The next morning dawned grey and reluctant — the kind of morning that never quite begins.
Isabelle woke before the alarm, her mouth dry, her stomach turning. The smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen — usually a comfort — made her gag.
She pressed a hand to her stomach and sat up carefully. The room tilted.
Robert appeared in the doorway, half-dressed for work, his tie loose around his neck. "Hey," he said softly. "You look pale. You okay?"
"Just morning sickness," she murmured, forcing a small, brittle smile. "I'll be fine."
He frowned. "You barely ate yesterday. Stay home, Isabelle. Please."
She shook her head, already on her feet, steadying herself on the dresser. "I can't. Not after yesterday. If I hide, it'll only make things worse."
He hesitated, then came closer, brushing his fingers across her forehead. "Promise me you'll call if you feel off."
"I promise," she whispered.
By the time she reached the office, her headache had sharpened into something fierce and relentless. She smiled, nodded, moved through the corridors like someone wearing her own face — pretending nothing had changed. But she could feel the hush that followed her, the half-turns, the eyes that wouldn't quite meet hers.
Her inbox was full of messages marked urgent. Only one stopped her cold.
Subject:Statement from Sienna Marks — Employee Experience at Hale & Partners.
She clicked.
The interview unfurled across the screen, glossy and poisonous. Sienna, perfectly lit, perfectly wronged.
"I left Hale & Partners because of a toxic culture led by women who don't support other women. Isabelle Cole, in particular, created an environment of intimidation. Everyone knew she had… connections. Promotions didn't come from merit — they came by being in her circle, or her bed."
The words seemed to echo, too loud in the quiet office.
Isabelle sat back, cold flooding through her.
She didn't notice Carla until she spoke from the doorway, voice high and breathless. "It's everywhere. Social media, the tabloids, even the BBC. They're quoting her."
For a long moment, Isabelle couldn't answer. The edges of her vision pulsed.
"She's lying," she said finally, her voice barely there. "She was fired for breaching GDPR. She accessed client data she wasn't cleared for."
"I know," Carla whispered. "But people don't care about truth. They care about the story."
By midday, her phone wouldn't stop ringing — reporters, clients, numbers she didn't recognise. Eleanor's voicemail came clipped and cold: "Refrain from engaging publicly until we assess reputational damage."
Refrain. As if silence could hold back a tide.
Her reflection in the dark monitor startled her — pale, drawn, eyes rimmed red. When she tried to breathe, it caught in her chest. Her heart felt wrong — too fast, too shallow.
The smell of someone's lunch drifted in from the corridor. She barely made it to the bathroom before she was sick.
Afterward, she stood at the sink, trembling. Her reflection looked like a stranger — colourless, hair stuck to her temples, a thin thread of resolve holding her together.
"You're fine," she whispered. "Just get through today."
At two, she decided to step outside for air. She didn't remember leaving — only the cold, the blur of passing faces, the low hum of London.
Her phone buzzed. Robert.
"Have you eaten?" he asked, voice tense.
"I couldn't. The smell —" She pressed a hand to her temple.
"Isabelle, please, go home. You sound awful."
"I just need a minute," she whispered. "I'll be fine."
She wasn't.
She made it as far as the pavement before the world tilted. Sound and light collapsed, and then — nothing.
When she woke, everything was white and humming — the steady beep of monitors, the low murmur of voices.
Robert sat beside her, his head bowed, his hand gripping hers so tightly his knuckles were white.
"Hey," she whispered.
He looked up, relief breaking over his face, then anger soft with fear. "You scared the hell out of me," he said quietly. "You collapsed outside the office. They brought you in by ambulance."
Her throat tightened. "The baby —?"
"They checked," he said quickly. "Everything's okay. You're dehydrated and exhausted. But the baby's fine."
Tears welled before she could stop them. "I'm sorry. I just —everything's been —"
Robert leaned forward, brushing his hand over her hair, his voice fierce and low. "No more explanations. No more pushing through. You come first, Isabelle. You and the baby. Nothing else matters."
She closed her eyes, exhaustion finally catching up to her. "I can't do this," she murmured.
"You can," he said. "And you won't do it alone."
He stayed beside her as night fell, his thumb tracing small, steady circles over her hand.
Outside, the city churned — headlines, rumours, noise — but in that quiet hospital room, the world had narrowed to the sound of her heart, steady and strong.
When she woke the next morning, Robert was still there — slumped in the chair, tie loosened, dark circles beneath his eyes.
"Hey," he murmured when she stirred. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been hit by a train," she said softly. "But better."
He smiled faintly. "You've been holding everyone else together. It's time someone held you."
Later that morning, when the doctor discharged her, Robert handled everything — forms, coat, her bag. She protested weakly, but he only raised an eyebrow.
Outside, pale sunlight broke through thin clouds. The air felt sharper, cleaner.
"I called Richard," Robert said as he opened the car door. "Told him you're taking a few days off. You need to rest."
She let out a shaky laugh. "Eleanor will probably send a fruit basket with a disclaimer attached."
He smiled — small, but real.
When they got home, Helene was waiting at the door, her face etched with worry.
"Oh, cherie," she breathed, wrapping Isabelle in her arms. "You frightened me half to death." Then, turning to Robert: "And you — how could you let her work herself into this state?"
"She's stubborn," Robert said lightly.
"I'm right here," Isabelle muttered, though a faint smile betrayed her affection.
Helene fussed — blankets, tea, orders to rest. But Isabelle's thoughts kept circling back to the chaos outside their walls.
Robert saw it. He sat down beside her. "Don't," he said gently. "Don't read it."
"I can't ignore it," she whispered. "They're tearing me apart."
"Then we fight," he said. "But with truth, not noise."
Her eyes lifted to his. "You already have something drafted, don't you?"
He smiled faintly. "Maybe."
He set up his laptop on the coffee table, his sleeves rolled, focus absolute. She watched him — calm, deliberate, steady — and felt something she only ever felt with him near.
Safety.
When he finally turned the screen toward her, her throat tightened. His words were clear, restrained and devastatingly precise — a quiet dismantling of every lie.
For the first time since the media storm began, Isabelle exhaled.