The morning light in Cheshire was unlike anything Amelia had ever seen.
It came in soft, gold ribbons through the curtains, spilling across the old wooden floorboards. The air smelled faintly of rain and woodsmoke — a scent that seemed to belong only to that house.
For a few seconds, she forgot everything else. The company. The rumours. The weight of choices waiting back in Manchester.
Here, there was only quiet.
When she came downstairs, the sound of laughter surprised her.
Alexander was in the kitchen with a woman in her fifties — the housekeeper, she guessed — arranging plates on the long oak table.
"There you are," he said, smiling. "I was about to send Martha to wake you. She's far more persuasive than I am."
Martha chuckled. "He's lying, dear. I've never seen him this polite with anyone."
Amelia blushed. "Good morning."
"Coffee or tea?" Martha asked.
"Coffee, please," Amelia said, and the woman nodded warmly before leaving them.
Alexander gestured for her to sit. "I didn't think you'd be up this early."
"I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "Your house makes strange noises."
He laughed quietly. "Old wood, too many rooms, and the occasional ghost of my past self."
"I'll try not to disturb him," she said, smiling.
After breakfast, he showed her around the property — the stables, the greenhouse, the wide field that led to the lake.
The air was cool and clear, the grass damp from morning dew.
When they reached the water's edge, she stopped and looked out across the mirror-still surface.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
He nodded, eyes on her instead of the view. "I come here when I need to think."
"And what do you think about?"
He smiled faintly. "About what I've done right. What I've broken. What I still want to fix."
She picked up a smooth stone and tossed it lightly. It skipped once before sinking.
"I do that too," she said softly. "The thinking, not the skipping stones. I'm terrible at that."
He looked at her with quiet curiosity. "And what do you want to fix, Amelia Clarke?"
She hesitated. "I don't know if it's about fixing. Maybe it's about finding something I lost."
He tilted his head. "Which is?"
"Myself," she said simply. "Before life became a list of things I had to prove."
He smiled then, not out of amusement, but recognition. "That's exactly what I like about you."
"What?"
"You still remember who you are beneath everything the world asks you to be."
Her throat tightened slightly. "You think I do?"
"I know you do," he said quietly. "That's why I see you."
For a moment neither spoke. The wind brushed through the trees; a pair of swans glided across the far side of the lake.
Then she said, "I thought you saw everything, Alexander."
"Not everything," he said. "Just you."
After lunch, they found themselves in the library — his favourite room.
Books lined the walls, reaching up to the tall ceilings, the scent of old paper and leather filling the space.
She ran her fingers along the spines, reading titles aloud. "Philosophy, economics, poetry…" She turned to him with a playful smile. "A man of contradictions."
"Contradictions are useful," he said, handing her a book. "They make people real."
She opened it — Letters to a Young Poet. "You read Rilke?"
"Every time I forget how to be human," he said simply.
She read a line aloud, softly:
"'Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.'"
He looked at her, eyes darker now. "Do you believe that?"
"I think," she said, closing the book, "I'm tired of being brave all the time."
He stepped closer, voice low. "Then stop being brave. Just be."
For a moment, she thought he might kiss her then. The air was too thick, the silence too charged. But he turned away, smiling faintly. "Come on. Let's walk before we both forget how to breathe."
By sunset, the house glowed with amber light.
They each disappeared to their rooms for a while — she to rest, he to take a call that never really mattered.
When she emerged later, dressed for dinner, the air seemed to still.
She wore an oversized, soft cream blouse tucked into tailored black trousers, her hair in loose waves, lips tinted rose. Elegant but simple, effortlessly her.
Downstairs, he waited by the fireplace, wearing a dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled and the top button undone.
He turned at the sound of her steps and stopped mid-sentence.
"You look…" he began, then smiled helplessly. "There isn't a word."
"You clean up well yourself," she teased.
"I had to try," he said, "you're a hard act to follow."
Dinner was quiet at first, just the sound of rain starting again outside.
Then the conversation deepened — the kind that only happens when the world falls away.
She asked him what he feared most.
"Losing control," he said after a moment. "It's the only thing I've ever been good at — holding everything together. The company, the family legacy. If I lose that, who am I?"
She considered that. "Maybe you'd finally find out."
He smiled sadly. "And you? What scares you?"
She looked into her glass. "Being ordinary. Spending my whole life being careful. And waking up one day realising I never really lived."
He leaned forward, eyes on her. "Then don't be careful now."
After dinner, they moved to the sitting room.
Martha had left a tray on the side table — gin, tonic, slices of lime.
Alexander mixed their drinks, his movements easy, practiced.
She watched him from the sofa, smiling. "You make it look like art."
"I've had practice," he said. "A lonely man learns to make good company with a glass."
He handed her one and sat beside her, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his arm.
"What are we watching?" she asked.
"Nothing serious," he said, switching on an old film — Roman Holiday.
"I love this one," she said.
"I know," he murmured.
They fell into silence, watching Audrey Hepburn laugh on screen.
Halfway through, he said softly, "You remind me of her, you know."
She smiled, eyes still on the movie. "Because I'm naïve?"
"No," he said. "Because you're brave enough to be gentle."
She turned toward him then, her breath catching. "You can't keep saying things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'll start believing them."
He smiled slightly. "Good."
The film ended. The rain grew heavier, tapping against the windows like distant applause.
They sat for a long time, the glow of the fire casting soft shadows around them.
Neither spoke. Neither needed to.
Finally, she whispered, "I don't know where this is going."
"Neither do I," he said. "But I know I don't want it to stop."
She looked at him then, really looked — at the man behind the legend, the strength laced with fragility, the eyes that had stopped hiding.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
She didn't.
Her heart raced, but her voice was steady. "Don't."
He hesitated just long enough for her to see the question in his eyes. Then he leaned forward.
The first touch of his lips was gentle — almost reverent — as if he feared she might disappear. But when she didn't pull away, the kiss deepened, slow and certain, like something that had been waiting far too long to begin.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless, he whispered against her skin,
"I've wanted to do that since the day I first saw you."
She smiled faintly, her forehead resting against his. "Then don't ever pretend you didn't."