Richard sat on the side of his hotel bed, the lamp casting a soft circle of amber across the room. His best man speech lay open on his lap, but he had read the same line three times and still could not remember a single word of it.
His mind kept drifting.
Not to the speech.
Not to the wedding.
But to Helene.
The quiet ease of their conversation.
The depth in her eyes, eyes that had seen suffering and understood it, yet somehow still held kindness.
The gentle curve of her lips when she smiled.
And her laugh, warm and light and genuine, a sound that had brushed against a part of his heart he had assumed had long since died, or at least gone dormant.
He exhaled and leaned back onto the pillows, letting the thoughts come because resisting them made no difference.
Helene's beauty was not loud.
It was not polished or performed.
It did not demand attention. It invited it, gently and softly, in a way that made him want to lean closer.
Eleanor had never been like that.
Her beauty had always been bright and sharp, a thing designed to be seen. She wore it like armour or identity, always aware of who was watching. In the early days he had been dazzled by her, but even then there had been a certain arrogance in it, a showiness that filled every room before she even spoke.
Helene was the opposite.
Quiet. Steady.
Gracious in a way he had never seen.
He understood, with sudden clarity, why Isabelle had become the woman she was: hardworking, honest, generous. Integrity did not appear out of nowhere. Strength did not grow from thin air. Isabelle had learned by example, from a mother who carried herself with grace rather than noise.
He ran a hand over his face, letting the truth settle.
It would be easy, dangerously easy, to fall into something like hope.
But he couldn't.
Not recklessly. Not now.
He had made a promise to himself, and more importantly to his children, that they came first. Their healing, their growing, their voices. Nothing, and no one, would distract from that.
Still, he did not believe Helene would ever ask him to.
Even after one evening, he sensed in her a gentleness that respected boundaries, a strength that did not need to pull others off course. She loved Isabelle's children fiercely; it was written into every small gesture. He had no doubt she would be wonderful with Drew and Chloe.
But that was a thought for another time.
He would go slowly.
He had to.
He and Helene were not teenagers, swept up in something impulsive. Life had carved enough into them both to make caution feel like wisdom rather than fear.
Richard folded his speech, set it aside, and let his head fall back on the pillows.
He had not expected today to change anything.
And yet somehow it had.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But quietly, like a door opening somewhere he had never noticed before.
He let himself think of Helene one last time, her soft smile and her warm laugh, before switching off the light.
Tomorrow was about Robert and Isabelle.
About joy.
About celebration.
And whatever this was, this slow and unexpected shift inside him, it would wait.
For now.
Morning light streamed through the mullioned windows of the old country hotel, soft and golden, dust motes drifting like slow confetti. Richard stood adjusting Robert's tie, which did not actually need adjusting, simply to give his restless hands something to do.
"You're shaking," Richard said with a small smile.
Robert huffed out a laugh that sounded half exhilarated and half terrified. "Of course I'm shaking. I'm getting married."
"You love her," Richard said. "And she loves you. That's the whole story."
Robert swallowed and nodded once. "Yeah."
He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the rows of empty white chairs set up in the hall. "I've never felt this kind of happy before."
"You deserve it," Richard said quietly.
Robert's eyes softened and he clapped a hand on Richard's shoulder. "Thank you, man. For everything."
Richard shrugged, though warmth spread through him. "Just try not to faint during the vows. It'll ruin all my hard work."
Robert laughed, some of the tension easing, and for a moment they simply stood there, in the quiet, in the calm before the ceremony, in the kind of friendship that needed no embellishment.
Guests began to arrive. A few from Manchester: Robert's aunt, uncle, and cousin Alfie offering polite small talk. Isabelle's aunt from her father's side, and cousins Jill and Claire greeting everyone brightly. The rest were friends of Robert or Isabelle.
But the only faces Richard truly watched for were the ones that mattered.
Isabelle's children, taking their flower girl and ring bearer duties very seriously.
Helene, moving gently between them.
And, unexpectedly, himself, the version of him that felt settled for the first time in a long while.
He saw Helene before she saw him.
Pale lavender dress.
Softly structured jacket.
A small fascinator that caught the light when she turned her head.
But it was her eyes that held him: warm, sincere, filled with a quiet strength.
She checked Luke's bow tie, smoothed Becca's dress, whispered something that made both children grin. Then, as if sensing his gaze, she looked up.
Their eyes met.
Helene's breath caught, he saw it, and she looked away at once, a faint, hesitant smile tugging at her lips. He felt the echo of that hesitation. The same tug, the same uncertainty, the same pull toward someone he had no intention of seeking, yet somehow could not look away from.
The music began.
The ceremony unfolded in soft, tender colours.
Becca walked down the aisle scattering rose petals. Luke marched solemnly behind her, carrying a small box on a plush cushion. Then Isabelle entered, accompanied by Helene.
Robert's breath caught as he watched her. As soon as Isabelle was close enough, he reached for her hands and whispered something to her. Richard did not hear what they said. His eyes, and all his attention, were on Helene. She had tears in her eyes and he wanted, almost helplessly, to reach for her and offer comfort. He took a steadying breath as she turned to sit, and he forced his attention back to the bride and groom.
The ceremony was intimate, heartfelt, perfect.
After the applause and the kiss and the cheers, everyone moved to the long, beautifully decorated table for the meal. Richard sat beside Robert, with Helene beside Isabelle.
She was too far away for him to talk to or even look at properly. It took everything in him not to move seats as he had the night before.
He focused on his role instead. When the moment came, he rose, tapped his glass lightly, and began.
"Well," he said, "I have waited fifteen years to give this speech."
Laughter rippled through the room.
"Fifteen long years of hearing Robert insist he was not made for relationships or marriage, that he was happiest alone, that settling down was for other people."
Robert groaned, the room laughed again.
"And then he met Isabelle. Suddenly, being single didn't seem quite so appealing."
He glanced at Isabelle warmly. "I have never seen Robert so content, so grounded, so happy, as he has been since the day you two met. Isabelle, I've had the privilege of working with you for years. I've relied on your good sense more than my own. You're the best assistant I've ever had, though you're on maternity leave for now."
He paused, smiling. "I hope you come back in a year."
Laughter followed, softer and fond.
"You both deserve every happiness," Richard said. "You've built a home full of kindness, laughter, and the occasional toddler tantrum, which I'm sure will continue. I wish you a wonderful future together. To my good friends, Robert and Isabelle."
Glasses clinked.
Smiles bloomed.
And something warm and steady settled in his chest.
Later, when the music began, he saw Helene stand with Michael in her arms, rocking him gently while watching the couples move onto the dance floor.
He approached her without hesitation, the first instinctive movement he had made all day.
"May I?" he asked, holding out his hand.
Helene blinked, surprised and a little shy. "You want to dance with me?"
"Very much."
She placed Michael in his carrier and slipped her hand into his. The touch was light and polite, yet it sent a quiet warmth through him.
On the dance floor, they moved slowly. The music was soft, and the world around them seemed to grow gentler. They talked about nothing and everything. About the ceremony, about the children, about Michael's sleepy sighs. About gardens again. About books.
He did not leave her side after that.
They danced.
They laughed.
They took turns settling Michael when he fussed.
They walked the garden paths when they tired of the chatter, speaking in low, easy voices that felt strangely natural.
By the end of the evening, Richard felt something he had not expected.
He did not want to go home.
Not yet.
Not after this.
Not after two days that had felt different. Brighter.
All because of her.
He watched Helene gather Michael's blanket and smooth it over him, and he knew with quiet certainty that something in him had shifted.
Not rushed.
Not reckless.
Just real.
And, surprisingly, he did not feel afraid of it.