want to move in together?"
He smiled faintly. "I want to wake up next to you without checking which apartment I'm in."
She froze, surprised — not because it felt too soon, but because it felt right.
"Alexander," she said softly, "that's a big step."
"I know. But so was this," he said, gesturing toward the phone buzzing with notifications and headlines. "And you handled it better than anyone could have."
She took a deep breath, searching his eyes. "You're serious?"
"Entirely."
She smiled slowly. "I suppose it does make sense. Neither of us likes sleeping alone."
He grinned. "Exactly. It's terribly inefficient."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Only you could make moving in together sound like a productivity plan."
"I'm a man of structure," he said, mock solemn. "But in all honesty, Amelia… I've had houses, apartments, penthouses — none of them ever felt like home until you started leaving your books on my coffee table."
Her throat tightened. "You're impossible."
He stepped closer, brushing his thumb along her jaw. "And hopelessly in love."
That evening, they went for a walk through the quiet city streets — the world wrapped in Christmas lights, couples huddled under umbrellas, the smell of roasted chestnuts in the air.
They stopped by a small shop window where a tree twinkled with gold ornaments.
"Do you ever think about the future?" she asked quietly.
"All the time," he said. "But for once, it's not about five-year plans or forecasts."
"What is it about, then?"
He smiled. "You. This. Maybe a house one day. A family, if we're lucky."
She looked up at him, surprised. "You'd want that?"
"More than I ever thought I would."
She smiled, voice barely above a whisper. "Me too."
When they returned home, she curled up beside him on the sofa, her head on his shoulder, the world muted by the sound of the rain.
For the first time since everything began — the job, the chaos, the rumours — she felt entirely at peace.
No pretending.
No fear.
Just the simple, solid truth of two people who'd stopped fighting what they already knew.
And as the city lights flickered against the glass, Alexander turned to her and said quietly,
"Welcome home."