The 7:12 from Clapham was already packed when Isabelle Cole slipped through the closing doors, clutching her takeaway coffee like a shield. The carriage hummed with irritation — wet coats, tired faces, the soft hiss of rain against the windows. She stood wedged between a man in a pinstripe suit and a student with headphones leaking tinny music, swaying with the motion of the train.
Typical London morning: grey, damp, and vaguely resentful.
Isabelle took a slow sip of her coffee. Too hot, bitter. Her phone buzzed with a reminder — Board meeting prep, 9:30 She checked the time. 7:41. If the Northern Line behaved, she'd reach Bank before eight.
It had been a decent morning, all things considered. Becca had brushed her hair without tears, Luke had eaten his cereal without launching it at the cat, and her mum had only reminded her twice about Luke's upcoming parents' evening. For a Monday, that bordered on miraculous.
When the train jerked to a stop at London Bridge, a gust of cold air swept in, bringing the sharp smell of rain and city grit. Isabelle adjusted her scarf and let her mind move ahead — budgets, invoices, Richard's travel itinerary for Zurich next week. Her to-do list stretched like a second skin, something she wore without thinking.
By the time she emerged onto the street at Bank, the drizzle had turned steady. She dodged puddles and umbrellas, the wet slap of shoes echoing around her. The glass towers of the City loomed overhead, glistening and indifferent.
Inside Hale & Partners, the air smelled of polished wood and eucalyptus from the florist downstairs. The marble floor gleamed. Isabelle offered a quick smile to the security guard, tapped her pass, and stepped into the lift.
"Morning, Isabelle," called Jess from reception.
"Morning," Isabelle replied, her voice bright, but automatic.
In the lift's mirrored walls, she saw her reflection — chestnut hair pinned neatly, grey coat belted tight, expression calm. She'd mastered that calm: professional, composed, unshakeable. No one at Hale & Partners saw the sleepless nights, the school letters, the rent reminders.
When she reached the twelfth floor, she walked straight to her desk outside Richard Hale's office. The open-plan workspace was hushed except for the low murmur of a couple of colleagues. Isabelle slipped off her coat, powered on her computer, and began sifting through the post.
She'd barely opened her inbox when Richard appeared in the doorway.
"Morning, Isabelle."
She turned, offering a quick, professional smile. "Morning, Richard. I've printed your board documents. You've got your call with Singapore at Eight forty-five."
"Excellent." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Could I have a word before the meeting?"
A prickle of unease stirred. "Of course."
Inside his glass-walled office, the Thames stretched grey and restless below. Richard gestured for her to sit.
"I wanted to give you a heads-up," he began, smoothing his tie. "I'm bringing someone new in. A consultant, technically. Robert Kane. He's an old friend of mine. He'll be heading our new PR strategy."
"PR?" Isabelle blinked. "I thought that was going to be outsourced."
"It was, but Robert's exceptional — top of his field. It'll be good to have him embedded here, hands-on. He'll work closely with me — and with you."
Isabelle's stomach tightened. With me. She hated surprises.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "I'll get him settled in."
Richard smiled, relieved. "He can be a bit… direct. Don't take it personally. You'll handle him better than anyone."
Which, Isabelle thought grimly as she returned to her desk, was Richard-speak for he's a difficult man.
She sighed, checked the time, and buried herself in her work.
By ten, the drizzle had thickened to proper rain. The office buzzed with quiet activity. Isabelle had just finished reviewing the catering contract for an event when she heard the lift doors open. A murmur rippled through the floor — the kind reserved for newcomers worth whispering about.
She looked up.
Robert Kane was taller than she expected — late thirties, broad-shouldered, but lean, hair light brown with a few streaks of grey. His expression was cool, analytical, as though he were cataloguing the entire office within seconds.
Richard greeted him with a hearty clap on the shoulder. "Robert! Glad you're here. Let me introduce you to my assistant — Isabelle Cole, I'd be lost without her."
