The weeks slipped by with a steadiness that almost felt false.
Robert hadn't returned.
At first, she'd told herself he was just taking a few days longer in New York — the kind of business trip that stretched because men like him thrived on complications. But when Richard mentioned offhand during a team meeting, that Robert had flown straight on to Munich for another set of clients, something inside her quietly folded.
"Munich?" she'd asked, keeping her voice neutral.
"Big accounts there," Richard replied, eyes on his laptop. "They've asked for his direct involvement. He'll probably stay through December. We're pushing the new campaign launch to January anyway, so his work here can wait."
She nodded, typing notes that blurred for a moment on the screen. "Of course."
It made sense. It always did with Robert — pragmatic, efficient, detached.
Still, the office felt different without him. His corner of the floor remained immaculate, the ghost of his presence lingering in the small things: the mug he'd used, the faint, unfamiliar scent that had once irritated her simply because it was his.
She caught herself glancing toward that space now and then, like a habit she couldn't break.
And then, as November rolled into December, London transformed.
The mornings grew colder, the streets glittered with early Christmas lights, and the office windows fogged against the sharp air outside. For once, Isabelle allowed herself to enjoy it — to feel a little lighter walking through Covent Garden, the sound of street choirs and roasted chestnuts drifting around her.
She'd begun to think the year might end quietly, with a little peace; when Eleanor arrived.
Eleanor always entered a room as though it already belonged to her.
That morning, she swept through reception in a cloud of perfume and tailored cashmere, her heels striking the carpeted floor with effortless precision. Isabelle was at her desk when she appeared — unexpected, immaculate, smiling in that way that never reached her eyes.
"Isabelle, daarling," she said, resting one manicured hand on the desk. "I need a favour."
Isabelle rose smoothly, professionalism instinctive. "Of course, Mrs. Hale. What can I help you with?"
Eleanor's smile brightened, though the glint in her eyes didn't soften.
"We're hosting a Christmas party at the Landmark — about three hundred and fifty guests, mostly Richard's business friends and our social circle. But I want it perfect. Richard said you're the one to speak to — you're rather good at making things happen, aren't you?"
The compliment was honeyed and sharp in equal measure. Isabelle smiled politely.
"I'd be happy to assist."
"Wonderful," Eleanor said, slipping off her gloves. "I've booked the ballroom, but everything else — décor, catering, seating — I want you to oversee it. You have such… attention to detail. It's no wonder Richard speaks so highly of you."
The words were warm, but Isabelle heard the edge beneath them. She'd learned by now that Eleanor's compliments were often weapons dressed in silk.
"I'll start by contacting the hotel events team," Isabelle said evenly. "Would you prefer a traditional Christmas theme or something more formal?"
"Oh, traditional, of course," Eleanor said airily. "But tasteful. No tacky Santas or flashing lights. Think old English luxury. Gold, cream, greenery. I'll trust your judgment."
And with that, she was gone — leaving behind a faint scent of expensive perfume and a trail of tension.
By the time Isabelle had spoken with the Landmark's event coordinator and drafted her first notes, she was already half-buried in logistics — menu options, guest lists, floor plans, entertainment.
The sheer scale of it should have been daunting, but she found comfort in the structure. It was something she could control — an ordered world of schedules and spreadsheets, where people behaved predictably and outcomes could be managed.
She stayed late that evening, watching the lights of the city blink through the rain. The office was nearly empty, the only sounds the hum of the heating and the soft tapping of her keyboard.
Somewhere outside, a bus hissed to a stop, headlights slicing through drizzle. She caught her reflection in the window — tired, composed, her hair slightly undone from the day.
Munich, she thought.
It felt absurd that a man she barely knew could leave such a quiet gap in her days.
She shut down her computer, gathered her things, and slipped on her coat.
Tomorrow, she'd finalise the first draft of the party plan. She'd confirm the caterers and begin the seating charts. She'd smile when Eleanor called to add just one more little request.
And she'd keep reminding herself that this was what she wanted: stability, control, balance.
The rest — whatever she'd begun to feel before Robert left — could wait.
Or fade.
Whichever came first.
The weeks leading up to the Christmas party were a blur of glittering chaos.
Every morning began with a new list from Eleanor — forwarded emails, frantic texts, and notes scrawled in looping cursive that somehow managed to sound imperious even in handwriting.
Change the tablecloths to cream, not ivory.
Cancel the harpist — I've decided on a string quartet instead.
