The day before the party dawned bright, but cold; sunlight was glinting off the damp pavements and the frosted edges of the trees along the Thames. London shimmered in its winter hush — that still, suspended calm that came just before a storm.
Isabelle sat at her desk with a cup of mint tea, steam curling like pale ribbons through the air. Her notes were spread across the table — seating charts, guest confirmations, catering checklists — the elegant chaos of someone determined to keep everything under control. The menu had been triple-checked, the caterers confirmed, the champagne and wine ordered. The only variable left was Eleanor — whose tendency to "improve" plans was a force of nature Isabelle had learned not to resist, only redirect.
Robert appeared in the doorway, jacket slung over his arm. "You've been at this since seven," he said. "Please tell me you've eaten."
"I've tried," she said, pushing aside a half-eaten slice of toast. "It didn't go particularly well."
He sighed and crossed the room, kissing the top of her head. "You're doing too much again."
"It's Richard's birthday," she said softly. "He's been one of the few people who's always believed in me. I owe him this."
Robert studied her, the worry barely veiled in his eyes. "Just remember you're not running a government summit — it's a birthday party."
"With Eleanor involved, that's debatable," Isabelle murmured.
He laughed, the sound lightening the room like sudden sunlight. "Fair point."
By four, Helene arrived with the children, who came bursting through the door in scarves and wool hats, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
"Doucement," Helene whispered, her finger to her lips. "Mama's working."
The children nodded solemnly, but still buzzed with barely contained energy. Isabelle turned from her desk, smiling, and knelt to hug them — the scent of cold air, shampoo, and something ineffably homey grounding her in a way no success ever could.
"Are you and Daddy getting married soon?" Becca asked innocently, peering up at her mother with enormous brown eyes.
Helene shot Isabelle a quick, questioning glance.
"Not quite yet, sweetheart," Isabelle said gently, smoothing her daughter's hair. "After the baby comes."
Becca gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. "There's going to be a baby?"
Luke frowned, brow furrowing. "What baby?"
Helene stepped in, smiling. "You're going to have a little brother or sister in a few months."
"I want a brother," Luke said decisively. "Someone to play football with."
Becca groaned dramatically. "No, I want a sister. Someone who likes unicorns and dolls."
"Maybe it will be a baby who likes both," Isabelle teased, kissing them each on the forehead. Within moments, they were whispering excitedly in the living room, their laughter carrying through the flat like music.
Helene laid a hand on Isabelle's shoulder. "They'll be all right," she said quietly. "You've done well, you know."
The words landed softly, filling a space Isabelle hadn't realised was empty. "I couldn't have done any of it without you, Mama."
Helene smiled. "You always say that. But it's not just us two against the world anymore."
That afternoon, Isabelle headed to the party venue — a riverside restaurant transformed into a soft sweep of marble, silver, and glass. Candles glowed against mirrored surfaces, and the scent of peonies and Chanel lingered unmistakably: Eleanor's signature presence.
Eleanor drifted through the preparations like a conductor, all silk and precision, her voice cool and certain as she directed staff. Isabelle followed with her clipboard, quietly ensuring that Eleanor's ideas were actually executed properly.
"Darling, make sure the band understands no jazz before dinner," Eleanor said, gesturing elegantly toward the stage. "Richard insists it gives him indigestion."
"Noted," Isabelle said, lips twitching.
Eleanor glanced over, appraising her. "You've really impressed me, Isabelle."
"Thank you," Isabelle replied evenly — unsure whether it was praise, or a backhanded compliment. With Eleanor, it was often both.
Amid the bustle, Carla appeared — bright-eyed, cheeks flushed from the cold, clutching a bundle of gift bags.
"Isabelle! Mrs. Hale asked me to drop these off — little tokens for the guests. Branded, of course."
"That's thoughtful," Isabelle said. "I could have picked them up."
"It was no trouble," Carla said quickly. "I know how much this means to you. And how much Richard means to you. I just wanted to help."
Her tone was sweet, careful — just a touch too polished.
Eleanor turned to her, delighted. "Ah, Carla! She's a find, Isabelle. You need more like her."
"Mm," Isabelle murmured, smiling faintly. But a quiet dread coiled in her chest.
By seven, everything gleamed. Silver balloons drifted lazily under chandeliers, banners and floral arrangements covered the walls in perfect symmetry. Outside, the city's lights blinked like reflections of the stars.
Eleanor stood in the centre of it all, satisfied. "Richard will be so touched," she declared. "And you, my dear, have outdone yourself. I don't know how you do it."
Coming from Eleanor, that was practically canonisation.
"I'm glad you like it," Isabelle said, weary but pleased.
"It's perfect. Now go home and rest. Big day tomorrow."
Back at the flat, the night had folded into stillness. Isabelle curled on her bed with a mug of ginger tea, her eyelids heavy. The children were asleep; Helene watched television quietly in the living room. Robert sat near the window, phone in hand, his reflection caught against the dark glass.
"You've worked hard today," he said without looking up.
She raised a brow. "It's a birthday, not a royal visit."
He smiled. "You'd never know the difference from how you've planned it."
"I like things done properly," she said softly. "I'll be all right."
She leaned back, the city's low hum lulling her toward sleep. Outside, cars whispered along wet streets, their lights sliding across the ceiling like passing thoughts.
And then his phone rang.
Robert frowned at the screen. Richard Hale.
He hesitated, glancing at Isabelle's sleeping form, then stepped into the kitchen to answer.
"Richard?" he said quietly.
The voice on the other end was low, strained. "Robert — sorry to call so late. I need to speak with you. It's… important. And it can't wait until tomorrow."
Robert straightened. "What's going on?"
A pause. A slow breath. Then Richard said, almost reluctantly, "I need you, old friend."
The line crackled. And then — silence.
Robert stood in the darkened kitchen, the weight of the words hanging in the air, the soft pulse of the city outside suddenly feeling very far away.