He waited until midmorning, until the office had found its rhythm — phones ringing softly, the hum of printers, the muted chatter of meetings in glass-walled rooms. Richard's door was open, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the edges of the framed awards on the wall.
Robert stood in the doorway for a second, Richard looked up from his laptop, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Morning. You look like a man with something on his mind."
Robert managed a small smile. "You could say that."
Richard gestured to the chair across from him. "Well, sit. Let's hear it."
Robert sat, smoothing his trousers against his knees. For a moment, he didn't speak. The right words mattered — and he didn't want them to sound like an apology.
Finally, he said "I'm leaving, Richard."
Richard didn't say anything at first. His eyes stayed on Robert's face, assessing, waiting. Then he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly.
"Leaving," he repeated slowly. "That's… unexpected. Why now?"
Robert exhaled, steady but quiet. "It's been coming for a while. I've been feeling… done, I suppose. The travel, the clients, the noise of it all. I need something different."
"Different," Richard echoed. "You mean somewhere else. You're not talking about a sabbatical, are you?"
"No." A small shake of his head. "I'm leaving. For good."
For a long moment, Richard said nothing. The faint tick of the clock filled the silence. Then, with a sigh that sounded more like resignation than surprise, he said finally, "You're one of the best. Hell, one of the only ones who never lost their integrity in this circus. You know that, right?"
Robert gave a faint nod. "I've always respected what you have built here. You know that, too."
Richard's eyes narrowed. "This isn't about me. Or the company."
Robert hesitated, then said, quietly, "No. It isn't."
There it was — a subtle shift in Richard's expression. He leaned forward, forearms resting on the desk. "Then it's about her."
Robert didn't answer, but the flicker of reaction was enough.
Richard leaned back again, studying him. "I thought as much." He rubbed his chin, sighing. "You know, I hoped you'd have enough sense to talk to me before doing something drastic."
Robert's jaw tightened. "It's not drastic. It's the only way forward."
"Forward to what, exactly?" Richard asked, voice calm but edged. "You've built a career most would kill for. You walk away from that, and for what? For someone who might never see you the same way you see her?"
Robert looked out the window, the city stretching beyond the glass — grey, busy, indifferent. "It isn't about what she sees. It's about not spending every day pretending I don't care."
Richard's tone softened. "She's still got two children to think about, Robert. And a lot of hurt behind her. You go near that, it's not a casual thing."
"I know." His voice was firm now, quiet but certain. "That's why I stayed away. Why I made a mess of it."
Richard studied him for a long time, something paternal in his gaze. "You're a good man. But sometimes, good men destroy themselves trying to protect someone else's peace."
Robert gave a faint smile — the kind that never quite reached the eyes. "Maybe. But at least I'll know I didn't run from it."
After Robert left, Richard sat for a long while staring at nothing in particular.
He'd seen plenty of people redign in his time — people chasing better salaries, loftier titles, shinier offices. This wasn't that. This was personal.
And though Robert hadn't said her name, he didn't need to.
He'd seen the way they looked at each other. Subtle things — the way her face lit up when Robert walked into a room, the way he watched her without meaning to, protective and restrained all at once.
Richard leaned back and rubbed his temples. He'd warned him once before, over drinks, when he'd seen this coming.
Now it was too late.
He glanced out through the glass partition. Isabelle was at her desk, focused on a file, unaware that the man she'd grown closest to was preparing to leave. Her expression was calm, composed — but Richard could see the faint fatigue at the edges, the kind that never quite went away.
He wondered how she'd take it.
More than that, he wondered if either of them would ever admit what had really driven them apart.
When Robert walked past her desk later that morning, she noticed the envelope in his hand — heavy paper, his name in Richard's handwriting across the front.
Something in her stomach turned.
He paused beside her workstation. "I'm heading out for a bit," he said. His tone was light, almost casual. "Could you forward the draft schedule for the Weston account when you have a moment?"
"Of course," she said, forcing a smile.
He nodded, then hesitated — as if he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. "Thank you."
And then he was gone.
She sat there for a few moments, staring at the email she was composing, unable to type another word. There was something different in his voice. Final, somehow.
By afternoon, word had spread — quietly, as it always did in offices. Richard hadn't made an announcement, but people noticed things.
When she passed by the kitchenette, two of the junior associates were whispering near the coffee machine.
"…yeah, he's leaving end of next week," one said.
"Seriously? Robert? Why?"
"Don't know. Burnout maybe. Or he got an offer somewhere else."
She kept walking before they noticed her.
Back at her desk, she opened a new message to Robert — her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
I heard you're leaving. Is it true?
She deleted it before sending.
The rest of the day blurred.
He didn't return to the office, and she didn't see him again until Tuesday.
When he walked in the next morning, he half-expected avoidance — cool professionalism, a polite distance. Instead, she greeted him with a quiet smile that didn't quite hide the sadness in her eyes.
"Good morning," she said.
"Morning."
She hesitated, then asked, "I heard… you're leaving?"
He nodded. "End of next week."
"Oh." It was barely a word, soft as breath. "I didn't know."
"I wasn't exactly making announcements."
"Still," she said, her tone gentle, "you'll be missed."
Robert swallowed hard, his chest tight. "That's kind of you to say."
They stood in that brief silence that used to be filled with easy conversation, now weighted with everything unsaid.
Finally, she stepped aside to let him pass. "Well… I hope it's something good, wherever you're going."
He looked at her then — really looked. The light caught in her hair, the faint weariness beneath her calm expression, the warmth that still lived behind her eyes.
"It's something I need to do," he said.
And she nodded, because she understood.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
She lay awake long after her flat went quiet — the children asleep, the streetlight spilling soft amber across the curtains.
She kept thinking about him.
The day he'd brought her home after the launch dinner, the way he'd said sorry with that haunted look in his eyes. The silence that had stretched between them since. The emails, the distance, the ache that never really went away.
She turned onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow. She should be happy for him. He deserved a clean slate. A new beginning.
But the thought of not seeing him every day — not hearing his low voice across the office, not catching his small, knowing smiles — left her feeling hollow.
And somewhere deep down, where she didn't dare admit it aloud, she wished she'd told him not to go.
He stood by the window that night, glass of whisky untouched in his hand. The city outside glowed — restless, endless, alive.
He'd done the right thing.
He was sure of it.
But then he thought of her — the sound of her laughter, the soft way she said his name, the fire in her eyes when she stood her ground.
And for the first time, he wondered if walking away from the company might not be enough.
Because maybe what he really needed… was her.