It was one of those mornings that blurred everything into shades of grey; wet pavements, windscreen wipers in rhythm, umbrellas colliding at station entrances.
Robert arrived early, more out of habit than dedication. Routine steadied him. Noise and people did not.
When he stepped out of the lift onto the executive floor, he spotted Isabelle already at her desk.
She was always there before everyone else, typing quietly, her face half-illuminated by the soft light of her screen. There was a stillness about her; not weakness, but focus. The kind of calm that held everything else together.
"Morning," he said as he passed, voice low.
She looked up briefly, managed a polite smile. "Morning."
Then her eyes went back to her work, like his voice hadn't lingered at all.
He wasn't offended. He preferred it that way.
By nine, the floor was full; heels clicking, phones ringing, printers whining. He shut his door, as always. But he watched through the glass occasionally, because patterns mattered.
Something was off in Isabelle's section.
He'd noticed it weeks ago; the same quiet irregularities Richard had brushed aside as accidents: wrong attachments, missing files, duplicate tasks.
Not enough to accuse anyone, but enough to make him curious.
He didn't believe in coincidences. Not in business, not in people.
So after hours, he'd begun to check. Quietly.
A few nights staying late under the guise of workload. A look through the system logs, the printer queue, access reports. Nothing concrete yet, but enough to tell him she wasn't making the mistakes herself. Someone was interfering.
He didn't know who. He didn't care to guess until he had evidence.
And he told himself, repeatedly, that this had nothing to do with her.
He was doing it for Richard. For the company's reputation.
One messy scandal, one whisper of incompetence in an executive's office, and the vultures would circle. He'd seen it too many times before.
That was why he cared. That was all.
At least, that was what he told himself.
Just before eleven, he left his office and walked towards the lifts. The doors opened with a soft chime and there was Sienna, leaning against the mirrored wall, smiling like she'd been waiting for someone to notice her.
"Morning," she said, her tone light, a little too smooth.
Robert hesitated. Something in her eyes, the calculated gleam of someone who enjoyed testing boundaries, made his jaw tighten.
He'd met women like her before. The type who flirted their way through corridors, collected rumours like trophies. The type who would cry harassment the second things didn't go their way.
He didn't like her and he simply didn't trust her.
"Morning," he said curtly. The doors began to close. He didn't move.
"Are you coming down?" she asked, tilting her head.
He stepped back. "I'll take the next one."
Her brows lifted in faint surprise, but the doors shut before she could reply.
He stood there a moment, watching his reflection in the metal. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, albeit humourless, weary.
He'd long since learned that keeping distance was safer than being misunderstood.
Back at his desk, he skimmed a report without reading it. His thoughts wandered back to Isabelle.
He'd noticed something about her work the previous night when he'd checked the audit logs, someone had accessed her email address at an unusual time, long after she'd gone home. She could have scheduled the email to be sent at a certain time, but he doubted it.
Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing.
He'd seen similar patterns before; corporate sabotage dressed up as incompetence. But what he couldn't understand was why. Isabelle wasn't competition. She wasn't ambitious in that way. She just... worked.
Efficient, steady, sharp.
A bit young, really, to have built a résumé like hers. Twenty-six, two children, a spotless professional record. He'd checked the HR file. Most women her age were still finding their footing, not holding the reins of an executive's calendar with the precision of a veteran.
It intrigued him; not in the way people gossiped about, but in the way puzzles intrigued him.
How did she manage it?
How did she keep everything together with that quiet composure when half the city could barely manage themselves?
He told himself it didn't matter. But curiosity had a way of slipping past his walls when he wasn't careful.
Around lunch, he went to the break area for coffee. Isabelle was there, speaking softly to the receptionist about delivery schedules. Her tone was professional, warm, completely in control.
Then, as he turned to leave, he saw a flicker of something cross her face; a flash of uncertainty, quickly buried.
She'd noticed him watching.
Their eyes met. Hers were guarded now, cautious. She gave a polite nod and returned to her cup.
He didn't blame her for being wary. She'd been under pressure, and he was hardly the comforting type.
Still, that brief moment of unease stayed with him.
That evening, after most of the staff had left, he lingered. The hum of the empty office was almost meditative.
He logged into the system again, running another quiet check through the access trail.
This time, he narrowed it down — the out-of-hours entry had come from an internal device on their floor. The timestamp was just after midnight. He knew she'd stayed late some nights, but never that late.
He rubbed a hand over his face, eyes narrowing. Someone had waited until she'd left, then used their keycard to slip in.
He cross-referenced the access logs. The result appeared, simple and unsatisfying; three entries, all authorised. No clear culprit.
Someone smart enough to cover their tracks.
He leaned back, staring at the monitor until the numbers blurred.
This was going to take more than quiet checking.
He'd need to look at physical access — cameras, cleaning schedules, late shifts. He made a mental note to talk to security discreetly.
And still, through all of it, he told himself; this isn't about her.
He didn't do rescues. He didn't get attached.
People disappointed you when you started believing they needed you.
By the time he packed up, the rain had turned heavier, beating against the glass like a pulse. He paused at the end of the corridor. Isabelle's office light was still on.
Through the glass wall, he saw her tidying papers, straightening her desk, lips pressed into a thin line. The sight of her; young, tired, stubbornly composed, stirred something he didn't want to acknowledge.
She looked like someone standing in a storm pretending not to get wet.
He turned away before she could notice him watching.
The lift was empty this time. He stepped in, pressed the button for the ground floor. The doors began to close, then stopped, reopening.
Sienna again.
She smiled, that same too-easy curve of her lips. "Working late?"
He said nothing.
She took a step forward, perfume sharp in the confined space. "You and Isabelle both seem to enjoy the after-hours atmosphere. Should I be worried?"
He gave her a cool look. "If you have time to worry, you're not working hard enough."
Her smile faltered. "That's not very friendly."
"I'm not here to make friends."
He stepped out, letting the doors close without him.
There were some rumours he'd rather prevent before they started.
Outside, the city glistened beneath the streetlights, pavements shining like glass. Robert stood under the awning for a moment, rain soaking the edge of his coat.
He told himself, again, that this was about professionalism. Protecting the company. Protecting Richard.
It wasn't about Isabelle.
And yet, when he glanced up at the building one last time, at the single window still glowing above the darkened street, the words didn't quite convince him anymore.