Friday had been brutal. She'd woken up with a fever that left her head throbbing and her limbs heavy. The morning was spent under the duvet, wrapped in her softest blanket, the children's toys and half-read books scattered on the floor of her living room from the day before. Becca and Luke had been at her mother's for the day, a small blessing in disguise — at least she didn't have to run around catering to their demands while fighting off flu.
She groaned as she reached for her phone, half-expecting a flood of work emails. But there was only one message notification blinking at her: Robert.
Robert:Feeling any better? Do you need anything?
She blinked, unsure if she should respond. It was… considerate. Unexpected, even. She typed a quick reply.
Isabelle:Better, thank you. Just miserable, but surviving.
The instant she hit send, a warmth bloomed in her chest. Not romantic — she reminded herself firmly — just gratitude.
By mid-morning, she was dozing on and off, the faint hum of her radiator keeping her company, when another message appeared.
Robert:Glad to hear it. Don't push yourself. The office can wait. Your health and kids come first.
She smiled faintly, curling deeper into her blanket. The careful phrasing, the quiet concern, made her feel unexpectedly… cared for. She couldn't remember the last time anyone apart from her mother had checked on her like this, without expecting something in return.
Over the weekend, Robert continued to message her. Short, thoughtful check-ins:
Robert:How are you holding up?
Robert:Are the children behaving?
Robert:Hope you managed a nap today.
She replied when she could, grateful for the warmth, slightly unnerved by how easy it felt to converse with him. She told herself repeatedly: Just friendly. That's all it is.
Yet, as she lay in bed Saturday night, the soft glow of her phone screen illuminating her face, she caught herself rereading his last few messages. A small thrill ran through her — the sort that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with connection.
She had no time for feelings. No space for anything but work and her children. And yet, here she was, thinking about Robert.
Meanwhile, Robert sat at his desk long after the office had emptied, the city outside dark and wet with a steady drizzle. He didn't know why he kept checking his phone, why her presence — even absent — felt like a physical weight pressing against his chest.
It wasn't necessity. The campaign had paused over the weekend. No urgent emails, no client calls. He wasn't required to check.
And yet he did.
He read each reply carefully, noticing small changes in tone, the slight softness when she responded about the children. He didn't push, didn't probe, didn't offer anything more than he thought polite.
He told himself it was fine. Just checking in. Friendly concern. He repeated it to himself like a mantra.
Still, each ping of her response made his heart miss a beat in a way he hadn't expected.
Sunday arrived, and with it, Clive.
She had been enjoying a quiet morning with the children, the sunlight soft on the living room carpet, Becca carefully constructing a block tower while Luke zoomed his toy cars across the floor. Isabelle had finally managed a cup of tea that wasn't lukewarm and had just begun to breathe, when the doorbell rang.
Clive. Unannounced. And with him, his new girlfriend.
Her stomach sank. The children froze. Becca clutched a soft toy to her chest, while Luke pressed against her leg.
"I wanted to see them this morning," Clive said casually, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
"I told you last week," Isabelle said, voice tight, "if you want to see them, call first. Don't just show up."
"Relax," he said, flashing a grin that used to make her stomach flutter years ago. "It's Sunday. You're overreacting."
She took a deep breath. "I'm not overreacting. This is their home. I have sole custody. That means you can't just barge in when it suits you."
He tilted his head, sighing. "Are you saying you want me never to see them, then?"
Her heart sank. She hated that she couldn't just tell him to leave. He would argue, manipulate, insist — and the children would be hurt. "I need them back by six. They have school tomorrow," she said firmly.
Clive grunted, but didn't argue further. The children reluctantly gathered their coats and shoes. Isabelle watched him walk out, a knot of frustration and exhaustion twisting inside her.
Her texts came slowly that afternoon. She was quiet, subdued, clearly preoccupied. He noticed immediately.
Robert:Are you okay? You seem… distracted.
It was subtle, not prying. She hesitated, then finally typed:
Isabelle:It's nothing you need to worry about. Just… family stuff.
He didn't push, but he sensed the weight behind the words.
By evening, he asked again.
Robert:If you want to talk, I can listen.
She stared at the screen for a long moment. Then, with a shaky exhale, she called him.
Her voice over the phone was quiet, hesitant at first. "It's… Clive. He brought someone new. Becca and Luke… they don't like her. They don't want to see him. I… I don't know how to handle it."
Robert listened without interrupting, without judgment. She felt the words spill from her lips, almost as if the phone call alone made them easier to release.
Then he asked softly, gently: "Why did you and Clive get divorced?"
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself breathe. "We'd been together since school. We started university together… and then I got pregnant with Becca. We decided to keep her, so I… dropped out. Took a job shortly after she was born. Just a call centre job at first."
"And Luke?" Robert prompted quietly.
"He came later," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "By then, Clive had moved out. He… didn't want to be tied down with two children. He was focused on work, climbing the ladder… everything I wasn't interested in. We grew apart somewhere along the way."
Her chest tightened, memories rushing in. "I got a job at Hale and Partners, low-level admin. Worked long hours, worked hard. Richard noticed. I became his assistant. That's how I got here. I didn't have a degree… just worked harder than anyone else."
He didn't speak, not even a word. He simply let her tell him, absorbing the story. Each detail painted a clearer picture of the woman he had been drawn to for months — brilliant, determined, and resilient.
He felt a strange tug in his chest. Not romantic — not exactly — but protective. Caring. A quiet awareness that this story, this life, was something fragile and precious.
He wanted to tell her it didn't matter that she had no degree, no prestigious start, that she had survived and built a life despite obstacles he couldn't begin to imagine. He wanted to tell her she was extraordinary. But he stayed silent, letting her hold control, letting her own voice carry the weight.
She realised nearly an hour later that she'd been talking almost without pause. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. "Oh… I'm sorry. I've gone on and on."
Robert:No. I like listening. Really.
Her throat tightened. She tried to laugh lightly, a little self-deprecating. "Well, I've probably exhausted your patience enough for one evening."
Robert:Not at all. You've… given me perspective. Thank you.
She swallowed hard, touched that he had stayed silent, that he had listened without judgment, without interrupting.
She forced herself to change the subject, fumbling for something lighter, but inside, a warmth had spread that she couldn't ignore. She told herself again: It's nothing. Just friendship.
But curling under her blanket that night, she replayed his words, his careful tone, his patience. She realised she had never been listened to like that. Not really. And it made her chest ache in a way she wasn't ready to name.
He sat back in his chair after the call ended, phone resting on the desk. He thought about her voice, the way she hesitated, how she trusted him enough to tell her story.
He didn't move. He didn't call again. He simply let her words echo in his mind.
He knew one thing for certain: he couldn't let anything hurt her. Not clients, not colleagues, not even life itself.
And as he finally leaned back, eyes closing briefly, he realised that the protective instinct he'd tried to suppress had only grown stronger — quiet, unspoken, and relentless.