She noticed it the moment she stepped into the office that morning.
Robert's usual easy smile was muted, the brief nod he offered curt, almost clipped. He didn't linger near her desk. He didn't ask how she'd slept, didn't make one of his quiet, wry comments that used to anchor her mornings.
He'd become distant.
For a moment, she panicked, scanning through the last few days for something she might have done wrong. But there was nothing — just that subtle shift, the kind you could feel rather than see, unspoken yet tangible.
She forced herself to breathe.
It's fine. It's for the best. Be professional.
And she was.
For the next few days, she backed off, keeping every exchange between them strictly work-related. She focused on spreadsheets, schedules, client reports. She met his cool professionalism with her own, even when it scraped against something in her chest that had started to feel like longing.
Still, there was a hollow where his warmth had been — a silence she couldn't quite fill, no matter how busy she kept herself.
Richard's words from the week before replayed in Robert's mind: If you like her, tell her. If you don't, stop acting like her keeper.
But he couldn't. He wasn't ready to risk bringing her anywhere near the chaos of his past. The thought of her getting caught in the undertow of his mistakes — the failed marriage, the scandal that had nearly destroyed his reputation — was enough to make his chest tighten.
So he kept his distance. Curt when necessary, polite, but never warm. Every look was measured. Every word deliberate.
It felt like punishment — both for her and for himself.
A week later, Julian Becker arrived in London.
The moment he stepped into the office, the temperature seemed to change.
He was charm dressed in an expensive suit — that effortless, practiced charisma that made people lean in before they realised they shouldn't. And from the moment he saw her, his focus was absolute.
"Isabelle," he said smoothly, stopping by her desk with a grin that carried too much intent. "You look fantastic, as always."
She straightened. "Mr Becker. Good morning."
"Please — Julian," he corrected, his voice soft and deliberate. "You really do brighten the place up, you know that?"
Her smile was professional. "Can I get you some coffee before the meeting starts?"
"Only if you'll join me for one."
"I have work to do."
He laughed, as though she'd made a joke.
By mid-morning, the flirting had become relentless — always veiled enough to give him plausible deniability. Small touches on her arm that lingered too long. Comments on her outfit that skirted propriety. Invitations dressed as compliments.
Each time, she withdrew a little further into herself, answering in clipped tones, redirecting the conversation. Once, she managed to pull another assistant, Freya, into the exchange under the pretence of needing her help with a report. But Becker's gaze slid past Freya as though she didn't exist.
The more Isabelle deflected, the more persistent he became.
When Robert returned from a meeting on another floor, he paused by the glass partition. The sight stopped him cold — Becker leaning far too close, Isabelle shifting her chair slightly away. Her expression was composed, but he recognised the tension in her shoulders.
A quiet, dark anger settled in his gut.
He didn't move immediately. He watched — just long enough to confirm what he already knew — before stepping forward, his voice cutting clean through the room.
"Isabelle."
She looked up, startled. "Yes?"
"I need these files sent out this afternoon. Personally, please. Take the company car and make sure they're delivered. Now, please."
Becker's grin faltered. "Surely that can wait until —"
"It can't," Robert said, his tone even, his gaze fixed on Becker long enough for the message to land.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The entire room seemed to quieten.
"Go ahead, Isabelle," he said softly. "Go home afterwards."
Relief flickered across her face. She gathered the files quickly, murmured a polite goodbye, and slipped out. Robert watched her go, his jaw tight, his hands clenched loosely at his sides. Only when she was gone did he turn back to Becker, his voice low and precise.
"Mr Becker," he said, "a word in my office."
Whatever passed between them behind closed doors stayed there, but when Becker emerged ten minutes later, the grin was gone. Julian didn't come to the office for the rest of the week.
Outside, Isabelle inhaled the cold air like it was oxygen. She leaned against the car door for a moment, closing her eyes, letting the tension drain from her shoulders.
She knew she hadn't done anything wrong — but still, shame and relief tangled together in her chest. She shouldn't have needed him to step in. She was perfectly capable of handling herself. And yet, when he had, she'd felt safe.
That evening, her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Robert: Just checking you made it home safely. Everything okay?
Her breath caught. She typed before she could overthink it.
Isabelle: Yes. Thank you for earlier. It was… uncomfortable.
A pause. Then:
Robert: I'm glad you're okay. Don't worry about tomorrow. I'll be around all day.
She smiled faintly at the screen, her heart beating a little faster than she wanted it to.
Isabelle: I appreciate it.
A beat.
Robert: Sleep well, Isabelle. We'll talk tomorrow.
She set her phone down, unable to stop the warmth from spreading through her chest. No declarations, no lines crossed. Just quiet care — the kind that said everything words couldn't.
In his flat across the city, Robert sat in the dim light of his study, his phone still in his hand. He wasn't angry, not exactly. But the thought of Becker hovering near her desk again made his jaw tighten all over again.
He'd seen this sort of man too many times before — entitled, relentless, convinced that charm was a shield.
He took a slow breath, leaning back in his chair, and admitted to himself what he'd been denying for weeks.
He didn't just want to protect her. He wanted to keep her.
And that, he knew, was far more dangerous.