Saturday evening arrived dressed in rain and city light.
Manchester glittered under a thousand reflections — headlights tracing the wet streets, the tall glass towers glowing against a clouded sky. The kind of night where the city itself seemed to hold its breath.
In her small apartment, Amelia Clarke stood before the mirror — motionless for a moment, as if she didn't quite recognise the woman looking back at her.
Her friend Emma was behind her, fixing the last loose curl with the precision of an artist.
"There," Emma said, stepping back. "You look like someone who belongs in those glossy magazines you keep pretending you don't read."
Amelia laughed softly, nerves fluttering beneath the surface. "You're exaggerating."
"I'm not," Emma insisted, crossing her arms. "That dress — God, Amelia — it's perfection."
And it was.
The chocolate-brown satin gown flowed down her body in a soft, liquid drape — cinched neatly at the waist, falling straight and long without clinging. It left her shoulders bare, the neckline sitting elegantly from shoulder to shoulder, with no plunges, no excess, only simplicity made powerful. The open back added the subtlest whisper of allure, the satin catching the light every time she moved.
Her black stiletto heels gave her height and poise; her small black clutch, simple and structured, rested on the vanity beside a small silver perfume bottle.
Her hair had been transformed — tighter curls cascading down her back, polished and gleaming, with two delicate tendrils falling on either side of her face in soft spirals.
Emma had spent almost an hour perfecting it.
"You look like a mermaid who wandered into a gala," Emma said, eyes shining. "Seriously, if they don't give you a promotion after tonight, I'll start a petition."
Amelia smiled, applying the last touch of perfume to her wrist. Her makeup was soft and earthy — bronze tones, a hint of shimmer at the inner corners of her eyes, nude gloss, and cheeks brushed with warmth. Her silver earrings caught the light as she turned, the matching bracelet glinting faintly against her skin.
She looked… composed. Elegant. Untouchable.
And yet inside, she was trembling.
At 7:15 p.m., a car horn sounded outside.
"Must be Nora and her husband," Emma said, grabbing the curling iron and unplugging it.
Amelia glanced out the window — a sleek black sedan waited below.
"Thank you," she said, turning to Emma and hugging her tightly. "I couldn't have done this alone."
Emma smiled. "Go knock them dead, HR queen. Text me when you're home."
"I will."
Outside, the evening air was cool and scented with rain.
Nora Bennett stepped out of the car as Amelia approached, her smile wide. "Darling, you look divine."
"So do you," Amelia said, admiring Nora's emerald gown.
"This is my husband, Philip," Nora added, gesturing toward a kind-eyed man in his forties at the wheel. "He's our chauffeur tonight — he'll drop us off and pick us up later. You don't mind squeezing in, do you?"
"Not at all," Amelia replied, slipping into the backseat.
The car smelled faintly of aftershave and leather. As the city lights blurred past the windows, Nora talked excitedly about the event.
"It's always spectacular," she said. "Last year they had a ten-piece orchestra and the most exquisite champagne. You'll love The Grand Manchester — it's pure old-world luxury."
Amelia smiled, half listening, half lost in thought. She wasn't used to evenings like this — the weight of silk on her shoulders, the shimmer of the city rushing by. She felt suspended between two worlds: the girl who once studied in late-night cafés, and the woman now heading to dine among titans.
When the car turned onto King Street, the sight of the hotel took her breath away.
The Grand Manchester Hotel stood like a palace of glass and gold — chandeliers glinting through its tall arched windows, valets in dark uniforms guiding cars under the grand canopy. Guests stepped out of luxury vehicles in gowns and tuxedos, laughter echoing under the rain-dampened awning.
Philip stopped the car at the entrance.
"Here we are, ladies," he said warmly. "I'll be back at midnight sharp."
"Thank you, love," Nora replied, stepping out first. Amelia followed, clutching her bag carefully as a doorman held an umbrella above her head.
Inside, the hotel lobby glowed like another world — marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and the murmur of an orchestra drifting from the ballroom beyond. Staff in black uniforms moved gracefully between guests, collecting coats, offering champagne.
