March in London had a way of making everything feel heavier. The mornings were grey and damp, the evenings longer and chillier than they should have been. The city moved at its usual relentless pace, but Isabelle felt as though she were trudging through it all in slow motion.
The campaign she had been managing in Robert's absence was back on track, but the pressure had only increased. Reports, calls, meetings, constant updates — everything demanded more than the energy she had to give. Her eyes were often rimmed with fatigue, her shoulders stiff from hours hunched over spreadsheets and emails.
It was during one particularly long afternoon that she noticed Marcus from the Christmas party standing near her desk, casually leaning against a cubicle wall. He offered that easy grin again, the one that had made her uncomfortable during the gala.
"Isabelle," he said, voice smooth and slightly teasing. "I don't think we properly exchanged numbers last time. Maybe I could have it now?"
She straightened in her chair, her posture tight. "No, thank you," she said firmly. Her tone was polite, but decisive. She didn't have time for the distractions, the small dramas, the flirtations she had learned to navigate and avoid. She had her work and her children, that was enough.
Marcus smiled, not unkindly, and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Fair enough," he said, stepping back. But she could feel the eyes of the office flicking toward her — casual gossip, casual judgment, all of it invisible yet heavy.
She let out a quiet sigh, pushing back from her desk and rubbing her temples. Corporate London was wearing her down. Every day felt like a test of endurance, balancing the office's demands with her children's needs, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy while her energy slowly drained.
By Friday, she had made a decision. She was going to take a week off for half-term. The thought of spending uninterrupted time with Becca and Luke — just ordinary, quiet moments — gave her a spark of relief she hadn't felt in months.
He had noticed her the moment he walked into the office that morning. The way her shoulders slumped slightly, the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the subtle tightness in her jaw.
He wanted to ask if she was okay. He wanted to offer help, some small relief, anything to ease the weight she carried. But it wasn't his place. She was competent, brilliant, and stubbornly independent. He had seen that clearly enough over the last few months.
Still, he lingered near her desk just a little longer than necessary, observing quietly.
Marcus' approach didn't escape him. Robert saw the subtle tension in Isabelle's posture, the polite but firm way she declined to give her number. He could feel the protective instinct rise, sharp and urgent. But he stayed put, careful, professional.
She didn't need him to intervene. She was handling it — calmly, firmly, elegantly — as only she could.
By the end of the week, she had packed her desk for half-term, her mind already shifting to the week ahead: board games in the living room, walks in the park, storytime in the evenings, baking with the children. Ordinary things, ordinary moments, life that mattered more than deadlines or spreadsheets.
As she put away the last of her notes, she glanced toward the office entrance. Robert was there, observing quietly, the faint crease of concern in his brow.
"Are you ready?" he asked softly, not stepping too close.
She nodded, forcing a smile. "Yes. I can't wait for a break."
He nodded, eyes lingering on her briefly, wishing he could do more than simply observe. "Have a good week," he said quietly.
She appreciated the tone, the restraint, the subtle care. "I will," she said, walking past him.
Even as she left the office, the tiredness in her limbs was tempered by a small warmth — the sense that someone saw her, truly saw her, and silently acknowledged the weight she carried every day.
Once she was gone, he let out a quiet breath, turning back toward the office. He didn't like the thought of her under such pressure, of her carrying everything alone.
He had wanted, more than anything, to take some of it away. To lighten the load, to ease the exhaustion he could see etched into her features. But he couldn't. He would have to wait, bide his time, and protect her in the ways he could — quietly, carefully, without overstepping boundaries.
For now, he would watch from afar. He would ensure no client, no colleague, no circumstance added to her burden. And he would hope, silently, that she knew she wasn't entirely alone.
The weekend arrived. The air was crisp, the sky pale, but clear — a perfect break from the relentless grey of London's workweek. Becca and Luke were thrilled to have her entirely to themselves, their laughter filling the flat as they built forts, baked cookies; and ran in the park until their cheeks were flushed and their energy finally spent.
As she watched them, Isabelle felt the tension of the past months begin to lift, inch by inch. She realised she had been running on pure adrenaline for so long, that the simple pleasure of being present with her children felt like a luxury; one she hadn't allowed herself in years.
She thought about Robert once, fleetingly. His quiet messages, the soft concern in his tone, the way he'd noticed without comment how exhausted she had become. She pushed the thought away, reminding herself that this was not something to dwell on — not now, not when the children needed her fully.
Still, she felt an unexpected warmth at the memory.
From his office, he imagined her at home, finally resting, finally breathing. The thought tugged at him in ways he couldn't articulate. Not desire, not romance. But an urge to protect, to care, to shield her from anything that might drain her strength.
He would wait. He would let her continue to lead her life as she needed. And he would remain in the background, quiet, observant, ensuring she never faced unnecessary weight alone.
He knew the moment she returned from half-term, she would be renewed, ready to tackle whatever Richard and his office threw at her next. But he also knew something else — that week would only deepen the invisible thread between them, the silent current of concern and attention that had been quietly pulling them together for months.
And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself a small, unspoken hope: that when she came back, she might notice it too.