The drive should have calmed him.
The late-afternoon sun spilled in shifting gold across the road; the air was warm; the weekend stretched wide and open before him. But Richard's hands refused to unclench around the steering wheel.
Eleanor's face kept flashing across his mind. Pale. Nervous. Trying to smile.
"I've missed you… I've missed the children…"
He gritted his teeth.
Nine months. Nine months of silence. Not a call, not a message, not a single request to see her own children. What mother went that long without even asking how they were? Without wanting to hear their voices? Without caring?
His chest tightened.
He was grateful, fiercely, quietly grateful, that Drew was spending the weekend at his friend's house, lost in video games and teenage laughter; and that Chloe was off at her music festival, camping in a field with a thousand other young people. They were safe. Out of the way. Out of Eleanor's reach.
His chest tightened at the thought, a familiar, protective anger curling through him.
He hated that he had to think like that.
The kids had trusted him with the things she'd said to them when he wasn't there: the sighs, the coldness, the quiet implications that they were burdens instead of blessings. He had sworn that no one, especially not her, would ever make them feel unwanted again.
But tonight wasn't about her.
Tonight was about Robert; his friend, his brother in everything but blood; and Isabelle, whom he respected deeply. He needed to push Eleanor out of his mind. Be present. Be steady. Be the best man he was supposed to be. For them.
He exhaled sharply, tugged at the open collar of his shirt, and forced his attention back to the road.
By the time he pulled into the sweeping driveway of the country hotel; where both the rehearsal dinner and wedding were being held, he was a few minutes late.
Wonderful. Just what he needed: to show up flustered, his pulse still a beat too fast.
The moment he stepped into the garden, he was met with warmth; soft fairy lights, clinking glasses, murmured conversations floating between tables. Robert spotted him first and broke into a grin.
"There he is! Thought you'd abandoned me," Robert teased, pulling him into a brief, hearty hug.
"Never," Richard said, managing a smile. "My apologies, traffic."
A lie, small and harmless.
Isabelle rose to hug him as well. She looked tired in that unmistakable new-mother way, but she glowed with a quiet contentment she probably didn't even realise she carried.
"We're just happy you're here," she said.
Richard scanned the area.
"And where is your beautiful baby boy? I was hoping for a cuddle."
Isabelle nodded toward the far end of the table. "Over there. With my mother."
Richard followed her gesture; and then stopped mid-step.
A woman sat at the end of the table, gently rocking baby Michael. She looked up just as his gaze reached her.
And he felt the world tilt.
She resembled Isabelle; the same elegant bone structure, but older, steadier. Her dark hair fell in soft waves, and she carried herself with a quiet grace. Her expression was warm, serene… and carrying a shadow of something lived-through. Loss, perhaps. Resilience certainly.
When their eyes met, something hit him low in his chest. Not shock. Not lightning. More like a tide he hadn't seen coming, rolling in and sweeping his footing out from beneath him.
For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
He felt absurdly young; like a boy caught off guard by the sight of a woman who made the world fall away without even trying.
His palms went damp. His heart kicked hard. Words deserted him.
She didn't look away.
She offered him a small, warm smile; a smile that felt like she understood exactly how overwhelmed he suddenly was, and chose to be gentle with him.
Richard swallowed, his throat strangely tight.
Oh God, he thought. I am in trouble.
He walked toward her, one step at a time, careful as though approaching something fragile.
"You must be Helene," he said softly, shifting his gaze to the baby in her arms. "And this must be Michael."
Helene's smile deepened. Up close, she was even lovelier, not in a showy way, but in a way that held attention effortlessly. Her eyes were warm, intelligent, and… kind. So profoundly kind.
"And you must be Richard," she replied. "I've heard all about you from Isabelle."
He felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
"Good things, I hope."
Helene let out a soft, musical laugh. It was light and warm, the sort of sound that felt like it wrapped itself around him.
"All good," she promised.
Her voice stirred something inside him he hadn't expected; like a chord struck perfectly, resonating quietly under his ribs. And when she smiled… God, she was beautiful.
"May I?" he asked, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.
"Of course."
He sat, suddenly aware of everything; his breathing, the way he was holding his hands, the heat rising under his collar. But within moments, the tightness eased. There was something steadying about her presence, something that made conversation feel natural, as though they were picking up a dialogue they'd started years ago.
Michael stirred with a soft sigh, and Richard felt the last remnants of tension melt from his shoulders.
"He's beautiful," he murmured.
"He is," Helene said. "And so peaceful."
Richard smiled. A real smile, warm and unguarded.
"Becca and Luke must be beside themselves about tomorrow. Robert says they're taking this wedding more seriously than most CEOs take their quarterly targets."
Helene laughed, her eyes brightening.
"Luke informed me he's 'a key part of the ceremony and cannot be distracted'. And Becca asked me this afternoon whether her dress is 'bridal enough without being too bridal.'"
Richard chuckled.
"That sounds adorable."
They fell into conversation with a surprising ease.
About Becca's fiery little spirit.
Luke's boyish sense of humour.
The excitement that had been buzzing through the house all week.
Then the topic shifted as though following a natural current.
"This garden," Helene said, looking out over the sweeping grounds, "is stunning. I can't imagine how many people it takes to keep it looking like this."
"A small army, I suspect."
She laughed softly. "I love gardening, but goodness… something this big would defeat me."
He turned toward her, "You garden?" he asked, unexpectedly delighted.
"Oh yes. Not professionally," she clarified, "but it's my sanctuary. My little patch of calm. Flowers, herbs, the occasional stubborn tomato plant that refuses to die."
Richard chuckled, warmth blooming somewhere behind his ribs.
"I kill everything I touch."
"I doubt that very much."
"No, it's completely true. Even succulents fear me. It's a tragic talent."
Her laugh was soft and bright, and he felt it land somewhere deep inside him.
Their conversation wandered gently from gardens to books, from her teaching to his children, to the quiet corners of London they each loved; every thread slipping seamlessly into the next.
At some point, he found himself thinking:
How strange… that someone I've just met feels like someone I've known forever.
He hadn't expected this.
Not today.
Not ever, really.
But sitting there beside her, listening to her soft laugh, watching her cradle her grandson with tender certainty; he felt something shift inside him. Quiet, but unmistakable.
Something that made the world around them blur just a little at the edges.