The jet lag hit them hard. By the time the car rolled up to the hotel on Fifth Avenue, the city outside was already glowing with the blurred light of evening. Alexander signed them in while Amelia stood behind him, fighting the ache in her shoulders and the strange excitement of being here at all.
He turned with the room keys in his hand. "Get some rest," he said quietly. "We'll review the schedule tomorrow. Unless—" He paused, hesitating for once. "Unless you'd like dinner first. I was going to order room service."
She smiled, tired but warm. "That actually sounds perfect."
"Then I'll have them bring it to my room. Same floor—ten minutes?"
She nodded. "Ten minutes."
In her room she let the hot shower rinse away the hours of recycled airplane air and airport coffee. The city noise drifted faintly through the window, sirens and horns softened by glass. When she stepped out, she chose soft jeans and a pale sweater, simple earrings, hair still damp. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt a flutter in her stomach—nerves, not vanity. He was her boss, a man whose name appeared in magazines; she was a junior manager who still double-checked every email. Whatever happened tonight, it would be dinner and conversation. Nothing more.
She knocked on his door at exactly the tenth minute.
"Come in," came his voice.
He'd changed too, into a white shirt with the top buttons undone and no tie, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The room smelled faintly of citrus soap and coffee. A tray waited on the table—pasta, salad, two glasses of wine.
"You didn't have to order wine," she said, smiling.
"I thought it might help with the jet lag."
They ate by the window. Outside, the skyline burned in a thousand lights. The conversation began with work—clients, schedules, the next day's meetings—but gradually softened into lighter things: music, travel, books. She made him laugh telling a story about her university flatmates trying to cook lasagne in a toaster oven; he told her about the first time he had to give a press interview at twenty-six and forgot his own title halfway through.
For a while, the distance between them disappeared.
When the plates were pushed aside and only the half-empty glasses remained, silence stretched comfortably until she broke it.
"I know this is probably not the moment to say it," she began, "but I want you to know I'm aware of what people say about you."
He looked up, surprised. "What people say?"
"The stories. The photos. The models, the parties." She spoke carefully, eyes steady. "I just need you to know I'm not… that kind of woman. If you think I accepted this trip to impress you or to climb faster—please don't. I work hard because I love what I do."
He set his glass down slowly. "Amelia," he said, and her name in his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it. "I never thought that of you. Not once."
She nodded, looking down. "Good. Because I'd hate for you to misjudge me."
There was a pause, long enough for the hum of the city to fill the room again.
"I did misjudge you," he said finally. "I thought you were too young to matter to me the way you do."
She looked up, startled. He rose, moved around the table, and stopped in front of her. The air between them changed, heavy with words neither had been brave enough to say.
"You're not a child, Amelia. You never were. You carry yourself like someone twice your age, and every day you make it harder for me to keep pretending I don't notice."
Her breath caught. "Alexander, I—"
He didn't let her finish. His hand came up, slow, asking permission. When she didn't move, he leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't cautious. It was the kind of kiss that happens after too much restraint—deep, certain, the quiet collapse of every wall he had built around himself. She felt the strength in him, the care not to frighten her, the heat of all the things he hadn't said.
When he pulled back, she was trembling. "That probably wasn't a good idea," she whispered. "Even if I… even if I liked it."
He searched her eyes. "Why not?"
"Because I take things like that seriously. I don't kiss people just because we're tired or lonely or away from home. I only do it when I believe it means something."
"It does," he said quietly.
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it because I have to." He ran a hand through his hair, restless, almost boyish. "You think I see you as some girl who wandered into my office. But you're wrong. You've challenged me every day since you started. And the age difference—" he gave a small, incredulous laugh—"is hardly worth mentioning unless you think I'm the one who's old."
She smiled despite herself. "I don't think you're old."
"Good," he said, softer now. "Then stop talking like we're something that shouldn't happen."
She looked up at him, the lines of worry and exhaustion softening in her face. "It still scares me."
"I know." He touched her cheek gently. "It scares me too."
For a moment they stood without speaking, the city shimmering behind them. Then she leaned forward, and he met her halfway. The second kiss was slower, quieter, an answer rather than a question.
When they finally stepped apart, she rested her forehead against his chest and laughed quietly. "We really have terrible timing."
He smiled into her hair. "Maybe the best things start that way."
Outside, the storm clouds cleared from the skyline, revealing the scattered stars above Manhattan. Neither of them noticed. For the first time, neither of them was thinking about tomorrow.
…
He stood for a moment after she laughed, still close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Then he turned toward the table, where the bottle of wine stood half-forgotten among the plates.
"Let's open this properly," he said, his voice softer than before.
He reached for the corkscrew, the sound of the cork easing out breaking the stillness like a sigh. He poured a glass for her, then one for himself, and carried them to the low sofa near the window.
"Sit with me," he murmured.
The lights of New York stretched endlessly below them, reflections dancing on the glass walls. The rain had stopped; the city was alive again, humming beneath their feet. Amelia sat beside him, one leg tucked under her, the glass cool in her hand.
The wine tasted of cherries and something darker. She felt it warm through her chest. He turned toward her, elbow on the back of the sofa, watching her as if trying to memorise the moment.
"You really are extraordinary," he said quietly.
She shook her head, smiling, but her voice was barely a whisper. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough to keep wanting to."
He said it without calculation or charm, and that honesty pulled at something inside her.
The silence between them lengthened; his fingers brushed against hers where they rested on the cushion. She didn't move away. When she looked up, he was already leaning closer.
The kiss came naturally, as if they had both been waiting for it since the first day she walked into his corridor back in Manchester. It wasn't hurried; it was deep, certain, full of everything he'd tried to hide. He kissed her like someone starved for air, like someone who had finally stopped pretending he didn't need it.
Her heart raced. She felt his hand rise to her cheek, his thumb tracing a line there, slow and reverent. The world beyond the window blurred into light and shadow.
When they finally drew apart, her eyes searched his.
"Alexander," she breathed, "this can't be only because of where we are."
"It isn't," he said. His voice had gone rough. "You've been in my head for weeks. Every time I try to forget you, I end up looking for you again."
She hesitated, torn between fear and the wild comfort of hearing it.
He set his glass down on the table, reached for her hand instead. "You make me feel like the world hasn't already decided everything for me."
For a long moment they sat like that, hands intertwined, the quiet rhythm of their breathing matching the faint hum of the city below.
When he leaned in again, the kiss was gentler, a promise rather than a demand. He broke it with a soft laugh against her temple.
"You'll ruin me, Amelia Clarke."
She smiled, eyes still closed. "You don't look very ruined."
"Not yet," he murmured.
They stayed on the sofa until the lights outside dimmed toward midnight, talking about nothing and everything—the first job she ever wanted, the first deal he ever lost, the things they both missed when success became routine. Each story pulled them closer, until words blurred into silences that said more than talk ever could.
When she finally rose to leave, he stood with her, taking her empty glass and setting it aside.
"Goodnight," she said softly.
"Goodnight," he echoed. But neither of them moved, and for one last heartbeat the distance between them vanished again—his hand at the back of her neck, her fingers tracing the edge of his collar, a final, lingering kiss that left them both unsteady.
When she slipped out into the quiet corridor, she could still feel it: the taste of wine, the warmth of his voice, the impossible certainty that something had just changed forever.
Inside, Alexander stood alone by the window, watching the city until dawn.
He had built an empire on logic and discipline, but none of it helped him now.
Because for the first time in years, he wasn't thinking about work at all.