The café was quiet, tucked into a corner street on Broomwood Road. Isabelle had chosen it because it was neutral — public, civil, unthreatening. She'd dreaded this meeting all week.
Robert sat beside her, his calm presence like an anchor. He looked impossibly composed in his dark jacket, one arm over the back of her chair, the other relaxed on the table, his eyes alert but unreadable.
When Clive arrived, the temperature seemed to drop.
He looked good — in that polished, deliberate way that came with money and ego. Designer sunglasses pushed into his hair, a tailored suit and a few of his shirt buttons open from the collar. He scanned the café, spotted them, and his expression twisted into a smirk.
"Isabelle," he said, striding over. "How are you?"
She rose to greet him politely. "Clive. This is Robert."
Clive's eyes flicked over him — assessing, calculating. "Ah," he said after a beat, his mouth curving into something close to a sneer. "The famous Robert. I should have guessed you'd be older."
Robert stood, extended a hand with a small, even smile. "Good to meet you, Clive."
Clive shook it briefly, his grip unnecessarily firm. "Likewise. I suppose congratulations are in order. You've done well for yourself."
The tone made Isabelle stiffen, but Robert didn't flinch. He merely sat again, unhurried, composed. "Thank you. Isabelle and I are very happy."
"Well," Clive said, leaning back. "I imagine you would be. A lovely woman like her — though I can't help but wonder what she sees in you."
"Perhaps the same things I see in her," Robert replied mildly.
Clive gave a short laugh. "Come on, Isabelle. Really? He's old enough to be your father."
"Clive," she warned softly.
But he wasn't finished. "I suppose it makes sense. You always did have a thing for older men. Daddy issues?"
Robert's eyes didn't so much as flicker. He turned his head slightly, his voice calm. "You're speaking about the mother of your children, Clive. Maybe you should stop and think about that before you say anything else you'll regret."
Clive's jaw tensed. "I'm just saying this is fast. And considering how things ended between us, well…" He gestured vaguely. "Or is she pregnant? You know that's how she got me to marry —"
"Careful," Robert interrupted, his voice still soft, but the temperature in his tone dropped. "You can insult me all you like. But not her. Not ever."
There was no aggression in it — only quiet authority, the kind that didn't need to be raised to be heard.
Clive blinked, thrown off by the composure, then scoffed. "Unbelievable. You think you're some kind of saint? You have no idea what you're getting yourself into."
"I know exactly who I'm with," Robert said. "A woman who's raised two extraordinary children almost entirely on her own. A woman who's worked harder than you've ever had to. That's what I'm getting myself into, and I couldn't be prouder of her."
Isabelle's throat tightened. She started to speak, the words came from somewhere steadier than anger — something long overdue.
"You know what's funny, Clive?" she said, her voice low, calm. "You're suddenly so interested in my choices, but you weren't interested enough to fight for your children. I have sole custody because you didn't show up to fight for your children — not once. You were too busy chasing your career, your next drink, your next embarrassment."
He went very still.
"You want to talk about damage?" she continued quietly. "You're the one who left. You're the one whose name shows up on social media every week for sleeping with a different girl every night. You can stop pretending you're an injured party."
Clive's expression curdled into anger. "Well, don't expect any more child support now you've got a sugar daddy footing the bill. Judging by the size of that rock..." he snapped, pushing back his chair.
"Get out," she said softly.
He hesitated just long enough to throw a final glare at Robert, who didn't move, didn't rise, didn't dignify it with anything but silence. Then Clive stormed out, the bell above the door jangling in his wake.
The moment he was gone, the tension in Isabelle's chest broke. Her hands shook. She tried to steady her breathing, but the tears came anyway — quiet, hot, unstoppable.
Robert reached for her hand, then drew her gently into his arms. She pressed her face against his chest, and he held her there, solid and warm, until her breathing slowed.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You shouldn't have had to see that."
He shook his head. "Don't ever apologise for him."
Her voice cracked. "The children—"
"They'll be fine," he said softly, brushing a tear from her cheek. "They have you. And they have me. That's all they need."
She looked up at him then, the ache in her chest slowly easing under the quiet certainty in his eyes.
He smiled faintly, his voice a whisper against her hair. "You've done nothing wrong, Isabelle. He's the one who lost his way. You and the children — you're my home now. And I'll take care of you. All of you."
She closed her eyes and nodded, the weight of the moment settling into something steadier.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the kitchen window, golden and still. Isabelle stood by the counter, staring absently at the kettle as it began to hum. Her eyes were a little swollen from the night before, but she'd tied her hair up neatly, the way she always did when she needed to keep herself together.
Robert came in quietly, his sleeves rolled up, no tie, that easy steadiness about him. He paused a moment, watching her, then reached past her to take two mugs from the shelf.
"Did you get any. sleep?" he asked gently.
She nodded, though not quite convincingly. "A little."
He poured the tea, then placed one mug in front of her. "Then we'll call that a start."
A small smile tugged at her lips. "You always make everything sound so simple."
"Only the important things," he said, kissing her temple before the sound of footsteps interrupted them.
Becca padded in first, her hair a tangle and still in her pyjamas. "Mum, I think there's no milk."
"Morning to you too," Isabelle said, trying for lightness.
Robert opened the fridge and produced an unopened carton of milk. "Top shelf," he said, setting it on the counter. "Invisible, apparently."
Becca gave a sheepish grin. "Thanks."
Luke followed a moment later, dragging his school jumper on, his hair sticking up in every direction. "Morning," he mumbled, yawning.
"Morning, love," Isabelle said softly. "Toast's on the plate."
He reached for it, then glanced between them — the quiet in the room not quite lost on him.
""What's going on?"
Robert leaned against the counter, sipping his tea. "Everything's fine," he said easily. "Your mum just let me win an argument for once."
Becca blinked. "Mum let you win?"
Isabelle shot him a look, but he only smiled over the rim of his mug.
Becca laughed. "That's not possible."
Robert lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Don't tell her, but I think she felt sorry for me."
That earned him an eye-roll from Isabelle and a giggle from Becca, and just like that, the air eased.
As the children chattered over cereal and schoolbags, Isabelle glanced at him — the way he fit so naturally into the rhythm of their morning, unassuming, steady, quietly reliable.
When Becca and Luke dashed to find socks and shoes, she reached across the counter, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you," she murmured.
He met her eyes, his thumb tracing the back of her hand. "For what?"
"For making it all feel normal again."
He smiled faintly. "It is normal. This is what it's supposed to feel like."
She held his gaze a moment longer, then went to get ready for work.