The office felt… lighter.
She noticed it the moment she stepped through the glass doors — a faint shift in the air, as though the building itself had exhaled overnight.
Sienna's desk was empty, stripped bare except for the faint square outline where her monitor had been. Someone from Facilities had already taken her desktop away.
People were whispering in clusters by the coffee machine — subtle, sharp-edged gossip cloaked as sympathy. The word sabotage floated about, but quickly hushed when Isabelle passed.
She kept her chin up, gave polite nods, and walked straight to her desk. She logged in, scanned her emails, and tried to ignore the way her pulse still quickened when she glanced toward Robert's desk.
It was empty.
For the first time in weeks, she'd half hoped to see him there — expression cool, shirt immaculate, eyes quietly assessing the world.
But the chair was turned inward, his desk unnaturally tidy.
By ten, she'd confirmed with the receptionist that he hadn't come in.
By noon, she'd told herself it didn't matter.
She was free now. No more stolen files, no more accusations, no more traps hidden behind potted plants.
And yet, as she glanced toward the empty space again, she felt something she hadn't anticipated.
Disappointment.
She pushed the thought away, buried herself in her tasks, and for the first time in a long while, she left the office at half past five like everyone else.
The streets outside were still busy, autumn light dimming over the city. She stopped at the bakery near the tube, bought croissants for her mum and the kids, and smiled as she imagined their faces. For once, she wouldn't be the last mum at after-school club.
It felt good. Normal. Almost peaceful.
When she came in the following morning, his desk was still empty.
No jacket on the chair, no briefcase by the side.
Richard appeared by her desk just before the team meeting. "Morning, Isabelle. Oh — if you're wondering about Robert, he's in New York. Emergency situation with our office there. Last-minute thing."
She nodded, masking the odd tug of disappointment with a brisk smile. "Right. Do we know how long he'll be gone?"
"A couple of weeks, maybe less, depending how fast he can resolve it."
"Understood," she said. "I'll make sure everything here runs smoothly."
"I never doubted it," Richard said warmly, and walked on.
The days that followed felt strangely steady.
Her inbox was manageable. Meetings ran on time. She found herself laughing with the junior assistants again, rediscovering a rhythm she hadn't realised she'd lost.
Without the constant tension of sabotage and suspicion, she slept better. The lines between work and home began to separate again — clean, breathable.
She picked up her children without glancing at her phone every five minutes. Helped with homework at the kitchen table. Even watched a film with them on Friday night without checking her emails once.
It was simple, and it was enough.
Or at least, it should have been.
Still, every morning, when she walked past that empty desk, her eyes flickered to it — just once, just long enough to notice it was still empty — before she sat down and told herself it didn't matter.
He hadn't thought of London much in the first forty-eight hours. New York demanded all of him — conference rooms, board meetings, late-night calls that bled into dawn.
But by the third day, he found himself checking his messages between flights, scanning for her name.
There was nothing from her — of course there wasn't — and he told himself he preferred it that way.
Still, when he closed his laptop at night and looked out over the Manhattan skyline, the thought would slip in, quiet and uninvited:
I wonder if she's all right.
Sunday dinner at her mum's was the one constant that hadn't shifted, no matter how chaotic life became.
The smell of roast chicken and thyme filled the small kitchen, and the sound of her children's laughter carried through her flat. Becca's voice rose above Luke's — high, bossy, delighted — as they argued about who would choose what to watch next.
Her mother was slicing carrots with methodical precision. "You look tired, love," she said, looking at her kindly.
"I'm fine," Isabelle said, even though she wasn't. "Work's been calmer this week."
"Good. You needed a bit of calm. You've had enough drama for a year."
Isabelle smiled faintly, pouring gravy into a jug. "You could say that."
They sat down at the small dining table, plates steaming, the children's laughter floating in from the living room. Then the sound of a car door slamming froze the air for a moment.
Isabelle glanced up.
Through the window, she saw Clive, her ex-husband — walking towards her building like he still belonged there.
Her mother's knife paused mid-air. "Oh, for heaven's sake."
"Mum, don't," Isabelle murmured, standing. She met him at the door before he could knock.
He still had that careless grin — the one that used to charm her, before she'd realised it was mostly armour. "Hey, Izzy," he said, hands in his pockets. "Thought I'd take the kids out for a bit. It's Sunday, nice weather for once."
"You thought?" she repeated, her voice sharper than she intended. "You didn't call, Clive."
He shrugged. "I was driving past. Thought I'd surprise them."
"You can't just turn up whenever you feel like it."
"Relax, it's Sunday."
Her jaw tightened. "You always say that. It's always just Sunday with you."
His smile turned menacing. "Would you rather I didn't see them at all?"
She hated that question — the one that left no right answer. "You know that's not what I'm saying. But I have plans. We were about to eat."
He sighed, the kind of sigh that suggested she was being unreasonable. "It's a roast dinner, Isabelle, not the Last Supper. I'll have them back before bedtime."
"Seven," she said, her voice flat. "Not a minute later. They've got school tomorrow."
He gave a mock salute, grinning again. "You're still a boss even at home, aren't you?"
She didn't reply, just turned toward the living room and called the children. Becca squealed when she saw her dad, Luke's face lit up like a lamp. And despite everything — the resentment, the history, the long nights she'd spent picking up the pieces he'd left — a part of her softened.
Because they loved him.
And for their sake, she couldn't afford to let bitterness win.
The house felt too quiet after they left.
Isabelle slumped into a chair, tracing the rim of her glass absently. "He still thinks he can just drop in and take them like nothing's changed," she said.
Her mother tsked softly. "He's a selfish man, always was. But the kids adore him. That's the curse, isn't it?"
"I know." Isabelle exhaled. "I just wish he'd treat me with a bit of respect. It's like he forgets he left us."
Her mother reached across the table, squeezing her hand. "He'll never change, love. That's why you need to move on."
"Mum…" Isabelle groaned.
"Don't roll your eyes. You're twenty-six, not sixty. You can't just work and be mother till you're in an early grave. You need a bit of fun. Someone to make you laugh."
Isabelle gave a short laugh of her own, tired and half-hearted. "Who has time for dating?"
"Just give it a go. No harm in looking."
The children fell asleep in Clive's car, but he dropped them off at exactly seven, for once keeping his word. She gave them a quick bath and tucked them into bed, kissed their foreheads, and lingered for a moment watching them breathe.
When she finally sat down on the edge of her bed, she realised how quiet it was. No emails pinging. No one asking for her time.
The loneliness came then — soft, creeping, uninvited.
She reached for her phone, the screen's glow washing the room in blue light. The dating app she'd downloaded over a week ago still sat there on her home screen, unopened since she'd started the setup.
She hesitated. Then she opened it.
Her unfinished profile blinked back at her — name, age, the photo she'd almost deleted twice. It took her only a few minutes to fill in the rest.
She hovered over the final button — Go Live.
Her thumb wavered.
Then she pressed save draft instead.
Not yet.
She wasn't ready for strangers.
But for the first time in a long time, she wondered what it would be like — to be seen as more than a name at the bottom of an email, or a pair of small hands reaching for her in the night.
She lay back against the pillow, the sound of rain starting up against the window — gentle, rhythmic, familiar — and let the thought stay with her until she drifted to sleep.