He noticed she was gone almost immediately.
One moment she'd been standing near the tall windows, the faint city glow haloing her silhouette; the next, she'd vanished into the shifting tide of guests.
He scanned the room, eyes narrowing. No sign of the navy-blue dress, no glimpse of dark hair. Just Eleanor's laughter somewhere behind him, brittle and bright, and Marcus looking faintly irritated, scanning for her like a man who'd lost something he thought belonged to him.
Robert set his glass down.
He told himself it was nothing — that she'd probably slipped away for air, or gone to check one last detail before the night was through. But even as he thought it, his feet were already moving, cutting through the crowd.
The noise of the ballroom dimmed behind him as he stepped into the corridor — the music still echoing faintly through the walls, a ghost of brass and laughter.
He found her just outside, at the hotel's side entrance.
The December air hit cold and sharp, slicing through the warmth of the ballroom. The city hummed in soft silver light — that quiet pulse only London had at midnight, when the crowds thinned and everything gleamed slightly with frost.
She was standing on the pavement, her coat pulled close, her breath ghosting white into the dark. A cab hadn't yet come. Her phone was in her hand, but she wasn't really looking at it.
"Leaving early?"
She jumped slightly, then turned. "You startled me."
"Sorry." He stopped a few paces away. "Couldn't blame you if you were escaping. It's crazy in there."
Her lips curved faintly. "You noticed."
"I notice more than you think."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
She looked at him properly then — a slow, assessing glance that felt like a hand tracing over him. Her eyes were dark in the half-light, thoughtful, searching. It wasn't flirtatious; it was something quieter, heavier.
"I've done my part," she said softly. "I just want to get home. It's Christmas Eve tomorrow, and I still have things to do."
He nodded. "You organised all this, Isabelle. You've earned the right to vanish."
A cab approached, headlights catching the rain-slicked road. He stepped forward, raising a hand. The driver slowed, the car easing to a stop beside them.
"Let me," Robert said, opening the door for her.
"That's not necessary —"
"Consider it a Christmas present," he said, already handing the driver a few folded notes. "Just get home safely."
She hesitated, one hand still holding the door. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
The wind tugged gently at her hair, a loose strand catching against the corner of her mouth. Without thinking, he reached to brush it back — and stopped just short, his fingers suspended in the chill air. She noticed; he knew she did. Her breath caught, the smallest flicker of something uncertain flashing through her eyes.
Then she stepped closer to the cab, and as she did, he offered his hand. She took it — light, brief — but the touch landed like a spark.
Her fingers were cold, his warm from the ballroom's heat. That fleeting connection sent a current through both of them. Neither spoke, neither pulled away immediately. The city seemed to hush around them — just the soft rush of a passing car, the faint hum of the cab's idling engine.
He studied her face, its delicate lines illuminated by the amber glow of the streetlight. There was a quiet grace to her — tired, yes, but strikingly composed, with that same understated beauty that had drawn him from the start. Not showy, not practiced. Real.
"Goodnight, Robert," she said finally, her voice gentler than before.
He almost smiled. "Goodnight, Isabelle."
She hesitated — just a fraction — before sliding into the cab. He closed the door carefully, his hand lingering against the cold metal. As the car pulled away, she looked back once, their eyes meeting briefly through the glass. The distance between them stretched and shimmered, full of things neither dared name.
When she disappeared into the blur of traffic, Robert stood there a long moment, the chill settling into his coat, the echo of her touch still warm against his skin.
He didn't go back inside.
The ballroom, with its laughter and music, felt too loud now, too far removed from the stillness that had settled over him. Instead, he walked along the pavement, hands in his pockets, his breath rising in the frosty air.
He told himself he was being foolish — she was a colleague, a professional, someone he respected. And yet that moment outside the hotel, brief as it was, had left something behind.
The way she'd looked at him before stepping into the cab — it wasn't gratitude, not exactly. It was recognition. As if for a moment she'd seen something in him he hadn't meant to show.
He had spent years keeping things measured, controlled. Business first. Emotion was a liability, one he'd learned to bury long ago. But with her, the lines blurred.
He could still feel the slight tremor of her hand in his when she'd stepped closer — that instinctive, unconscious trust. She hadn't flinched. Neither had he.
Robert let out a slow breath, glancing up at the lights strung along the street. Christmas decorations, glittering half-heartedly against the night sky. He'd never cared much for this time of year. Too many years of empty gestures, of noise without meaning.
But tonight, for the first time in a long time, he'd found himself wishing he could have said something different. Something more.
The city moved quietly around him — a late bus sighing past, the faint smell of roasted chestnuts from a vendor on the corner. He pushed his hands into his pockets, the ache in his chest foreign and unwelcome.
He should have gone back inside. Instead, he found himself watching the direction her cab had taken, long after it had gone.
Inside the cab, Isabelle sat back against the cool leather seat, her heart still beating a little too fast.
The city lights blurred past the window, streaks of gold and red melting into the darkness. She could still feel the press of his hand — solid, warm — against hers. Just a few seconds, nothing more. But it lingered like a small, secret pulse beneath her skin.
It was absurd, she told herself. She was exhausted, that was all. Too many hours on her feet, too many forced smiles and endless details to manage.
But fatigue didn't explain the way her stomach had fluttered when their eyes met. Or the way his voice had softened when he'd said her name.
She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling.
There was something about him — steady, self-contained, but not cold. Not really. Beneath that composure was something quieter, something he never quite let anyone see. She'd noticed it the first time they'd worked together: the way he listened when others spoke. The way he moved through rooms like he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.
And tonight, outside the hotel, she'd seen something else — a flicker of warmth. Maybe even vulnerability.
The thought unsettled her. She wasn't looking for that. Not from him. Not from anyone.
Her reflection stared back from the cab window — a woman who looked older than she felt, the traces of tiredness beneath her eyes. She pressed her lips together, thinking of the children asleep at home, the early morning still to come, the endless small rituals of Christmas Eve.
That was what mattered. That was real life.
Still, when the cab stopped at a light, she caught herself glancing back — as if she might see him there, standing beneath the streetlamp, hands in his pockets, watching the city move around him.
She smiled faintly at the thought, shaking her head. Ridiculous.
And yet, when she reached her building and stepped out into the quiet street, the echo of his voice stayed with her.
"Goodnight, Isabelle."
She whispered it under her breath, testing how it felt in the silence.
Inside, the flat was still and warm. She hung up her coat, turned off the lamp by the window, and paused.
Outside, the city stretched on, distant and glowing, and somewhere out there, he was walking home through the same cold air, maybe thinking — as she was — that something small and unspoken had shifted.
She was unsure what it was.
It was a beginning neither of them had expected.