The café was tucked away on a quiet street near the river; the kind of place most people walked past without noticing. Low lighting, soft music, the comforting hum of conversation.
She'd arrived first, choosing a corner table by the window. The air smelled of roasted coffee beans and rain from outside.
When Robert walked in, the world seemed to narrow for a moment.
He was in his usual dark coat, hair slightly damp from the drizzle, his expression softened when he saw her.
"Morning," he said, his voice low and warm.
"Morning," she replied. "You survived Japan, then?"
"Barely," he said, pulling off his gloves. "How's London?"
"Colder without you," she said lightly, then flushed. "I mean —without your help on the Becker account."
He smiled faintly. "I knew what you meant."
For a moment, everything felt easy again. They ordered coffee, talked about work, the weather, trivial things that filled the space without touching the weight beneath.
Then her phone buzzed.
She glanced at the screen — the name made her stomach dip.
Julian Becker.
She didn't open it, but the notification was enough: a preview of another too-familiar message.
Robert saw the flicker in her expression. "Problem?"
She hesitated. "It's just the client. He's been… persistent."
His jaw tightened. "Persistent how?"
"Messages," she said quietly. "Calls. Nothing I can't handle."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. "You shouldn't have to handle it if it isn't work related, or professional."
"Robert —"
"I'll take over the Becker file," he said, tone firm. "I'm back now."
"Really, it's —"
"Not up for debate," he said. "I'll call him this afternoon."
She wanted to argue, but something in his expression stopped her. He wasn't angry at her — not exactly. He was angry for her.
And that, somehow, made it harder to breathe.
He made the call that afternoon.
"Julian," he said evenly when the man answered, smooth and self-satisfied as ever. "Robert Blake. I'm back in London. I'll be resuming management of your account."
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. "Ah, Robert. You delegate well. Isabelle has been delightful. You should keep her on my account."
"That won't be possible," Robert said, his tone controlled and firm like a steel rod. "She's needed elsewhere."
"Shame," Becker said, voice dripping with amusement. "We worked very well together. She's… excellent."
Robert's fingers tightened on the phone. "She's also unavailable," he said quietly. "In more ways than one."
A soft laugh came down the line. "I see. Possessive, are we?"
"Professional," Robert corrected, then hung up before he said something he'd regret.
He sat there for a moment after the call ended, staring out of the office window at the grey sprawl of London.
He'd told himself it wasn't his place to care. But caring had become second nature where she was concerned; subtle, uninvited, now impossible to undo.
The bar was loud enough to drown out most conversations, but Richard had a way of making himself heard even in a crowd.
He slid a pint across the table to Robert. "You've been brooding since you got back. What's going on?"
"Nothing," Robert said automatically.
"Don't give me that," Richard said, half amused, half exasperated. "You've already had two of the marketing team asking if they've done something wrong because you've been stomping around like a bear with a sore head. I can almost see a thundercloud above you."
Robert gave a dry smile. "I'm fine."
Richard raised an eyebrow. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Isabelle, would it?"
Robert's head snapped up. "Why would you say that?"
"Because you just tensed like I accused you of murder," Richard said calmly. "Look, if you like her, say so. If you don't, stop acting like her keeper. You can't have it both ways."
Robert's jaw tightened. "It's not like that."
"Then what's it like?"
Robert stared into his glass. "She's been through enough. I don't want to make things complicated for her."
Richard studied him for a long moment. "Or maybe you're afraid of making things complicated for yourself."
Robert didn't answer.
Richard leaned back, his tone softening. "I know what Lisa did to you, Robert. You don't have to pretend it didn't leave a mark. But Isabelle isn't like her. You and I both know that."
Robert looked away, throat tight. "She has children, Richard. A life. Stability. If I walked into that, and it fell apart —"
"You think you'd be the one to hurt her?"
Robert said nothing.
Richard sighed. "Funny. From where I'm standing, you're the one most likely to protect her from everyone else. Including yourself."
He clapped a hand on Robert's shoulder, half reassuring, half resigned. "Just think about it. Before you let fear decide for you."
That night, he lay awake in the half-dark, the city lights painting faint gold against his ceiling.
He kept hearing Richard's words.
If you like her, tell her.
If you don't, stop acting like her keeper.
But it wasn't that simple.
He'd seen what love did when it went wrong.
He'd lived through the wreckage once; the betrayal, the public fallout, the months of rebuilding what his ex-wife had torn apart, how broken it had left him.
He couldn't do that again.
Not to himself.
Not to Isabelle.
And yet, the thought of walking into the office tomorrow and pretending he didn't care, made something inside him twist painfully.
Some risks, he told himself, were too costly.
But as he closed his eyes, he saw her face; that quiet strength, that rare, unguarded smile that he could never get enough of; and wondered if this was one of them.