Richard woke reluctantly, the pale London light struggling to break the darkness. The city below was already stirring — taxis gliding through puddles, a bus sighing to a halt — but the apartment around him felt suspended between calm and dread, caught in that strange stillness that follows the end of a major incident.
He sat up slowly, his head thick from too little sleep, and stared out at the blurred skyline. The air felt thin, like the silence before a confession.
His phone vibrated on the bedside table. He reached for it, the name lighting the screen.
Robert:
I'm coming up. With Isabelle.
Richard exhaled through his nose, a sound somewhere between relief and exhaustion. He dragged himself out of bed, washed his face in the cold water, and stared at his reflection — the same features, but worn thinner, the man behind them worn down.
He'd just reached the living room when a knock sounded.
When he opened the door, Isabelle was there — eyes soft, voice full of concern. She didn't hesitate; she stepped forward and hugged him, her warmth cutting through the chill that had lodged in his chest.
"I'm so sorry, Richard," she said quietly.
He nodded, managing a gruff "Thank you."
Robert held out a takeaway coffee. "Here. Figured you'd need this."
Richard took it, nodding again. "You're both too kind."
Robert hesitated, then said gently, "You should know — Eleanor's planned a surprise party for you. Tonight."
Richard's shoulders dropped with a weary sigh. "Of course she has."
"We can cancel," Isabelle said quickly. "Just say the word."
He shook his head. "No. Don't cancel."
"What?"
"I'll go," he said, calm, but hollow. "Show my face, say thank you, and then leave quietly. There's no reason to make a spectacle out of this. No one needs to know anything."
Isabelle frowned. "You shouldn't have to pretend."
Robert met her eyes. "He's trying to save face, my love."
She looked back at Richard, her heart aching for him. "You don't have to face her at all."
Richard gave a faint, humourless smile. "Eleanor's never been one for silence. The best I can hope for is to make it through the night without her turning it into a tragedy."
He sank into the sofa, staring at the coffee cup in his hands. The faint hum of the city filled the silence between them — a reminder that life went on, indifferent to heartbreak.
By early afternoon, the venue Eleanor had chosen, the restaurant overlooking the Thames, shimmered with understated glamour. The windows letting in the winter light; crystal glasses catching the sun; gold and white balloons framed the entrance like polished joy. It was beautiful — and somehow obscene, knowing what it was there to disguise.
Isabelle stood by the entrance with Robert, greeting guests as they arrived — investors, family friends, colleagues, all of them smiling politely, unaware that the man of the hour was quietly unravelling.
Then Eleanor arrived.
She was radiant — or had made herself so. A fitted silver dress hugged her figure, diamonds glinted at her throat, and not a trace of guilt touched her expression. She was luminous in that hollow way only the self-absorbed could manage.
"Isabelle!" she said warmly, air-kissing both cheeks. "Darling, you look wonderful."
Isabelle smiled faintly. "Thank you, Eleanor."
"Robert." Her gaze flicked to him, sharp beneath the sweetness. "You look tired. Long week?"
He met her eyes evenly. "Something like that."
She laughed lightly, dismissing him before the silence could linger.
Isabelle's stomach twisted. It wasn't morning sickness — it was a quiet, cold disgust of watching Eleanor's performance. She could no longer pretend to like her.
Moments later, Richard arrived.
He looked immaculate in a navy suit— his hair neat, his tie perfectly knotted — every inch the successful man of the evening. But his eyes told the truth: that thin glaze of fatigue, the unfocused flicker when they brushed over Eleanor and didn't stay.
The room erupted in applause. Eleanor looped her arm through his, her laughter too bright. "Happy birthday, darling! Fifty never looked so good."
Richard smiled faintly, the gesture brittle, but practiced. He let her guide him through the crowd — handshakes, polite laughter, empty compliments that all sounded the same. Isabelle and Robert hovered nearby, subtle guardians in the glittering crowd.
When Richard lifted his glass for a toast, his eyes found Isabelle's. For a heartbeat, she saw the mask slip — gratitude, exhaustion, the ache of humiliation. Then he blinked, and the smile returned, polished and false.
The band struck up a lively tune. Eleanor was in her element — laughing too loudly, her champagne never half-empty, every gesture rehearsed. To the guests, she was charm incarnate. To Isabelle, she looked like someone trying too hard to outrun herself.
An hour passed before Richard set his glass down and leaned toward Robert. "That's enough," he said under his breath. "Tell them I've got a headache."
Robert nodded. "Come on. Let's get your coat."
Eleanor caught sight of them by the door. "Leaving already?" she called, her tone all silk and sparkle.
Richard turned back, managing that thin, courteous smile. "Just a headache. You carry on."
She hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. "All right, darling. Feel better." And just like that, she turned back to her guests, their laughter ringing behind him as if nothing at all had happened.
Robert and Isabelle followed him out without a word.
Outside, the air was cool and clean, the river murmuring softly against the embankment. Richard loosened his tie, his breath clouding in the night.
"Thank you," he said after a moment. "For not letting me walk out of there alone."
Robert clasped his shoulder. "That's what friends are for. We've got you."
Richard's voice was low. "She looked so… untouched. As if what happened yesterday even mattered."
Isabelle's throat tightened. "People like Eleanor don't feel things the way the rest of us do," she said softly. "They just pretend until they forget the truth."
Richard's mouth curved in a tired half-smile. "Performance — it's the only thing she's ever truly mastered."
They walked him to his car, his driver waiting, the sound of laughter from the restaurant echoed faintly above them — the last notes of a life already behind him.
When the car pulled away, Isabelle stood in the quiet, watching the tail lights disappear into the traffic.
Robert slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. "He's better off without her," he said. "But he's going to need time to realise that."
Isabelle nodded, resting her hand against her stomach as the night folded softly around them.
Nothing — not for Richard, not for Eleanor, not even for Isabelle — would ever be quite the same again.