The next morning Isabelle's day began before dawn.
Isabelle woke to the soft patter of rain against the window and the faint hum of traffic rising from the street below. Her alarm hadn't gone off yet, but years of early starts had trained her body well. She lay still for a moment, listening to the familiar rhythm — Becca's soft breathing, Luke's small snores.
For a few seconds, she allowed herself to drift in that quiet, in-between space before the day began. Then she remembered Robert Kane's voice — cool, dismissive — "Not the most professional image, is it?"
She rolled her eyes at the ceiling, the irritation flaring fresh. She shouldn't care. He was a consultant, temporary. A man used to tossing out opinions like confetti. And yet his words had lingered all evening, replaying as she packed school lunches and ironed a blouse she didn't particularly like.
By 6:15, the household was awake. Luke refused his porridge, Becca couldn't find her left shoe, and Isabelle's phone pinged twice with work emails before she'd even finished her tea.
Her mum looked up from the kitchen table as Isabelle pulled on her coat.
"Long day ahead?"
"They're all long lately."
Her mum smiled, that quiet, knowing smile. "You'll manage. You always do."
Outside, the sky was a dull, bruised grey. The bus came late, the wind sharp. Isabelle pressed her gloves to her face to warm them, half-listening to the chatter of commuters. The city smelled of wet tarmac and strong coffee — the perfume of London ambition.
By the time she reached Hale & Partners, she was running on caffeine and sheer willpower. The office buzzed with pre-meeting tension; voices low, printers humming. Isabelle slipped into her desk and began sorting through the morning's tasks — finalising meeting notes, confirming a lunch booking for Richard, checking Robert's schedule.
She paused when she noticed an unread email marked URGENT.
The subject line made her stomach sink: Board Presentation – missing files.
It was from the head of marketing.
Isabelle, the document you uploaded last night appears incomplete. Three slides missing again. Please confirm this was intentional.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Again. That word made her chest tighten. She opened the shared drive — the same issue. Blank slides where data should have been.
A cool calm settled over her, the kind she used before difficult phone calls. She pulled up her private backup and began copying the correct version back over. No panic. No visible frustration. Just quiet, efficient control.
Still, something twisted inside her. This was the third time in as many weeks. It wasn't coincidence anymore.
"Everything all right?"
The voice startled her. She turned to find Robert standing beside her desk, coffee in hand, expression unreadable.
"Fine," she said. "Just a technical issue."
He glanced at her screen. "Twice in two days?"
"Three," she said before she could stop herself.
He made a low sound — not quite sympathy, not quite scepticism. "You might want to speak to IT. Or keep better backups."
"I do," she said evenly.
He regarded her for a moment, eyes cool and analytical. "Then perhaps it's human error."
Her jaw tightened. "Perhaps."
Robert sipped his coffee, apparently satisfied. "Richard wants the figures before the meeting. I'll need them in five minutes."
She almost smiled at the irony. "You'll have them in four."
When he walked away, the air around her seemed to exhale.
The boardroom gleamed like something from a magazine spread — glass, steel, the faint scent of polish and power. Isabelle stood by the door, tablet in hand, ready to assist as Richard began his presentation.
Robert sat opposite, composed and expressionless, contributing when asked, his voice smooth and measured. He was infuriatingly confident, the kind of man who could cut through discussion with a single, dry observation. And he didn't once look her way.
When the meeting ended, Richard clapped him on the shoulder. "Excellent work, as always. You two seem to be working well together."
Robert's mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "She's efficient."
The words were meant as praise, perhaps, but they landed flat. A faint heat rose in Isabelle's cheeks.
"Thank you," she said, voice steady.
As they left the room, Sienna appeared by the coffee machine, perfect timing as always.
"Morning," Sienna said brightly. "Great job in there, Robert. I heard the clients were impressed."
"Early days," he replied, polite, but detached.
She laughed softly. "Still, you've got everyone talking. It's not often someone new makes such an impression."
Robert gave a short nod, then turned to Isabelle. "Can you get me the full communications budget breakdown by tomorrow morning?"
"That wasn't on the schedule."
"It is now."
He didn't wait for her answer before walking off.
Sienna's smirk widened. "Charming, isn't he?"
Isabelle ignored her, returning to her desk with a measured calm she didn't quite feel.
By mid-afternoon, she'd rebuilt the damaged files, responded to thirty-seven emails, and started on Robert's new request. Her head ached from the hum of fluorescent lights. Rain pattered against the windows again, rhythmic and endless.
As she reached for a document, she noticed something odd — one of her printed reports was missing from the pile she'd set aside that morning. She searched her drawers, her inbox, the shared printer tray. Nothing.
Her heart sank. Another "coincidence."
She checked her memory — who'd been near her desk that day? Sienna had hovered around mid-morning, all smiles and idle chat. IT had replaced a monitor cable. And Robert — no, he'd barely looked up from his laptop.
Still, the sense of unease crawled under her skin like a splinter.
She restored the file from backup — again — and sent the reports to Robert's inbox.
Five minutes later, he appeared at her desk.
"You've sent me two versions."
"Both current," she said. "One includes the projected figures. Richard asked for both formats."
"Next time, specify that."
"I just did."
He studied her, that same detached curiosity flickering. "You don't take criticism well, do you?"
"I take unfair criticism even worse."
A pause — brief, taut. Then his mouth quirked in the faintest shadow of a smirk. "Noted."
He left without another word.
By six, most of the office had emptied again. Isabelle stayed, the glow of her screen painting her face pale in the dim light. Her mind whirred with the rhythm of small injustices — missing files, overwritten data, patronising consultants.
She knew she should go home. Becca would have homework. Luke's a handful for her mum at bath time. But she couldn't leave yet — not when things were slipping through her fingers, however subtly.
Richard passed by on his way out. "You're still here?"
"Just tying up loose ends."
"You work too hard, Isabelle. Careful not to burn out, all right?"
She managed a smile. "I'll be fine."
When he'd gone, she turned back to her computer. The office was silent except for the rain and the hum of traffic outside.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed movement. Robert, again, standing by the window with his coat over his arm, watching the city below.
"You know," he said after a moment, "most people in your position would clock off by five and let the chaos wait until morning."
"Most people don't keep Richard's schedule running."
"True." He turned slightly, his reflection catching in the glass. "Still, you might consider the value of delegation."
"I delegate plenty."
"To whom?"
She didn't answer.
He gave a low, amused sound, then looked at her properly. "You're not from this world, are you? The corporate one. You don't play the politics."
"Should I?"
"It helps. But you'd have to care what people think of you first."
She met his gaze across the dim office light. "I care what I think of me."
A beat passed. For once, he didn't have a retort.
Then he slipped his hands into his coat pockets and headed for the lift. "Good night, Miss Cole."
"Good night, Mr Kane."
When the lift doors closed, Isabelle sat back in her chair, the city lights glittering beyond the rain-streaked glass.
Somewhere between irritation and exhaustion, a flicker of something sharper stirred — determination. Someone was trying to make her look careless. And Robert Kane could think what he liked about professionalism and politics.
She'd survive this place the way she'd survived everything else: quietly, intelligently, and on her own terms.