The days fell into a rhythm - a quiet, steady kind of happiness neither of them had dared to imagine. Isabelle still spent her days at Hale & Partners, her name now whispered with a respect that hadn't existed a year ago.
At odd hours, her phone would buzz: Lunch? or Miss you already.
Robert's messages were never flowery, but each one carried the weight of a man who meant every word.
By late afternoon, he'd be waiting outside, leaning against his car, sleeves rolled, tie loosened - that calm presence she could recognise from across the street. The ride home became their in-between world, a place to shed the day's exhaustion and trade stories - client leads, Becca's wild inventions, Luke's endless fascination with planets and rockets.
Evenings belonged to them all. Her mother cooked dinner most nights, and the warmth of family life wrapped around Robert like something he hadn't realised he'd been missing. Later, when the house had gone quiet, they'd sit together on the sofa - laptops open, notebooks spread between half-empty mugs of tea - sketching out the bones of their business.
On the kitchen counter, their wedding invitations sat neatly stacked in a cream box. The guest list was short - family, a handful of close friends, nothing grand. Isabelle wanted warmth, not spectacle. Robert had asked for just one thing: that the day would belong entirely to them.
Still, some names were unavoidable. Richard and Eleanor Hale would be there, of course. Eleanor because she was Richard's wife - the thought of which still made Isabelle's stomach tighten, though she smiled and carried on, determined not to let it matter.
They planned the wedding in quiet moments between work: the flowers, the music, the soft-stone country hotel Robert had found in Surrey, all ivy and sunlight and quiet charm. He'd chosen it because it reminded him of her - elegant, understated, and stronger than it first appeared.
Talk of the honeymoon softened everything again. Paris first, because it was where he had proposed. Then Venice - a place he'd always wanted her to see.
"I've seen more of the world than I can count," he'd said, tracing lazy circles on her arm one night. "But I've never seen anything more beautiful than you. Still - I want to show you the world. This time I'll see it through your eyes."
"Paris first," she smiled. "Then Venice."
"And every year after that," he promised, "somewhere new."
"You're making promises again."
"Only ones I intend to keep."
She laughed, and in that laughter was something tender and certain - the quiet recognition of two people who had both been broken once, and somehow found the courage to begin again.
Weeks passed, and life found its rhythm.
Mornings began in the familiar rush of school runs and missed coffee, until her phone buzzed again:
Coffee before work?
Running late. Rain again.
Then I'll bring it to you.
And he did - waiting by the curb with two takeaway cups and that easy, knowing smile that steadied her whole morning.
Inside Hale & Partners, the air was as cool and efficient as ever. Isabelle moved through meetings, her composure unshakable, though part of her heart was already elsewhere. She could feel the quiet pull of something larger - a purpose she and Robert were shaping line by line, night by night.
By five, he was outside again. He never texted to announce himself - she just knew. The sight of him leaning casually against his car never failed to draw a small, private smile from her.
"How was your day?" he'd ask.
"Long," she'd reply, exhaling. "Better now."
Dinner was always noisy and warm. Robert had folded himself effortlessly into the rhythm of her family - helping Becca with her homework, listening patiently to Luke's questions about black holes, laughing at her mother's sharp humour. Sometimes Isabelle would catch him across the table, completely at ease, and something in her chest would ache with the weight of quiet happiness.
Later, when the children were asleep, the real work began.
Their business was taking shape.
They mapped out partnerships, outlined programs to support women in work and leadership, built frameworks for childcare, education, and mentorship. Every idea felt like a thread in something larger - a way to make the world fairer, kinder, more possible.
"This is starting to look real," Isabelle said one night, scrolling through their first draft proposal.
"It is real," Robert replied.
"You always sound so certain."
"I have to," he said gently. "You doubt enough for both of us."
She laughed despite herself and nudged his foot with hers. "You're impossible."
When their first potential client wrote back - a small company seeking guidance on supporting working mothers - Isabelle read the message twice before she believed it.
Robert grinned. "I told you."
"Don't start," she warned, fighting a smile.
"Start what?"
"Being right."
He leaned closer. "Then I'll try harder to be wrong next time."
"You won't manage it."
They stayed up past midnight most nights, shaping the campaign's voice - hers clear and deliberate, his strategy practical, but full of heart. They balanced each other effortlessly; where she hesitated, he steadied. Where he dreamed too high, she brought the ground back beneath them.
At one point, when she worried aloud that they were building too much on faith, he reached across the table and took her hand.
"I've spent years chasing things that looked good on paper," he said quietly. "But this - you, the kind of work we're doing - it's the first thing that feels real. The first thing that feels right."
Her throat tightened, and she blinked fast, smiling through it. "You'll make me cry."
He smiled back. "I'll take that as a compliment."
By November, the days had settled into something that almost felt like peace.
Each morning she woke to the steady rhythm of a life she had built, piece by piece, from the ruins of an old one.
There were still moments - when exhaustion hit or doubt whispered too loud - when she wondered if it could last. If happiness this steady was ever meant for her.
But then she'd see Robert waiting for her at the end of the day, his smile warm and certain, and something inside her would quiet.
She knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy - not the business, not blending their worlds, not all the little ghosts that still lingered from their pasts. But for the first time in a very long while, Isabelle felt something she hadn't dared feel in years: hope - fragile, trembling, but alive.
And that, she decided as she leaned her head against Robert's shoulder at night, was enough for now.