The office smelled like coffee and paper and the faint antiseptic scent of a Monday morning. Robert leaned against the glass doors outside his client's offices, watching the hum of the open-plan floor. Everything was ordinary and yet, after Paris, it felt… different.
He thought of her — the way she'd walked beside him through the Paris streets, her quiet smile, the warmth she carried even into the coldest corners of his life. It had been intoxicating, grounding, terrifying. And now, back in London, he felt a strange hollow. Something was missing without her by his side.
He was there to meet with Brian, his newest client, the conversation would skim the usual topics — projects, launches, press releases — but Robert's mind drifted. To Isabelle. Her laugh. Her brilliance at everything she did. The way she managed chaos with calm precision. He couldn't stop thinking about her.
He realised, bitterly and with clarity, how wasted her talents were at Hale & Partners. She deserved more than the endless meetings, the office politics, the glass towers. She deserved work with heart, where she could leave a mark and be appreciated. And he wanted to give her that. He also wanted to be part of it.
Not just part of it professionally. Part of it personally. He imagined a small office, theirs to build, where her skills could shine unfettered, and where he could be there — by her side, fully present, in every way. He knew it was fast, maybe even reckless. But he couldn't bear the thought of being away from her, of letting her light fade in a place that didn't value her fully. He loved seeing her across the office and he couldn't imagine ever being content without that.
She left the office early that evening, still basking in the afterglow of Paris. She gazed happily at the ring on her finger, remembering her hands in his, warm and reassuring as they wandered the streets of Paris. Her thoughts were a tangled mixture of awe, relief, and the quiet thrill of possibility.
Her mum greeted her at the door, Becca and Luke bouncing around her legs. "And how's my favourite girl?" she asked, enveloping Isabelle in a hug.
"The best," Isabelle said, smiling. "If the children are good, I'm… good."
Her mother's eyes twinkled knowingly. "I know why you're happy. You've got to introduce him properly one day. I want to meet the man who's stolen my daughter's heart."
Isabelle laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Mum, he's not ready for a parental interrogation just yet."
Her mother shook her head, feigning exasperation. "Nonsense. You've been smiling like a schoolgirl for weeks. He's clearly good for you. Now he's put a ring on your finger, I want to sit down with him. He should get to know all of us."
Isabelle tucked the children into bed later that night, the quiet of the flat settling around her. Paris had been magical, but this — anticipating ordinary life with him — felt like the truest magic of all.
Back at his flat, Robert sat on the edge of the sofa, phone in hand, struggling with words that felt both too small and too large. He typed messages to Isabelle, deleted them, retyped, paused.
How are the children and your mum?
Her replies were slow, detailed glimpses of her life: Becca's love of painting, Luke falling asleep on the sofa, Mum having made roast chicken for dinner. Each message tethered him closer to her world, a world he longed to be fully part of.
Every word reminded him why he wanted to be there — not just as a friend, not just as a protector, but as a partner in everything. In the quiet of his flat, he pictured them building a life together: a small office where her talents could shine, evenings walking along the river, weekends filled with laughter from two children who adored her; and her, just being Isabelle, brilliant, unguarded and real.
He knew it was fast. He knew the risks. But he could no longer imagine holding back, he didn't want distance or restraint between them — all he wanted was to make her happy.
The following evening, as she put her children to bed, her phone buzzed.
What are you doing?
Just put the children to bed. You?
Thinking about Paris… thinking about you.
She smiled, typing back carefully: You have to come over for dinner sometime. Mum wants to get to know you.
Wouldn't miss it for the world.
Her heart fluttered, her chest light. For once, there were no doubts. No fears. Just anticipation and warmth, and the thrilling certainty that he was hers — and he wasn't going to leave her.
He read her message twice, then smiled so broadly his face ached.
Just tell me when, he typed, paused, then added I'll bring wine.
He sent it, already feeling the giddy nervousness he hadn't experienced in years. Not from client crises, not from office tension — real nerves.
He pictured her laughing with her mother, guiding her children through their evening routines and he felt something settle deep in his chest: this is what he wanted, this is what he had only ever dreamed of. And he wouldn't let it slip away.
Larer that night, she sat at the kitchen table with her mother, chatting happily, smiling uncontrollably.
"You know," her mother said, stacking the clean plates, "I'm genuinely happy for you. You look… at ease . And I like seeing you like this."
"I am happy, Mum," Isabelle admitted softly. "Really happy."
Her mother gave her a sly, knowing look. "So, Robert. When's he coming over for dinner? Did you ask?"
Isabelle's cheeks warmed. "Yes, soon. Very soon. He said he's looking forward to it."
"See?" her mother said, smiling. "You deserve someone who sees how remarkable you are."
The thought settled quietly in Isabelle's chest. Paris had been magical — but now, they were planning to spend the rest of their lives together, with laughter and warmth; this felt like the truest magic of all.
That night, he sent another short message:
I can't wait to meet them properly. Your children, your mum… I want to know all the people who make you, you.
Her reply came almost immediately:
They'll like you. You'll see. Probably more than they like me sometimes.
He smiled. Absurd, it's impossible to not love you, Isabelle. I just hope your children don't mind sharing you.
Lying in bed, he thought of the weeks ahead — work, meetings, hours of mundane tasks; then his thoughts drifted to the life they could build together. He didn't know what challenges they'd face. But one thing was certain: he wasn't letting it go. Not this time.
This time, love felt safe; and it felt real.