The week moved like a ghost — silent, invisible, heavy.
By Monday, the rumours had vanished from the company halls, replaced by the usual rhythm of deadlines and numbers. But something lingered between them: an ache, unspoken, stretched tight across corridors and closed doors.
Amelia worked quietly, almost mechanically.
She timed her coffee breaks to avoid him. She memorised the sound of his footsteps from the elevator so she could take another path.
The strange thing was that Alexander didn't seek her either.
No chance meetings, no brief emails, no glances across meeting rooms.
Just absence.
And yet, that silence hummed louder than any words could.
At night, when she returned to her apartment, she still found herself glancing toward the skyline — toward the glass tower where his office light often stayed on long past midnight.
A part of her wanted to hate him for how easily he seemed to keep distance.
But deep down, she knew: it wasn't easy for him either.
By Friday morning, Alexander was already at his desk before dawn, suit jacket over the back of his chair, coffee cooling untouched.
He'd signed three contracts, rejected two proposals, and yet hadn't written the one message that had been sitting drafted in his head all week.
At eleven, his phone rang.
He didn't need to check the screen to know who it was.
"Good morning, Grandmother."
"Alexander," said Eleanor's voice, warm and amused, "please tell me you're not still married to that office of yours."
He smiled faintly. "You caught me."
"Well, then I'll rescue you from it. Lunch at my usual spot, one o'clock. And don't be late — you know I despise cold soup."
The restaurant was elegant but familiar — all mahogany and soft light.
Eleanor Harrington sat by the window, reading the Financial Times in her pale lavender scarf, looking like she owned the world.
"You look tired," she said the moment he arrived. "That girl of yours must be haunting your dreams."
Alexander laughed softly, sitting across from her. "You don't waste time, do you?"
"I'm old, darling. Time is the one thing I don't have to waste."
He shook his head, smiling. "You already know who she is."
"Of course I do," she said lightly, folding her newspaper. "You mentioned her last month — Amelia Clarke, the bright young woman from your HR department. The one who makes you nervous, which, frankly, I never thought possible."
He hesitated. "It's… complicated."
"It always is," she replied, pouring herself tea. "But you told me yourself she's intelligent, kind, and brave. That doesn't sound complicated — that sounds rare."
He looked down at his plate. "It's not her I'm worried about. It's what loving me could cost her."
Eleanor softened, her voice quiet. "You cannot live your whole life trying to shield someone from your own heart. If she's truly worth it, she'll decide what risks to take. Let her choose, Alexander. Don't decide for her."
He sat back, silent for a moment. "I think I've already made that mistake."
She smiled knowingly. "Then unmake it."
He looked up, brow furrowed.
"Invite her," she said simply. "Bring her there. To your house. To your life. Not your boardroom, not your car — your world. Let her see who you are when you're not the man in the suit."
He exhaled slowly, the first real breath he'd taken in days.
"Do you think she'll come?"
Eleanor stirred her tea, eyes glinting with mischief. "If she's half as clever as you say, she already wants to."
The sun had started to dip by the time he found the courage to type.
From: Alexander Harrington
I know it's been a quiet week between us.
I didn't want to intrude. But I'm driving to the countryside tonight. I need some peace — and maybe company.
Would you let me come pick you up? We could spend the weekend at my house — no pressure, no expectations. It has seven bedrooms; you could choose one on the other end of the corridor if that makes you more comfortable.
I just want to know you're near. That's all.
He stared at the screen before hitting send.
Minutes later, her reply appeared.
I don't know…
Maybe that isn't a good idea.
He smiled sadly. Then another message followed, almost immediately:
But maybe it's exactly what we need.
When he arrived outside her building, she was already waiting.
The evening air was crisp; her hair caught the glow of the streetlights like strands of amber.
She wore a long camel coat and carried a small bag.
He stepped out of the car, and for a moment neither spoke.
Then she said softly, "You didn't tell me it was this far."
He smiled faintly. "If I had, you might not have said yes."
She laughed under her breath. "You're probably right."
He opened the passenger door for her. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
The drive south was quiet but comfortable.
The motorway stretched under a lavender sky fading into dusk.
He let her pick the music — she chose something soft and old, jazz with slow piano. Between songs, they spoke little. But the silence wasn't awkward; it was charged, fragile, alive.
At one point, as the city lights disappeared behind them, she turned her head slightly toward him.
"You really didn't have to do this."
"I know," he said simply. "But I wanted to."
By the time they reached the countryside, the world had turned silver.
The long driveway curved beneath tall trees, leading to a house that looked like it belonged in another century — grand but warm, its windows glowing gold against the night.
Amelia's breath caught. "It's beautiful."
He smiled, glancing at her. "Wait until you see inside."
When they entered, she paused just beyond the doorway. The air smelled faintly of cedar and firewood; the soft hum of classical music floated from somewhere deeper inside.
It wasn't sterile like she'd imagined a billionaire's house might be.
It felt… lived in.
Books everywhere. A jacket thrown carelessly over a chair. A piano gleaming in the corner.
"This is your weekend retreat?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged, almost shyly. "Home, when I remember how to use the word."
He showed her to a guest room at the far end of the hall — high ceilings, cream linens, a view of the lake bathed in moonlight.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
She turned slowly, smiling. "It's perfect."
"I'll be downstairs," he said softly. "There's a fire. Take your time."
Later, when she joined him in the sitting room, she found him by the fire, sleeves rolled up, tie gone. He looked more human, less the man the world whispered about.
He poured her a glass of wine, handed it over gently.
Their fingers brushed.
For a while, they just sat there — two people who had run out of excuses.
The flames danced; rain tapped against the tall windows.
Finally, she spoke. "I didn't think I'd come."
"I didn't think you would either," he said with a small smile. "But I hoped."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to spend another weekend pretending I don't miss you."
She looked into her glass, voice trembling. "You say things too easily."
He shook his head. "Not easily. Just honestly."
The firelight flickered across her face — soft, uncertain, utterly beautiful.
She looked up at him then, her expression caught between caution and longing. "This isn't fair, Alexander."
He leaned forward slightly. "What isn't?"
"That you make it so hard to stay away."
He smiled, faint, almost sad. "Then don't."
Outside, the rain fell in a slow, steady rhythm, wrapping the house in sound.
Inside, two people sat by the fire — not quite together, not quite apart — while the air between them pulsed with something that felt dangerously close to forever.