Find me someone who can source crystal candelabras. Preferably antique.
Isabelle fielded every request with her usual composure, even when the messages came at midnight or during dinner with her children. She'd learned to put her phone on silent and check it after they were asleep, answering Eleanor's stream of demands in quiet, exhausted calm.
Eleanor Hale didn't want an assistant — she wanted a magician.
And Isabelle, for her sins, kept delivering.
The Landmark staff adored her efficiency. The events manager called her a "dream client," which made Isabelle laugh, knowing full well she was just the buffer between them and Eleanor's perfectionism.
By the second week of December, she'd memorised every square inch of the ballroom — the marble columns, the polished light fixtures, the scent of fresh pine from the garlands she'd personally approved. It was, objectively, beautiful.
She just wished she could enjoy it.
Eleanor arrived in her usual cloud of perfume and critique, tapping across the ballroom in stiletto heels.
"Darling, this is almost perfect," she said, eyes scanning the arrangements. "Almost."
"Almost?" Isabelle asked lightly, though she already braced herself.
"The garlands are a little heavy on the red berries. It's bordering on rustic, which isn't our theme."
"I'll have them adjusted," Isabelle said, keeping her tone smooth.
Eleanor's gaze flicked back to her. "You really don't mind, do you? You're so calm. I'd have torn my hair out by now. Perhaps that's why Richard keeps you — unflappable."
It was said like a compliment, but the glint in her eyes said otherwise.
Isabelle smiled politely. "It's my job to keep things running smoothly."
Eleanor tilted her head. "Do you have a boyfriend, Isabelle?"
The question caught her mid-sentence. "Sorry?"
"A boyfriend," Eleanor repeated, smiling like a cat with cream. "You must have someone. You're far too pretty to be sitting at home on your own."
"I don't," Isabelle said, still half-amused by the sudden shift in topic. "And I'll be too busy helping on the night of the party to bring anyone."
"Oh, nonsense," Eleanor said, waving a manicured hand. "You'll come as a guest, not staff. I'll find you a date — one of Richard's friends perhaps, or one of the partners. Someone respectable. You can thank me later."
"That's not necessary," Isabelle said quickly, but Eleanor only smiled wider.
"It's decided, darling. You'll need a proper evening gown, of course. Something elegant. Not black — it washes you out. I'll have my stylist send a few options."
And just like that, the conversation was over. Eleanor turned to inspect the dessert table, already texting someone as Isabelle stood there, a polite smile fixed to her face while her stomach sank.
Later that afternoon, Isabelle lingered at the reception desk with Jacques, the Landmark's concierge — a tall, kind-eyed man in his forties who had the patience of a saint and the wit of someone who'd seen too many wealthy people lose their tempers over napkin colours.
He smiled as she approached. "You look like someone who's been trapped in a snow globe full of glitter and deadlines."
"That's fairly accurate," Isabelle said, setting her folder down with a sigh. "Eleanor Hale is a force of nature."
"I've heard. She terrorised our kitchen manager yesterday about the canapés."
"Sounds about right."
Jacques grinned, leaning on the desk. "But you, Miss Cole, are a delight. Efficient, polite, not a single tantrum."
"I save mine for after-hours."
He chuckled. "That, I believe."
She smiled faintly, then hesitated. "Eleanor's decided she's setting me up with someone for the party."
Jacques' brows lifted. "Ah. The matchmaking begins."
"I can't think of anything worse."
"Well," he said, lowering his voice in mock confidence, "you could always ditch him and dance with me instead."
She laughed, surprised by how much she meant it. "Tempting. You'd probably be better company."
"Probably?" he said, feigning offence.
"Fine," she conceded, smiling now. "Definitely."
He leaned closer, voice soft but teasing. "Then it's settled. If you get bored, look for me near the bar. I'll be the one pretending to work while keeping an eye out for the most beautiful woman in the room."
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks but covered it with a dry laugh. "You're incorrigible, Jacques."
"Occupational hazard. We concierges are trained in charm."
"Well, consider me charmed," she said, closing her folder. "But don't be offended if I vanish halfway through the evening."
"Halfway?" he said with mock disappointment. "You wound me."
That evening, as she walked out into the cold December air, Isabelle couldn't help smiling.
It wasn't attraction exactly — Jacques was easy company, safe, the kind of man who reminded her the world wasn't all sharp corners and hidden motives.
But as the Christmas lights shimmered above the rain-slick pavement, she realised she'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be looked at with uncomplicated kindness.
Almost.