Robert's eyes landed on her, steady and unreadable. He offered his hand. "Miss Cole."
"Isabelle," she said, shaking it. His grip was firm, cold, impersonal.
"Of course." His tone was dry, his mouth a faint line that might have been amusement — or dismissal.
"She keeps me sane," Richard went on. "Knows this place better than anyone. She'll get you up to speed."
Robert nodded once. "I'll try not to slow her down."
Isabelle couldn't tell if that was a compliment or a warning.
She guided him to a spare desk near hers, already prepped with folders and access credentials. "You'll find the current PR reports here. The digital files are on a shared drive."
He looked them over briefly. "I prefer to run my own system. I'll send you my requirements later."
"Of course," she said, keeping her tone even.
He didn't thank her.
A few minutes later, Sienna Marks appeared, all gloss and perfume. She gave Isabelle a pointed smile before turning to Robert with dazzling charm. "You must be Mr Kane. Welcome to Hale & Partners. I'm Sienna, Marketing Associate."
"Robert," he said, returning the handshake briefly. His gaze flicked between her and Isabelle, then to Richard's office, where their boss was on the phone.
"Richard certainly surrounds himself with beautiful young women," he said mildly, almost as an observation. "Not the most professional image, though, is it?"
The words landed like a slap.
Sienna blinked, a faint flush creeping up her neck — but Isabelle felt the deeper sting. Professional image. Beautiful young women. As if that was what she was to this company — decoration.
"Perhaps he surrounds himself with competence," Isabelle said quietly, before she could stop herself.
Robert's eyes met hers then, cool and unreadable. A pause. "I suppose we'll see."
And with that, he turned back to his laptop.
Sienna lingered for a moment, her smile brittle. "Well. Lovely to meet you." She disappeared down the corridor, heels clicking sharply.
Isabelle's fingers itched to type something — anything — just to break the tension humming in the air. She didn't. She just sat, spine straight, pulse steady, pretending her face wasn't burning.
The rest of the morning dragged.
Robert worked in silence, barely acknowledging her. His emails were clipped, efficient. When she brought him the updated itinerary, he took it without looking up.
"Thank you," he said flatly, as though the words cost effort.
By midday, Isabelle had fielded several calls, rescheduled a meeting, and printed last-minute board documents when she noticed the presentation file acting strange.
She opened it. Half the charts were missing. Slides blank, data gone.
Her heart sank. Not again.
It wasn't the first time something had gone mysteriously wrong — a file mis-saved, an email that supposedly "never arrived." Small errors that made her look sloppy. She'd brushed them off before, blaming software, late nights, exhaustion. But this was starting to feel deliberate.
She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed out, then began rebuilding the file from her backup folder.
"Problem?"
Robert's voice cut across the quiet.
"Just a corrupted file," she said, without looking at him.
He studied her for a beat. "Happens often?"
"More often than I'd like."
"Then maybe you should change your system."
She bit back a retort. "It's not the system."
"Then it's the user."
She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. "Not this one."
Something flickered — a faint narrowing of his eyes — before he returned to his screen.
She rebuilt the slides in silence, fingers moving fast, jaw tight.
By six o'clock, most of the office had emptied. Rain pressed against the windows in steady sheets, blurring the lights outside. Isabelle was still at her desk, double-checking documents, when she sensed movement.
Robert was packing up, coat in hand.
"You're still here," he said.
"I like to finish what I start."
He nodded, slow. "That's admirable. And exhausting."
"I manage."
"I can see that."
Something in his tone wasn't quite approval — more a detached curiosity, as if she were a puzzle he couldn't yet solve.
"Good night, Miss Cole."
She didn't look up. "Good night, Mr Kane."
When the lift doors closed behind him, she finally leaned back in her chair, exhaustion washing over her. The rain outside was relentless, London's skyline a blur of gold and grey.
Her laptop hummed quietly. Another day survived.
Let them underestimate her. Let them mutter about looks or assistants who worked too hard.
She knew exactly who she was — and she was not to be dismissed.