The sky over Manchester was the colour of steel.
A faint drizzle swept across the pavement, the city shimmering under a curtain of morning rain. Inside the glass tower of Harrington & Co., the air smelled faintly of coffee and new beginnings.
Amelia arrived at precisely 8:22 a.m.
She had woken before dawn, too restless to sleep properly. Her reflection in the mirror that morning had almost startled her — confident, composed, adult. She had chosen carefully what to wear:
a midnight-blue tailored trouser suit, the kind that fit perfectly across her shoulders and tapered elegantly along her waist; beneath it, a white silk camisole that softened the structure of the blazer. Her makeup was minimal — luminous skin, faint blush, neutral lipstick, mascara framing her striking blue eyes.
Her hair, freshly curled into soft, polished waves, fell neatly down her back. It was the kind of look that spoke of restraint, not vanity. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She simply wanted to be the version of herself that could walk through marble corridors and not feel small.
Her heels clicked softly as she crossed the lobby, greeting the receptionist with a polite smile. She pressed the button for the twenty-second floor, stepped into the elevator, and exhaled.
Just as the doors began to close, a voice called out — calm, low, and unmistakably male.
"Hold the lift, please."
A security guard caught the door, and then he entered — tall, composed, immaculate in a charcoal suit.
Alexander Harrington.
The CEO. The myth. The man she'd only glimpsed from a distance.
For a second, Amelia's body went cold. She recognised him instantly — from the company website, from the rare TV interview she'd watched with fascination and fear.
He stood beside her, silent, adjusting his cufflinks with effortless precision. The air seemed thinner. The elevator felt suddenly much smaller.
"Good morning," she managed, her voice calm — astonishingly calm for someone whose pulse was racing.
"Good morning," he replied, brief but polite, without looking directly at her.
She fixed her gaze on the glowing numbers above the door. 12… 13… 14… Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag. She could smell his cologne — something subtle, expensive, clean, with notes of cedar and bergamot.
Everyone in the company said he was intimidating. Ruthless when crossed. Brilliant beyond measure but merciless when disappointed. She couldn't afford to make a wrong impression — or any impression, really.
At floor seventeen, her phone buzzed. She looked down quickly, pretending to check a message that didn't exist. Anything to appear occupied. Her reflection in the elevator door betrayed her only secret — her slightly trembling fingers.
Alexander glanced sideways once, very slightly, catching a glimpse of her.
Young. Composed. There was something unusually precise about her — the neatness of her outfit, the calm posture, the quiet self-control. Most people froze around him or tried too hard to impress. She did neither. She simply was.
The elevator stopped with a soft chime at floor twenty-two. Amelia stepped out first, muttering a polite "Excuse me," without once meeting his gaze.
He nodded once, and the doors closed behind him as he continued upward.
The silence that remained in her wake was almost electric.
Amelia reached her desk, her heart still racing though she refused to acknowledge it.
David noticed the faint colour in her cheeks.
"Long morning already?" he teased.
"Something like that," she said quickly, opening her laptop. She didn't elaborate, and he didn't push.
By the time she had settled into her tasks — employee onboarding forms, scheduling interviews for the graduate program, reviewing a draft policy for performance bonuses — the moment in the elevator already felt surreal. She buried it beneath work, as she did with anything that stirred too much feeling.
Upstairs, on the thirty-second floor, Alexander stepped into his office. His assistant, Charlotte, greeted him with her usual efficiency.
"Good morning, sir. You have a visitor waiting in the private lounge."
"A visitor?" He frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone."
"She insisted you'd want to see her."
When he entered the lounge, he froze — just slightly.
Seated by the window was Lady Eleanor Harrington, his grandmother.
At eighty-one, she was still formidable — elegant as porcelain, wrapped in a navy cashmere coat, her silver hair styled impeccably. A woman of old money and sharper instincts than most of the board combined.
"Good morning, Alexander," she said, rising with surprising grace. "Don't look so surprised. I had tea nearby and thought I'd see the empire my grandson is running."
He smiled — a rare, genuine curve of the lips. "You didn't warn me."
"If I did, you'd have found a reason to reschedule."
He gestured for her to sit. "You know me too well."
She studied him as the assistant brought tea. "You've lost weight," she remarked. "And that office of yours looks like a museum. No flowers, no photographs, no life."
He chuckled softly. "It's a workspace, not a home."
"That's the problem," she said, stirring her tea with delicate precision. "You live in the wrong places — inside numbers and contracts. Your father was the same, but he had your mother to remind him what mattered. You've made yourself untouchable, Alexander. Be careful — isolation looks noble until it becomes a cage."
He sighed. "You've been reading too many of those Times columns again."
"I don't need columns to see what's in front of me," she said quietly. "You have everything, yet you look like a man who hasn't been touched by warmth in years."
He didn't answer. He looked out at the skyline instead — grey, vast, relentless.
Lady Eleanor leaned forward, voice soft but sharp. "You cannot build an empire if you forget that it's made of people. Don't turn into stone, my dear. Stones build castles, but they make terrible hearts."
He smiled faintly, as though deflecting her words. "I appreciate the poetry, Grandmother."
She stood, fixing her coat. "You'll appreciate it more when you meet someone who reminds you what it feels like to care. You always do, in the end."
As she left, her perfume — roses and old books — lingered in the air.
Alexander returned to his desk, but her words stayed with him longer than he wished.
He worked through the day, but every so often, his mind flickered back to the elevator — that small, wordless space where, for some inexplicable reason, he'd noticed something unusual: not fear, not flirtation, but composure.
