Midnight in Provence

Snow had begun to fall over London long before Amelia Windsor realized the entire city seemed to be holding its breath. From the tall windows of her South Kensington flat —small by royal standards, perfect by hers—she watched the flakes dissolve against the pavement, turning the streetlights into soft halos. People were starting to set up Christmas lights and the city would soon feel more alive than ever. The city looked gentler like this, muffled, as if winter itself wanted to give her a moment of peace. Her suitcase sat open on the sofa, half-packed, half-ignored. She’d folded clothes, rolled scarves, tucked sketches between travel documents… and then stopped. Not because she wasn’t ready to go—she was. But because leaving always made the silence a little too harsh. Her phone buzzed across the counter. Alexander Hale. The timing was almost comically predictable. She didn’t answer. The voicemail followed almost immediately: “Amelia, I understand you’re traveling soon. I’d appreciate a conversation before you go. Things were left… unresolved.” Unresolved. Diplomatic vocabulary for breaking her heart with surgical precision. She deleted it, then inhaled through the sting that always came with his voice. A soft knock sounded at the door. Weird. She wasn’t expecting any visits. Amelia opened the door to find her older sister, the polished Windsor daughter, the composed one, the one who always seemed to glide through life without cracking. Anne stepped inside without waiting, her heels clicking over the hardwood as she took in the suitcase, the sketches scattered on the table, the untouched cup of tea. “So, it’s true,” she said. “You’re leaving tomorrow.” “It’s work, Anne. Not an escape.” Her sister raised one perfectly shaped brow. “You haven’t answered a single Windsor group chat in two days. If this isn’t an escape, it’s a very good imitation.” Amelia sighed, pushing her hair back. “I just need… space. And this project is important.” “Of course it is.” Anne softened, shrugging off her coat in the way older siblings do when they’re preparing to meddle kindly. “But I worry about you. The press still loves reanimating anything involving Alexander, and now he’s asking about you again.” “I don’t care what he wants,” Amelia murmured, though her voice betrayed the truth: she cared enough to be hurt all over again. Anne paused, reading the c***k in her tone. “I never liked him, you know.” “You tolerated him.” “I tolerated him because you tried so hard to love him.” Anne stepped closer, lowering her voice. “But he was never good for you, Amelia. He never saw you.” A lump caught in Amelia’s throat—not from sadness, but from the strange relief of hearing someone else finally say it. Anne touched her arm lightly. “Is that why you’re going to France? To disappear for a while?” “No,” Amelia shook her head. “I’m going because Beauvais Manor is exactly the kind of restoration I’ve worked years to earn. Because for once, I get to lead something. And because I’m tired of everything about my life being defined by someone else’s expectations.” Anne smiled faintly. “Now that sounds like my sister. I’m just sad that it’s precisely during Christmas.” They moved into the living room, settling on opposite ends of the sofa. The suitcase lay open between them like a half-told story. Amelia toyed with the corner of a scarf. “Do you think I’m being impulsive?” “I think,” Anne said gently, “that, despite everything, you’ve spent your entire life being cautious. You deserve at least one beautiful risk.” Amelia let out a soft laugh. “It’s hardly a risk. It’s a quiet village in Provence. Restoring an old manor. No drama, no reporters, no pressure.” “Exactly,” Anne replied. “Which is why, I hope… I don’t know… that you find something there. Or someone.” Amelia’s eyes widened. “Anne.” “What? All I’m saying is that you’ve been carrying too much alone. And you deserve a life that feels like yours.” Snow tapped quietly against the windows. The sisters sat in a comfortable silence before Anne stood up, smoothing her coat. “I’ll let you finish packing. But promise me something.” “What?” “Promise me you’ll let this trip be more than work. Let yourself breathe a little.” Amelia managed a small smile. “I’ll try.” Anne pulled her into a warm embrace—rare for her, and therefore sacred. “I love you, Mel,” she whispered. “Don’t forget who you are when you’re away from here.” The door clicked shut behind her. The flat fell silent again, but not empty—Anne’s presence had left something steadier behind. Amelia crossed back to the window. Snow still drifted under the streetlamp, soft and slow, as if inviting her forward. A new project. A new village. A Christmas far from London. A chance to be just Amelia. She had no idea what this little town had in store for her. But that was Provence’s secret to reveal. Tomorrow.