The week before the Christmas party was a marathon of last-minute changes.
Eleanor's messages arrived at all hours — sometimes as late as two in the morning — little pings of panic and perfectionism.
The napkin rings are too shiny.
Move the orchestra to the east side of the ballroom — the acoustics are better there.
The drinks list feels... provincial. Get something expensive and impressive.
Isabelle managed it all with quiet precision, her calm demeanour only fraying at the edges when she reached for her phone in the dark and saw yet another "urgent" message glowing on the screen. Her thumbs would hover, eyes stinging from the light, before she typed some polite assurance that everything was under control. Then she'd lie awake for an hour, listening to the radiator hiss and the city hum beyond her window.
By Thursday, she was running on caffeine, spreadsheets, and a kind of resigned determination that only the truly overworked could muster.
The Landmark staff adored her. Jacques, the concierge, had become her ally — intercepting Eleanor when he could, smoothing details and sending her coffee when she looked like she might crumble. He had a knack for turning frustration into laughter, and she was grateful for that more than she could say.
When she forgot to eat, he'd appear with a croissant wrapped in napkins, muttering, "Power is nothing without pastry, mademoiselle."
Still, there were moments when she stared at the ballroom floor plan and thought, I can't wait for this to be over.
The chandelier placements blurred into the guest list. The colour palette she'd once cared about now looked like an exercise in futility. She had become the invisible scaffolding holding Eleanor's vision together — a quiet, unseen force no one applauded.
That thought didn't sting as much as it used to. It just made her tired.
On Friday evening, a courier arrived at the office carrying a large white garment bag with a note attached in Eleanor's looping handwriting:
Darling, try these and let me know which suits you best. Remember, elegance over everything. — E.
Inside were three gowns — each breathtaking; and each entirely wrong for someone who'd spent the past three weeks living on coffee and adrenaline.
The first was deep emerald silk, slinky and far too daring.
The second, a pale champagne that made her look washed out.
The third — navy velvet with a subtle off-shoulder cut — stopped her breath.
It was elegant without being showy, soft but structured, and when she caught her reflection in the mirror, she barely recognised herself. The woman staring back wasn't the one who took calls at midnight or spent her mornings correcting other people's mistakes. She looked... composed. Capable. Almost untouchable.
The dress wasn't something she would have chosen, but it felt like armour — beautiful, quiet armour.
She decided, then and there, that if she had to endure Eleanor's party and her ridiculous matchmaking, she might as well look like someone who couldn't be rattled.
The next morning, she stopped by Richard's office to confirm a few final logistics — the seating chart, the schedule, the name cards Eleanor had changed three times already.
He glanced up from his computer, smiling wearily. "You've been working miracles, Isabelle. Eleanor tells me the party's going to be spectacular."
"I certainly hope so," she said. "It's been... an eventful few weeks."
He chuckled, rubbing his temples. "You deserve a holiday after this."
"I'll settle for a weekend without my phone vibrating every ten minutes."
Richard leaned back in his chair. "That might be too much to ask."
She hesitated, then said lightly, "Your wife's been... very involved. She mentioned she's setting me up with someone for the party."
Richard winced, visibly. "Ah. Yes. That sounds like her."
"I tried to tell her it wasn't necessary."
"You won't win that battle," he said kindly. "Once she decides something, she's unstoppable. But, Isabelle…" He paused, his voice softening. "You don't owe anyone anything, least of all Eleanor's dinner guest. Go, enjoy yourself if you can, but if the man's a bore — and he will be — leave him to his own devices. I'll have my driver take you home if needed."
Her lips curved into a faint smile. "Thank you. You sound like you're my father."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, amused. Then his expression gentled. "You've been through enough these past few years. You don't need to pretend you're ready for anything you're not."
For a moment, she saw something almost paternal in his eyes — genuine concern wrapped in the professional warmth they shared. It softened something in her, that steady, quiet kindness she rarely allowed herself to feel.
"I appreciate that," she said. "And I promise, I'll behave."
He laughed softly. "Of that, I have no doubt."
When she left the office that night, the city was dusted in frost. Christmas lights shimmered against the mist and buskers on the corner played soft carols that echoed against the stone façades. The air smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts and rain.
She slowed near the river, letting the cold bite at her cheeks. The Thames moved sluggishly beneath the bridges, dark and secretive, and she thought about how London never really slept — it just changed its rhythm. Somewhere behind many of those glowing windows, people were already dressed in sequins and tuxedos, sipping champagne beneath the same tired fairy lights that the city recycled every year.
And here she was, walking home with sore feet and frost gathering in her hair — trying to remember when she'd last felt part of it all.
When she passed a shop window, she caught her reflection. The navy dress hung inside the bag slung over her arm, like a promise waiting for tomorrow. She looked tired, yes, but steady. Still standing.
Tomorrow would be chaos. Eleanor would be impossible. The crowd overwhelming, her mysterious "date" likely dreadful.
But she'd show up. She'd smile. She'd make it flawless.
Because that was what she did.