If she smiled one more time, her face might actually crack.
The orchestra was still playing — something jazzy, festive, too loud. The ballroom had grown warmer with the sheer number of bodies and the constant drift of perfume and aftershave. Isabelle felt the weight of it pressing in, a hundred voices rising over the clink of glass.
Marcus was talking again, another story about a ski trip to Verbier that had apparently changed his life. He had a knack for using her name too often, as if that made him sound attentive.
"And of course, Isabelle, when you work hard, you have to reward yourself, don't you? Life's too short not to."
"Mm," she said, polite, distant.
He laughed softly and placed a hand at the small of her back as someone brushed past them. The touch was light, but it made her stiffen instantly.
She stepped away, pretending to adjust her clutch. "Excuse me, I should just check on the staff at the dessert table. Make sure everything's running smoothly."
Marcus smiled, oblivious, or unwilling to notice. "Don't be too long. They're about to open the dance floor."
As if I care.
She moved toward the edges of the room, breathing more freely once she was away from him.
The desserts were fine. Everything was fine. The entire event was running seamlessly — at least, from the outside.
But inside, Isabelle felt frayed.
Eleanor had been in rare form all evening; waving her flute of champagne like a wand, summoning Isabelle from across the room with last-minute demands.
"Could we have the lights slightly lower? No, not that low. And where's Marcus? Isabelle, you are keeping him entertained, aren't you? It's good manners, darling."
Good manners. Right.
She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it — that she'd spent weeks building this spectacle, only to become part of the decorations herself. The perfect accessory to someone else's idea of a happy ending.
Now she stood by the tall windows, watching the city lights blur through the cold December night, wishing she could be anywhere else.
The panes were fogged faintly from the warmth inside. Beyond them, London stretched out in shimmering layers — the river like dull steel, the streets restless with light. It looked far away, unreachable, like a world she'd once belonged to and somehow slipped out of without noticing.
She could almost see her reflection in the glass: the navy velvet dress, the faint shadow of fatigue beneath her eyes, the necklace Eleanor had insisted on loaning her — too ornate, too deliberate. The woman looking back didn't quite feel like her.
Jacques appeared at her side, the hotel concierge who'd helped her plan all of this chaos. He was carrying a tray of champagne flutes, clearly helping out in the final stretch.
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here," he said softly.
"I was just thinking that."
He grinned, his voice low and kind. "I don't blame you. You've been running yourself ragged over this event. You deserve to vanish early, you know."
She smiled — a small, genuine one this time. "Don't tempt me."
He leaned a little closer, his tone teasing, but not unkind. "You could. No one would dare question you. Slip out the side, grab your coat, disappear into the night. I'd even cover for you."
Isabelle laughed quietly, tension easing for the first time all evening. "You'd be my accomplice?"
"Gladly. Though I'd rather you stayed. It's nicer when you're here."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't answer, her pulse betraying her with the smallest flutter.
When Jacques moved away to deal with a tray of empty glasses, she caught sight of Marcus again; scanning the crowd, clearly looking for her. His hand lifted slightly when he spotted her, the way a man claims space that isn't his.
She exhaled, tired of the entire charade.
Eleanor was laughing somewhere across the room, her voice bright and brittle. Richard was deep in conversation with a client. Robert — she refused to look for him, but she knew exactly where he was standing, near the bar, talking to a group of executives, calm and reserved as ever.
Every time she caught the faintest glimpse of him, she felt that same quiet pull — unwelcome and persistent. It was something about the stillness in him, the quiet gravity that seemed to anchor a room that otherwise spun too fast. She hated that she noticed. She hated that he made her feel it.
He shouldn't have that effect on her. Not him. Not anyone.
Not after everything this year had been.
Her children were at home with her mother, probably curled up in their pyjamas watching a Christmas film. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. She still had gifts to wrap, stockings to fill, food to prepare.
That was real life. This — the champagne, the chatter, the silk dresses and hollow laughter — this was theatre. A glittering illusion she'd built for other people to lose themselves in.
She lingered by the windows a little longer, the distant hum of the city below grounding her. The music swelled again — another round of applause, laughter spilling like confetti across the room. It sounded far away, like something from another lifetime.
Then she made her decision.
She'd done her job. She'd smiled, she'd mingled, she'd made sure every detail was perfect. Eleanor had her grand event.
It was time to leave.
Isabelle slipped away from the main crowd, heading toward the corridor leading to the cloakroom. She kept her head down, hoping to avoid being seen, but she glanced back once, almost out of instinct.
Robert was watching her.
Not obviously. Not even directly. Just that quiet awareness again; the way his gaze always seemed to find her in a room full of noise.
She looked away quickly, her pulse quickening.
By the time she reached the coat check, the muffled sounds of laughter and music had faded into the distance. The hush of the corridor wrapped around her like a relief.
As she waited for her coat, she thought of her children again — Becca's giggle, Luke's habit of falling asleep mid-story — and smiled to herself.
Yes. Home. That was where she wanted to be.
And as she stepped out into the crisp London night, the echo of the party fading behind her, she felt something unexpected; not guilt, not regret. Just relief.