She hesitated before pressing send.
The message sat open on her phone; a short, polite message with the video from her pen camera attached. Just one click and the footage would be in Robert's hands.
Her stomach knotted.
If she sent it, she'd be giving him something powerful; a glimpse into her methods, her fears. But if she didn't, she'd lose the one chance to uncover the truth.
"Just do it," she murmured under her breath.
And she did.
The office hummed quietly, the low murmur of keyboards and clipped conversations filling the air. Sienna's laugh carried across the open-plan space; light and musical in a way that always made Isabelle's shoulders tighten.
The message notification blinked, indicating the message had been sent.
No reply.
She turned back to her work, but her mind refused to settle. That image from the pen camera looped in her head — the blurred shape at her desk, the unmistakable gleam of Robert's watch, the faint scar just under the ear.
It had to be him.
Except… something about it didn't feel right.
The movement was off, too deliberate. And the lighting; it caught at an angle that didn't make sense for the direction of her desk lamp.
She pushed the thought aside. Doubting her own evidence would only make her lose ground.
By lunchtime, her phone buzzed with a message from Robert:
Come to my office when you can. I've found something.
Her pulse jumped.
He'd watched the footage more times than he cared to admit.
Once at normal speed, again slowed down, and again frame by frame until the pixels blurred.
The man in the video did look like him — same watch, same stance, same scar. But the details didn't line up.
The man's build was different. His hair, darker. And the scar — not as deep, too clean, too deliberate.
He'd seen this kind of tactic before in corporate investigations. Someone trying to forge a trail, mimic another's movements just closely enough to frame them.
Which meant Isabelle had been right about one thing: someone was setting her up.
But now, they were setting him up too. This was now personal.
He wasn't doing this for her, he reminded himself. This was for Richard — for the firm. To keep the brand intact, the board calm. That was all.
Still, as he looked up and saw her approaching his office, poised and wary, he realised how much of a lie that sounded inside his own head.
She knocked softly.
"Come in," he said.
She slipped inside, notebook clutched tight. "You found something?"
"I did." He turned the monitor toward her and hit play.
The grainy footage flickered to life; the figure leaning over her desk, typing. For a second, the glint of the watch caught the light, the faint scar visible, then the screen went dark.
"That's what I told you about," she said quietly.
He nodded. "Watch."
He slowed the footage down, one frame at a time. The figure's head dipped slightly, light catching on something else; the hair, darker, messier.
"That isn't me," he said. "The hair is too dark, too long."
Her frown deepened. "The scar?"
"It's not as deep as mine. It looks fake. Probably makeup." He held up his wrist. "And the watch — almost identical, but not quite. Mine's got a dent near the clasp. Look."
Her eyes narrowed, she examined his scar closely, she felt her disbelief faltering.
"So someone wanted it to look like you."
"Yes," he said flatly. "Because if you accuse me, it blows back on both of us. And whoever's doing this wins."
"Why would anyone go that far?" she asked.
He didn't answer right away. He was thinking of Sienna, of her sly glances, the too-perfect smile. Ambition always wore the prettiest face before it bit.
"Someone with motive," he said finally. "And time on their hands."
She looked away, her jaw tight. "I can't keep living like this; checking every file, redoing every report. I've got kids to think about. I can't afford to lose this job."
He felt something stir; the flicker of empathy he'd been trying to bury for years. "Then we'll sort it. Quietly."
She looked up, uncertain. "We?"
"They're targeting me, too. Whoever's behind this wants division," he said. "We don't give it to them."
A long pause passed between them; the hum of the air conditioning, the muted rhythm of office life continuing outside. Then she nodded.
That night, after everyone had gone home, Robert stayed.
He traced access logs, double-checked keycards, compared timestamps. Just after eleven, the system pinged.
Access: G. Latham — Executive Floor.
He clicked into the building CCTV.
The lift doors opened. A woman stepped out, head bowed beneath an umbrella, coat collar up. The camera caught her profile as she turned.
Sienna. Using a keycard under a different name.
He sat back slowly.
So that was it.
Weekends were a brief pocket of normality — or at least, she tried to make them that.
Saturday was usually spent catching up on laundry, homework, and the small chaos that came with two small children. On Sundays, she was determined to give them something fun to do.
That weekend had been dry. The park was busy, dotted with parents and dogs, the crisp air carrying the smell of damp grass and coffee from the café kiosk. Luke was racing Becca toward the swings, shrieking with laughter. Isabelle followed more slowly, her chest easing for the first time all week.
It was almost easy to forget the tension, the whispers, the emails. Almost.
Her phone buzzed.
She pulled it from her pocket and saw the name.
Robert Blake.
He'd sent her a short text:
Are you always this serious on Sundays? Look up.
Her brows knitted. She looked up automatically — and there he was.
Sitting outside the café across the path about 10 feet away, his hands curled around a takeaway cup, his smart raincoat unbuttoned, looking completely out of place among the noise and prams and playground chaos. He gave a small, almost reluctant wave.
For a heartbeat, she could only stare.
Then she shook her head, half-smiling despite herself. "Of all the parks in London…" she murmured.
Becca tugged her sleeve. "Mummy, who's that man waving?"
"Someone from Mummy's work," she said lightly. "Go play with Luke, darling."
Her heart was doing that strange, tight flutter again; the same one it had done when she'd caught him watching her across the office, calm and unreadable.
She told herself it didn't mean anything. He was probably just being polite. Coincidence, that's all.
Still, as she glanced back and saw him watching her; not intrusively, just looking; she couldn't shake the feeling that something was different.
The investigation, the office, the sabotage; everything had been built on suspicion and sharp edges.
But standing there, in the pale London light, the sound of her children's laughter in the air and Robert's steady gaze across the park, Isabelle realised she wasn't sure what scared her more.
The enemy she couldn't yet name.
Or the possibility that Robert Blake might not be one at all.