He didn't even know her name.
But the thought crossed his mind, fleeting and unwanted — that maybe his grandmother's warning had arrived a heartbeat too soon.
Downstairs, Amelia reviewed employee feedback reports until dusk.
By the time she left, the rain had started again — soft, endless, like the city's heartbeat.
As she walked past the lobby mirrors, her reflection looked calm, capable, unreadable.
No one would ever guess that beneath that polished surface, she was still trembling.
…
The next morning began with sunlight — rare in Manchester. The rain had finally paused, leaving the city gleaming, washed clean. Amelia arrived early as usual, a takeaway coffee warming her hands, and settled at her desk before most of the office had even turned on their lights.
By nine-thirty, the HR department was buzzing. Margaret Hughes entered, elegant as always in her tailored navy suit and silk scarf, her presence enough to draw everyone's attention. She set down a folder, smiled briefly, and clapped her hands once to gather the team.
"Good morning, everyone. I'll keep this short."
The chatter stopped. Laptops closed.
"As you know," Margaret began, "our fiscal year closed in April. Normally, the company holds its annual results presentation and corporate gala at the end of the month, but due to a few accounting delays, the date was pushed forward. That means this year's Annual Corporate Dinner will take place this Saturday evening."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the office — surprise, excitement, mild panic.
Margaret continued, her tone brisk but warm.
"It's a formal event, held as always at The Grand Manchester Hotel. Black tie, full attendance required for all corporate staff. The board will be there, the directors, Mr. Harrington himself, and key external partners. It's one of our most significant internal occasions, and this year, more than ever, we'll be celebrating a strong financial close despite a challenging quarter."
She paused, glancing around the room. "I expect everyone in HR to be there. We represent the people side of the business — it's important that we're visible. Invitations will be sent by email today with all the details."
She smiled faintly. "And please, do try to enjoy yourselves. It's not every day we see one another outside the glow of office lights."
As soon as Margaret left, the office erupted into soft chaos — half the team already speculating about who would attend, who would sit near the executives, and most importantly, what everyone would wear.
David leaned back in his chair. "The Grand Manchester," he said with mock drama. "Nothing but the best for the empire. Guess I'll have to dust off my tuxedo."
Nora laughed. "You? In a tux? That I've got to see."
Amelia smiled, quietly listening, but her mind was already elsewhere. She had never been to an event like that before — not one surrounded by CEOs, directors, and investors.
When the room calmed a little, she turned to Nora.
"So… is it really formal?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
Nora's eyes lit up. "Oh, darling, it's beyond formal. Think ballgowns, diamonds, the works. The company doesn't do anything halfway — especially when Mr. Harrington's hosting."
David chimed in. "Rumour says last year's had champagne fountains and a live orchestra. Half the marketing team nearly fainted when the CEO actually spoke to them."
Amelia laughed softly, shaking her head. "That sounds… intense."
"It's beautiful," Nora said fondly. "You'll love it. Everyone looks their best. And honestly, after months of spreadsheets and policy updates, it's nice to remember we're all human."
By lunch, the topic hadn't changed.
Emma — her friend from outside the company — had texted her a string of messages.
Emma: "So?? Big fancy gala?? Omg what are you wearing 😍"
Amelia: "No idea yet. It's black tie. Saturday night."
Emma: "You have to look breathtaking. Like, unfairly beautiful. You're the HR angel, remember?"
Amelia smiled to herself, but her stomach tightened slightly. The truth was — she had no idea where to begin. She wasn't used to events where appearances mattered this much.
That evening, after work, she lingered by Nora's desk.
"Hey, Nora… may I ask — what do people usually wear? I don't want to stand out for the wrong reasons."
Nora grinned. "You'll be fine. You have great taste. But if you want my advice — something classic. Floor-length, not too revealing. The tone of these events is elegance, not exhibition. The board members bring their spouses, the investors are watching — it's very… Old England glamour."
David overheard and added, "Translation: avoid sequins. Go for something sleek. Deep colours, maybe navy or emerald. You'd look great in that."
Amelia blushed slightly. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
That night, back in her apartment, she opened her wardrobe and sighed. Her work clothes were impeccable, but nothing she owned came close to "gala attire." She sat on her bed with her laptop, searching through rental boutiques and designer outlets, trying to find something that felt right — not loud, not trying too hard, but beautiful in a way that felt hers.
Eventually, she saved three options: a navy satin gown with a low back, a champagne silk dress with soft draping, and a minimalist black evening dress that whispered elegance rather than shouted it.
She'd decide later. For now, she closed her laptop and stared at the window — the rain had returned, as always.
In the HR office the next morning, excitement still floated in the air. People traded notes about tailors, hairstylists, and dresses. Margaret moved through her team with quiet approval, reminding them of the importance of presence and professionalism.
"Remember," she said, stopping briefly by Amelia's desk, "this isn't just a celebration — it's also visibility. The board takes note of who represents us well. You've been doing excellent work, Miss Clarke. Keep that same composure on Saturday."
"I will, thank you," Amelia said, smiling — though her stomach tightened again.
The rest of the week blurred in preparation — reports to finalise, invitations confirmed, names assigned to tables. By Friday, the only topic anyone could talk about was The Grand Manchester Gala.
And beneath all the chatter, a quiet awareness pulsed through Amelia — something unspoken, like the first faint note before a song begins.
Saturday would be just another company event.
That's what she kept telling herself.
But she had a feeling it wouldn't be.