The week passed in slow motion.
Everything looked the same — the same morning light spilling across the office, the same hum of printers and the scent of burnt coffee — but something essential had shifted. Every moment felt tinged with a faint ache, a silent countdown neither of them acknowledged.
Robert still used the meeting room as his office, but most of his things were already gone. The shelves were half-empty, the worn leather briefcase that had been a fixture by his chair was gone.
He was still there — calm, composed, unfailingly polite — but she could feel the distance, as though he was already halfway gone.
And she hated it.
She told herself to be professional, to act as if this was just another colleague moving on. But every time he passed her desk, every time she caught his scent — faint cedar and something warm beneath it — her throat tightened.
He stopped by on Monday morning with a quiet "good morning," and the smallest of smiles. It was almost worse than avoidance.
"How are you getting on with the new client files?" he asked, his tone perfectly even.
"Fine," she said. "Everything's on track."
"Good," he said softly. "You'll do well."
She looked up, meaning to thank him, but the warmth in his gaze caught her off guard. She looked away quickly.
That became their rhythm that week — soft pleasantries, polite distance, and the constant hum of what neither could say.
By Wednesday, she'd stopped sleeping properly. She'd lie in bed, watching the faint city light spill across her ceiling, replaying every small exchange — the quiet thanks, the accidental brushes of hands when passing documents, the polite nods that used to come with warmth but now carried restraint.
She tried to busy herself — with her children, with work, with anything to keep from feeling that slow, helpless ache of losing something she hadn't even had.
That night, as she was making tea, her phone buzzed on the counter.
Will:Hey, Isabelle. I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner this weekend. There's a lovely new place near Kensington I think you'd like.
She stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. He was kind. Attentive. Easy to talk to. He deserved someone who wasn't half-broken by something that had never been allowed to start.
She typed, Thank you, Will. I really appreciate it, but I can't this weekend.
Then deleted the next part — I think you're lovely, but my heart's not free.
She pressed send, and set the phone down.
Outside, the city murmured in the spring rain. She stood there for a long time, the kettle cooling beside her, knowing she couldn't let Robert just walk away without at least trying.
He'd expected the final week to be easier once the decision was made.
It wasn't.
Every morning when he walked into the office, his chest tightened at the sight of her — focused, graceful, the faint furrow between her brows when she worked.
He told himself it was for the best — that distance was what she needed, that the lines he was breaking were ones he couldn't repair.
But each hour that passed, each glance they shared, made it harder to hold his resolve.
She avoided unnecessary conversation, and so did he. But in the quiet spaces — the briefings, the shared elevators, the moments when their hands almost brushed — the silence between them felt alive.
By Thursday, he was restless. He stayed late that evening, long after most had gone, staring out at the dark city beyond the glass.
He heard a soft knock.
She stood in the doorway, still in her coat, her hair slightly undone from the long day. "You're still here," she said.
"So are you," he replied.
"I was finishing up some reports." She hesitated, her voice quiet. "You're really leaving tomorrow?"
He nodded. "Yes."
"I thought maybe Richard would talk you out of it."
"Richard tried," he said, a faint smile ghosting his lips. "But I've made up my mind."
She stepped inside, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "You'll be missed," she said softly. "More than you think."
He swallowed hard, something hot and raw lodging in his chest. "Thank you."
There was a silence — long, aching.
She opened her mouth, as if to say more, but then seemed to change her mind. Instead, she smiled faintly. "Well… goodnight, Robert."
He wanted to stop her. To tell her not to walk out of his life with just that quiet farewell. But all he managed was, "Goodnight, Isabelle."
She lingered for half a heartbeat, then left.
He didn't move until he heard the elevator doors close.
Friday arrived like the last page of a chapter she wasn't ready to finish.
The office buzzed with the energy of a typical Friday — chatter about weekend plans, coffee breaks stretching longer than they should. But beneath it all was the undercurrent of awareness that Robert Hale was leaving.
Even the junior staff looked subdued, unsure whether to treat it like a celebration or a funeral.
Richard stopped by her desk mid-morning, a faint sigh escaping him. "He's really going," he said. "I tried to talk him out of it."
"I know," she said quietly.
"You've been a good influence on him, Isabelle. I don't say that lightly."
She smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. "He's been one on me, too."
Richard nodded. "He'll be missed." He hesitated, then added gently, "By you most of all, I think."
She said nothing — only looked down at her notepad, feeling the weight of truth settle between them.
At four-thirty, there was a small farewell gathering in the boardroom. Someone brought champagne. Richard gave a brief speech — simple, heartfelt, touched with his usual dry humour.
Isabelle stood near the window, a glass of sparkling wine untouched in her hand, watching Robert thank everyone, his voice steady.
He looked composed — even smiling as he shook hands, accepted good wishes, and deflected jokes about "early retirement."
But every so often, his gaze flicked toward her.
And every time it did, her breath caught.
When the room began to empty, she slipped away quietly. She couldn't do long goodbyes. They broke her heart too harshly.
She reached her desk, gathered her bag, and paused — then wrote a small note on one of her notepads.
Thank you for everything. For believing in me. For being kind.
She hesitated, then added, Good luck, wherever life takes you.
She folded it, placed it on his desk, and left.
When he returned to his office, the note was there — small, handwritten, neatly folded.
He read it twice. Then again.
He closed his eyes.
It shouldn't have hurt this much — but it did. Because the one thing she hadn't written was the one thing he wished she had.
Don't go.
That night, she sat on her sofa, her children asleep in their rooms, the city lights flickering beyond the window.
Her phone buzzed once — a message from her mother about Sunday lunch — then silence.
Her thoughts drifted back to him. To his last look as she left the office, to the soft "take care" that still echoed in her mind.
She knew she couldn't let that be the end.
He had given her courage in ways he'd never realised — made her feel seen, capable, more than just a woman juggling too many responsibilities.
And maybe it was foolish, maybe even hopeless. But she couldn't bear the thought of him walking out of her life thinking she didn't care.
So she made herself a quiet promise as she turned off the lamp and sat in the dark:
She'd give him a few days. Let him settle wherever he was going next.
Then she'd call him. Or text. Or something.
She'd ask him out — just coffee, nothing more.
Because if she didn't try… she knew she'd regret it forever.