The late morning sun filtered through the flat, soft and pale, carrying the quiet hum of London traffic below. Isabelle woke slowly, still leaning against Robert, the events of the last few days heavy, but distant in the haze of sleep.
Robert sat beside her, already dressed, the faint scent of his cologne in the air. He'd stayed up late responding to emails, checking social media, ensuring the statement had been received and published correctly.
"You slept through half the morning," he said quietly, brushing her hair from her face. "How do you feel?"
"Better," she whispered, although the faint pang of nausea reminded her she wasn't fully herself yet. "Exhausted, but… calmer."
Helene moved through the kitchen, humming softly, washing dishes and chopping vegetables. The quiet warmth of family grounded Isabelle more than anything else had in the past week.
The waves of outrage from Clive and Sienna in response to Isabelle's statement faltered under the weight of undeniable truth.
Isabelle's impeccable track record was affirmed within hours. Colleagues, friends and industry contacts had voiced support: attesting to her professionalism, her fairness, and her relentless work ethic.
And yet, the calm wasn't complete.
Her phone pinged again — an email marked urgent. She opened it, her stomach tightened before she even read the subject line: Julian Becker — Withdrawal of Project Engagement.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she scanned the message. Becker Gourmet Kits, the client who had harassed her less than a year ago during the launch of his business, was pulling all remaining work. He claimed he could "no longer trust the company to deliver without bias."
The words hit harder than any smear from Sienna or Clive. This wasn't an anonymous attack or a rogue social media post — this was money, influence, the implicit threat of reputational damage in one fell swoop.
Robert saw the change in her face instantly. "Isabelle?" he asked, voice tight.
"He's pulling out," she said, voice low. "Julian Becker. After the way he treated me last year. And now — this." She let the words hang, a mixture of disbelief and anger.
Robert slid closer, taking her hand. "We'll handle it. It's just one client."
"Richard will be furious," she said, her chest tightening.
"I'll handle Richard," Robert assured her, a steady calm conviction in his voice.
Nausea tickled the edges of her stomach, her energy wavered — she felt overwhelmed all over again.
Helene arrived with a tray of tea and toast. She frowned at the tension on Isabelle's face.
"What is it now?"
"Julian Becker," Isabelle said. "The client I worked with last year — he's withdrawing all work. After everything that happened…"
Helene's jaw tightened. "The man who harassed you?"
"Yes," Isabelle said, biting her lip. "He's spinning it as a bias issue. He's trying to… twist it into something it's not."
Robert ran a hand down his face, then pressed his lips to Isabelle's temple. "We'll respond, legally if necessary. But right now, you need to rest. Let me take care of the messaging, the calls, everything."
She nodded, exhaustion washing over her. Morning sickness made even breathing an effort. "I… I can't think about this right now."
"Then don't," Robert said firmly. "You focus on healing. On yourself and the baby."
Helene fussed, adjusting blankets around her daughter. "Well make sure you eat something. Slowly. No stress, Isabelle. You've been through enough already."
Helene collected the children from school and bundled them into the flat with whispers and promises of hot chocolate if they kept quiet. Becca tiptoed across the hall, finger pressed to her lips, while Luke handed his mother a crayon drawing of a snowman with a speech bubble saying Get Well Soon, Mummy!
The sight tenderly nudged open her heart. She hugged both children close, their small, warm bodies grounding her in a way no statement or headline could. For a few fleeting moments, the rest of the world — the noise, the gossip, the professional wreckage — felt far away.
The next morning dawned clear and bright, the city sharp against the winter sky. Isabelle sat at her vanity while Helene pinned back her hair, the faint hum of the television filling the background.
Sky News had requested an exclusive interview — their words — calling Isabelle "the woman redefining the conversation about accountability and gender bias in business."
Robert had been wary from the start. "You don't owe them your story," he'd said. "You've said what needed to be said."
But Isabelle disagreed. "This isn't just about me anymore," she said quietly. "This is about Never Settle. If I stay silent, they get to define what I stand for. This is my chance to take back the narrative."
The Sky studio was cool and impersonal — all glass and light. Cameras glimmered like quiet predators. Isabelle sat opposite Susan Bradley, the interviewer, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Robert stood just off camera, silent, steady, watching every word.
The questions began predictably — about the accusations, about Clive, about Sienna. Isabelle answered without flinching. Her voice was calm, her gaze direct.
"Women are often accused of being 'difficult' when they're simply being decisive," she said evenly. "I won't apologise for expecting high standards — from myself or from others."
The interviewer leaned forward. "And the claims from your ex-husband, about you limiting his access to your children?"
"I have every message I sent asking him to see them," Isabelle said, her voice soft but resolute. "He chose not to respond. I can't control someone's choices, only my own integrity."
The interviewer's tone shifted. "Some might say you're leveraging this scandal to promote your new initiative — Never Settle."
Isabelle smiled faintly. "Never Settle exists because of women like me — and women like Sienna, even. Women who've been told to sit down, to wait, to make themselves smaller. I won't apologise for building something that gives women the tools and confidence to stand tall."
The silence after that question stretched for a long moment.
And then, Susan Bradley smiled. "That's quite a message, Isabelle."
She smiled back — not smug, just steady. "It's not a message," she said quietly. "It's the truth."
When the interview aired that evening, it trended within the hour.
Clips of Isabelle's calm rebuttals spread across social media — her poised expression, her quiet defiance, her unshakable calm. Hashtags that had once accused her now echoed with support:
#NeverSettle,
#StandWithIsabelle, #TruthOverTactics.
Messages flooded in — from women thanking her for speaking up, from journalists requesting follow-ups, from companies wanting to collaborate with Never Settle.
Robert watched her scrolling through the responses, her face illuminated by the soft blue light of the screen. He smiled, pride cutting through his lingering worry.
"You did it," he said softly.
She looked up, her eyes bright. "We did it."
He crossed the room, kissed her gently, and whispered against her hair, "Now you rest. Let the world wait for you."
Outside, the city glittered — a mosaic of light and noise and second chances.
And for the first time since the media circus started, Isabelle didn't feel hunted or cornered.
She felt powerful.
The story wasn't over.
But now, it was hers.