The ballroom at the Landmark shimmered like something out of a film.
Golden light washed over crystal glasses and ornate candelabras, and the twelve-piece orchestra played soft jazz versions of old Christmas tunes. Staff in black and white uniforms floated discreetly through the crowd with trays of champagne.
Everything was perfect, or at least it appeared to be.
Isabelle had been there since three o'clock, overseeing final details: the placement of each centrepiece, the guest list at the door, the precise angle of the spotlight over the ice sculpture shaped like the Hale & Partners logo. Her clipboard had become an extension of her arm, her earpiece a lifeline.
Eleanor Hale swept into the room just before seven, draped in scarlet silk and the kind of confidence that came from never hearing the word no.
"Darling, you've outdone yourself," she said, air-kissing Isabelle's cheek. "The room looks divine. You look divine. Now —" she dropped her voice conspiratorially, "don't forget, your date will be arriving later. Marcus Whitfield. Investment banking. Charming, rich, recently single — a proper gentleman."
"Thank you," Isabelle said, mustering a polite smile.
"Oh, and do try not to talk about work all evening. You've got such a pretty face, it'd be a shame to waste it on spreadsheets."
With that, Eleanor glided off, already calling someone's name across the room.
By half past seven, the ballroom was full — a swirl of expensive perfume and clinking glasses. Richard stood at the centre of it all, effortlessly hosting, shaking hands and laughing in that warm, diplomatic way of his.
Isabelle stayed to the edges at first, checking on the staff and quietly fixing a place card that had fallen to the floor. She didn't feel like she belonged among the guests — the women in their glittering gowns, the men with their cufflinks and champagne-fuelled charm.
Then Marcus arrived.
He was handsome in a polished sort of way — tall, well-dressed, smiling widely and confidently. "You must be Isabelle," he said, taking her hand. "Eleanor's told me all about you."
Oh, I'm sure she has, Isabelle thought.
He launched straight into a monologue about his latest business trip to Dubai, the wine collection he'd started, the gym routine that apparently changed his life. She nodded politely, her expression neutral.
The orchestra shifted to a slower tempo. The air grew warmer with bodies and candlelight. She glanced around the room, scanning for Richard in case he needed something, wishing for a distraction.
At first, she didn't notice him.
The entrance to the ballroom was framed with twinkling garlands, and new guests were arriving every few minutes — donors, partners, people from the press.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, the air changed.
Robert Blake stepped through the doors. Alone.
He wore a dark suit, perfectly cut, his expression unreadable beneath the soft gold light. The noise of the room seemed to dim, though she knew it hadn't — just her focus narrowing, her pulse quickening without permission.
He looked different. Not tired, exactly, but sharper, as if the time away had honed something in him. The slight roughness of travel still clung to him, the quiet intensity in his eyes unmistakable.
Isabelle froze, her champagne glass halfway to her lips.
What was he doing here? Richard had said he was in Munich for the rest of the month.
Marcus was still talking; something about vintage cars now, but she barely heard him. Her gaze stayed fixed on Robert as he crossed the threshold, nodding briefly to the doorman.
He scanned the room once, his eyes landing on her for the briefest second.
A flicker of recognition. A pause that felt far too long.
Then he moved — unhurried, self-contained, as if nothing in the world could surprise him.
But she couldn't shake the feeling that he hadn't just come back for business.
That somewhere, deep beneath that cool façade, he knew she was the first person to notice him walk in.
And that made her heart stutter in a way she didn't want to think about.
He hadn't planned to come.
In truth, he'd barely been back in London for ten hours.
The flight from Munich had landed that morning, his body still somewhere between time zones. He could have gone home, slept, ignored the entire ordeal. But Richard's message had been clear enough: It would mean a lot if you came, old friend. Show face. It's good for the firm.
So he came. Out of loyalty, out of habit — and perhaps, if he was honest, out of curiosity.
The Landmark's ballroom glittered with soft gold light, the kind designed to make even the coldest heart look warm. Champagne flowed, laughter echoed, and money was being quietly flaunted in every corner.
He adjusted his cufflinks, scanning the room automatically. He was used to events like this — sterile, opulent, full of masks. But then his gaze caught on something real.
Isabelle.
Standing by the far table, her hair swept to the side, her hands clasped around a glass she wasn't drinking from. The soft velvet of her dress caught the light every time she moved, the subtle shimmer of fabric against her glowing skin both elegant and unassuming.
For a moment, he forgot he was tired.
He hadn't seen her in weeks, not since he headed off to New York. He'd told himself he'd stopped thinking about her the moment the plane took off. That she was simply part of London's chaos, another name in his phone, another part of the company.
But now, watching her in that crowded room, the easy warmth of her presence standing out against all the gloss and noise, he realised just how often she'd lingered in the back of his thoughts.
He didn't expect her to be here tonight as a guest, not really. He knew she'd organised the event; her efficiency was written all over it — the precision, the balance of colour and light. And yet she looked like she belonged more than anyone else in the room.
A man was standing beside her — mid-thirties, polished, too self-satisfied by half. He leaned in as he talked, smiling like he thought charm was currency.
Robert's jaw tightened before he could stop himself.
Ridiculous. It wasn't his concern who Isabelle spent her evenings with.
He took a slow breath, straightened his tie, and started to cross the room.
"Robert!" Richard's voice boomed from across the floor, saving him from his own thoughts. "You made it!"
"Wouldn't miss it," Robert said, clasping his hand.
"You look like you came straight from the airport," Richard laughed. "You must be exhausted."
"Nothing a drink won't fix."
They shared a brief, knowing smile — old friends, both too aware of the corporate theatre unfolding around them.
"Listen," Richard said, lowering his voice, "thank you again for everything in Munich. We'll talk properly after the holidays. For now, just enjoy yourself. You've earned it."
Robert nodded, his eyes drifting past Richard's shoulder, to where Isabelle stood.
She'd seen him.
There was the briefest flicker across her face — surprise, maybe, or something softer. Then she looked away quickly, as if composing herself.
He should have left it there. Mingled with clients, endured Eleanor's inevitable chatter, disappeared after the speeches.
But he didn't.
Instead, he found himself hovering near the edges of her orbit, drawn in despite himself. The faint scent of her perfume threading through the air as she moved between guests, her calm voice smoothing over a dozen small crises with quiet efficiency.
And when he saw her smile — not the polite one she wore for strangers, but a genuine one, fleeting and unguarded — something inside him shifted.
It was ridiculous. She was young, bright, full of a kind of hope he'd long since misplaced. He wasn't what she needed; wasn't what anyone needed, not really.
But that didn't stop the thought from taking root.
Later, standing alone near the bar, he caught her reflection in one of the tall mirrors across the room.
Her companion was still talking, oblivious to the world and she was nodding with that quiet patience of hers, but her eyes, just for a fraction of a second, lifted toward him.
Their gazes met through the mirrored glass.
Neither smiled.
Neither looked away.
The noise of the ballroom receded, replaced by something taut and wordless; something that had nothing to do with business, or loyalty, or even curiosity.
And in that silent, stolen instant, Robert knew one simple, dangerous truth:
He shouldn't have come.
But he was very glad he had.