Nora turned to her with a grin. "Deep breaths. This is where the magic starts."
Amelia smiled nervously, her heels clicking softly on the marble.
Everywhere she looked, people sparkled — men in sharp tuxedos, women in sweeping gowns, conversation flowing like music.
They walked toward the registration desk, where HR colleagues were already gathering — David included, looking unexpectedly handsome in his tailored black suit and bow tie. He spotted her instantly.
"Wow," he said, with a playful whistle. "Miss Clarke, HR's never looked this good."
Nora laughed. "David, behave."
Amelia blushed slightly but smiled. "You clean up pretty well yourself."
He grinned. "I do my best. Shall we head in? They're seating soon."
As they entered the ballroom, Amelia's heart skipped.
It was vast — ceilings draped in crystal light, tables clothed in ivory linen, golden place cards at every setting. At the far end, a stage gleamed under soft spotlights, the company's logo projected elegantly behind it.
Servers weaved through the crowd with champagne flutes.
Margaret stood near the stage, speaking with directors, graceful and composed.
Amelia followed Nora to their table, her pulse still unsteady. She sat, smoothing her dress, pretending calm.
The night shimmered with possibility — the orchestra swelling, the lights dimming, the hum of conversation wrapping around her like velvet.
And as Amelia lifted her glass, smiling politely, the faintest flicker of excitement stirred within her chest — quiet, uncertain, but very much alive.
…
The low hum of the orchestra softened as the grand doors at the back of the ballroom opened once more. A ripple moved quietly through the room — a shift in posture, a hush of curiosity.
Alexander Harrington had arrived.
He entered with the same composure that defined every headline written about him — black tuxedo tailored to perfection, expression unreadable. But he wasn't alone.
Beside him walked his mother, elegant and poised, her champagne-coloured gown shimmering under the lights; his older brother, Edward, equally striking but warmer in demeanour, greeting familiar faces with ease; and finally, Lady Eleanor Harrington, the family's matriarch, supported lightly by an attendant yet radiating authority with every step.
The photographers discreetly stationed by the press table straightened, cameras raised briefly before lowering again at a subtle shake of Alexander's head.
They crossed the ballroom slowly, exchanging polite greetings, the family a picture of power and legacy.
At their approach, the directors stood. Margaret Hughes joined them near the central table — the one reserved for the board and senior executives. She greeted each of them with grace, shaking hands, exchanging a few quiet words with the CEO before returning her attention briefly toward her own department.
At the HR table, Amelia felt her pulse quicken when she saw Margaret walking toward them.
Even in a sea of people, Margaret's presence commanded quiet respect. She stopped beside the group, her smile warm, eyes sweeping approvingly over her team.
"Well," she said, her voice carrying that soft authority, "I must say, I'm proud. You've all outdone yourselves — punctual, elegant, and united. That's exactly how a department should represent itself."
Nora straightened with a grin. "Thank you, Margaret. We wouldn't miss it for the world."
Margaret's gaze lingered briefly on Amelia. "Miss Clarke, you look radiant. I hope you're enjoying your first corporate gala."
"I am, thank you," Amelia replied, her voice steady despite the quick thrum of her heart.
"Good," Margaret said, smiling. "Now relax and enjoy the evening. You've all earned it."
With that, she returned to the main table, where the CEO and his family were already seated.
From where Amelia sat, she could see glimpses of the Harrington table at the centre — the shimmer of gowns, the silver glint of cutlery, the soft laughter of important people. She didn't stare, though curiosity pulled at her like a string.
She caught only a fleeting image — Alexander in profile, listening to someone beside him, posture perfect, expression composed.
And then the lights dimmed a little more. The orchestra swelled. The night officially began.
Glasses clinked. Applause filled the air. The world around her sparkled with champagne and gold, the distance between the floors of the office suddenly replaced by silk and candlelight.
For the first time since joining Harrington & Co., Amelia realised she was not just part of a company.
She was part of its story — even if she didn't yet know how deeply her name would be written into it.