Richard's phone buzzed in his pocket just as he walked into his office, the morning light bright outside the windows. He set his briefcase down, reached for the device, and felt his breath catch at the photo glowing on the screen.
Robert, bleary-eyed and beaming, cradled a tiny bundle against his chest. Rounded cheeks and a wrinkled little fist peeked out from the blanket.
Baby Michael was born at 02:42am. Mum and baby are doing well.
For a moment Richard simply stared, the edges of the world blurring in a warm rush. Then he typed back quickly, fingers lighter than they had felt in years.
Congratulations, my friend. I'm so happy for you both. I owe you a drink, name the time and I'm there.
The reply came almost at once.
It might be a while before I'm joining you anywhere. I'm taking fatherhood very seriously. Won't be able to tear myself away from my precious family for at least a month.
Richard shook his head, smiling down at the screen, a soft laugh escaping him. Robert was utterly besotted, of course he was. And Michael… a son. A whole new world for him.
He leaned back in his chair, letting the quiet settle. Happiness for Robert bloomed warmly in his chest, mingling with something gentler, more wistful.
What do you give someone at a moment like this?
Something meaningful, something significant, but what?
Robert was hardly lacking in means. The Richmond house alone had been purchased the moment Isabelle shared her pregnancy news; no hesitation, no financial strain. And with the wedding only a couple of months away, Richard had already been wrestling with the same problem. They'd refused to make a gift list, instead asking guests to donate to their chosen charity.
Thoughtful, admirable… and absolutely no help to him whatsoever.
In the past, he would have simply poked his head around his office door, and said, "I need your help, Isabelle. Don't let me embarrass myself."
She would have rolled her eyes and fixed it for him, as she fixed a hundred little things. But this time she was the recipient: of the baby gift, the wedding gift, the new chapter of life.
And he was still too afraid of Wendy to ask her. He was hopelessly stuck.
He exhaled, rubbing a hand across his jaw. For now, at least, he could send something safe. A massive bouquet of flowers; he could ask the florist to make something elegant. And a fruit basket overflowing with the freshest things he could find. Classic, thoughtful, harmless.
After that… well, he would have to consult the only resource available to him: the internet.
He opened his phone browser. Appropriate gifts for new parents, he typed.
Then: Significant gifts.
Elegant gifts.
Meaningful gifts for close friends.
Luxurious, but not obnoxious. Not too intimate.
Not too formal.
Not too… much.
Google did not appreciate subtlety.
The first suggestion was a personalised baby bathrobe with little teddy-bear ears. Richard stared at it, unsure whether to laugh or cry. No. Isabelle might think it was adorable and then privately worry the baby would never grow into it.
Next: a gold-plated baby rattle. Gold-plated.
He shook his head. "Absolutely not." The child would either injure himself or drop it down the back of his crib.
Then came a "new parents survival kit," which Google cheerfully assured him included lavender tea, nipple cream, a sleep mask with the word Exhausted embroidered across it, and a pack of gummy bears.
He shut that tab immediately.
What he wanted didn't seem to exist online — something that felt like gratitude, respect, affection, and quiet joy for them, all wrapped into one. Something that said:
You matter to me. Your happiness matters to me.
Without crossing any lines. Without creating awkwardness. Without making a gesture too big or too small.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Perhaps a contribution to Michael's future? A trust fund? No — intrusive. A commissioned painting? Pretentious. A silver cup engraved with the baby's name? Potentially… sane? But also dangerously close to Victorian christening-gift territory.
For a man who handled multimillion-pound negotiations without blinking, he was utterly out of his depth.
In the end, he placed orders for the flowers and fruit basket, extravagant, but respectable, and bookmarked a dozen possible gift ideas he still didn't entirely understand.
He'd figure it out later. He would. He owed them that much.
The office was warm, quiet. Wendy's clipped footsteps echoed somewhere in the corridor, and for once even that didn't jolt him. He sat back, phone still in hand, staring absently at the photo of Robert holding his newborn son.
Isabelle's child. Robert's child. A family beginning.
A soft ache threaded through him, unexpected, but unmistakable.
Not envy. Just… something hollow, something tender, something quietly lonely.
He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully along the edge of his phone.
It had been a long time since he'd gone home to someone waiting. A long time since he'd shared a life with anyone who knew him beyond the surface, beyond the professional gloss, the polished dinners, the well-tailored suits. A long time since warmth had waited for him at the end of a day.
And now, watching Robert step into fatherhood, watching Isabelle step into a fuller, brighter life…
It made something inside him tighten.
Is it too late for me?
Would anyone even fit into this life I'm rebuilding?
He closed his eyes.
But then he thought of Drew — gentle, sensitive Drew, who had only just begun to open up to him. And of Chloe, finding her path with fierce honesty. And the promise he had made himself:
Put them first. Always.
He couldn't risk complicating things now.
He wouldn't.
He opened his eyes, straightened his tie, and drew a steady breath.
There would be time later, perhaps, for the idea of companionship, for wondering whether someone might someday stand beside him. But not now.
For now, he had two children finding their footing, and he was determined to be the father they deserved.
He smiled faintly, looking again at the tiny face in Robert's photo.
New beginnings everywhere.
Just not his; not yet.