The Landmark's ballroom glittered in gold and glass, just as it had the year before — though everything felt different now.
Last year, Isabelle had stood in this same room, clipboard in hand, heart quietly unravelling beneath her calm, professional smile. She'd worked beside Robert for only a few months then — both pretending indifference, both acutely aware of the tension threading between them.
This year, she wore a ring. Elegant, understated, catching the chandelier light like a secret. The work was just as relentless, but the air felt lighter. She wasn't alone anymore.
"Isabelle." Jacques appeared at her side with a clipboard and a familiar half-smile. "How lovely you look. Congratulations are in order, I see."
She blinked, then followed his gaze to her left hand. "Ah. You noticed."
He gave a small, knowing smile. "Hard not to. Exquisite ring."
"Thank you, Jacques," she said warmly, though her tone stayed professional.
He inclined his head. "He's a lucky man."
She laughed softly. "Thank you."
He handed her the updated notes with a sigh. "Mrs. Hale's requests have grown… ambitious. I think she's competing with herself this year."
Isabelle groaned, scanning the notes. "Six floral installations? And now a jazz quartet and a pianist? Where are we supposed to fit them all?"
Jacques chuckled. "That, as always, is your magic."
She shook her head. "My magic runs on caffeine and deadlines."
"Ah," he said, leaning closer, teasing, "but you make it look effortless."
She flushed faintly. She'd always liked Jacques — his easy charm, his grace — his words always rolled off her without a trace. No ache. No maybe. She had a quiet certainty in who she loved.
By midday, Isabelle's head was pounding.
She'd been darting between the ballroom, kitchens, and lobby since eight, wrangling florists, caterers and technicians who all seemed intent on testing her patience. Eleanor Hale had already stopped by twice — once to approve the décor, then again to change her mind.
By mid-afternoon, Isabelle had barely eaten.
She was reviewing lighting cues with Jacques when the room tilted suddenly — a sharp, dizzy lurch. She caught herself against a table, blinking.
"Isabelle?" Jacques's voice softened, concern cutting through his usual calm. "You look pale. Sit, please."
"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just… tired."
But she wasn't fine. A wave of nausea hit hard. She excused herself, retreating to the restroom, gripping the sink until her reflection steadied.
Ten minutes later, she emerged with her face washed, hair fixed and that practiced composure back in place. She'd survived worse. One long day wouldn't undo her now.
By evening, the transformation was complete.
The ballroom gleamed — gold, white, and candlelight. The jazz quartet hummed softly in the corner. Guests arrived in a shimmering blur of silk and champagne.
Despite her exhaustion, Isabelle felt a quiet swell of pride.
Robert arrived just before seven, impossibly handsome in a dark suit. The moment she saw him, her chest eased. He crossed the room toward her, smiling — the kind of smile that made everything else fade.
"You look beautiful," he murmured, brushing a kiss against her cheek.
She smiled faintly. "You're biased."
"Completely," he said. "How's it going?"
"Smoothly," she lied.
He studied her face. "You haven't eaten, have you?"
"I'm fine."
He didn't press. He knew not to. Instead, he offered his arm. "Walk with me."
They moved through the glittering crowd together — a small, quiet calm amid laughter and crystal.
For the first time, Isabelle realised how far they'd come — from guarded colleagues stealing glances across meeting rooms to this: partners, engaged, building something real.
"Do you remember last year?" she asked softly.
He smiled. "How could I forget?"
"I was trying to stop Eleanor from firing the caterers. You were pretending to be deeply interested in something Richard was talking about."
He chuckled. "I was trying not to look at you."
"You looked miserable."
"I was," he admitted. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you."
She smiled, heart tightening. "You followed me out that night."
"I couldn't help it."
For a moment, they stood still in the noise and light, the music weaving softly around them.
He brushed his thumb over her ring. "I still don't know how I got this lucky."
She laughed softly. "You didn't. You just caught up."
The evening unfolded in a whirl — speeches, laughter and champagne. Richard's toast managed to be both generous and self-congratulatory; Eleanor basked like royalty.
Isabelle kept to the edges, orchestrating the flow, checking cues. Jacques found her again with an approving nod.
"You've done it again," he said. "Flawless."
"Let's not jinx it," she murmured.
He smiled. "You don't jinx anything. You create perfection and pretend it's luck."
She smiled faintly, though her stomach lurched again.
"If you ever tire of this chaos," he added, lowering his voice, "there's a position here with your name on it. You'd have half of London's elite begging for your touch."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Tempting, but no. I have enough chaos already."
"A shame," he said lightly. "Working with you every day would be a dream."
Before she could reply, Robert appeared, slipping a glass of water into her hand.
"Drink," he said softly.
She hesitated. "I'm fine."
He gave her that look — quiet, patient, unyielding. "Please, Isabelle."
She took a few careful sips, his hand resting lightly at her back.
"You always notice," she said quietly.
"I do."
By ten, the music had softened, and the crowd began to thin. Eleanor still reigned at the centre of it all, glowing beneath the lights.
Robert found Isabelle near the doors, their two coats on his arm. "I think we've done our duty for the evening," he said.
She smiled wearily. "You're suggesting an early escape?"
"I'm suggesting we leave before you fall over."
"I'm not going to fall over."
He raised a brow. "Jacques said you nearly did earlier."
Her eyes widened. "He told you? That traitor."
Robert shrugged, half-guilty, half-amused. "I asked."
She sighed, torn between affection and exasperation. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, draping her coat over her shoulders, "you said yes."
She laughed softly. "Come on, before Eleanor notices."
They slipped out the side entrance into the cold night air — crisp, mercifully real after hours of artifice.
In the cab, Isabelle sank back, closing her eyes.
"You're sure you're all right?" Robert asked, watching her.
"Just tired," she murmured. "It's been a long few weeks."
He reached for her hand, thumb brushing her ring again. "That party was perfect. Better than last year's. I don't know how you do it."
"Habit," she said, half-asleep. "And maybe a little magic."
He chuckled, drawing her closer.
Her eyes fluttered open, soft and tired. "You know, last year I thought I'd never make it through that night. I felt so stuck. Like everything I wanted was just out of reach."
"And now?"
She smiled faintly. "Now it feels like I got my wish."
He looked at her then — really looked — and something quiet, tender, almost reverent passed between them.
Outside, the city lights blurred past like falling stars.
Inside, the hum of their laughter filled the car — easy, unguarded, alive.