By the end of his fourth week at Hale & Partners, Robert had developed a working theory about the office: half the people there didn't know what they were doing, and the other half pretended they did.
He'd seen it all before — in New York, in Singapore, in every glass-walled company full of buzzwords and insecurity.
But this place had its own flavour of dysfunction: quieter, more British, polished over with manners.
And somewhere in the middle of it all sat Isabelle Cole, doing the work of three people while everyone else played politics.
He noticed it first during a Monday meeting. The figures in her report were inconsistent — small but obvious errors that she wouldn't have missed. He'd watched her reaction when Richard pointed them out: confusion, then irritation, then a subtle tightening of her shoulders. No excuses, no fluster — just quiet, focused damage control.
Most people, faced with an accusation of sloppiness, would have stammered or over-explained. She simply said, "I'll correct it immediately."
Robert had spent enough years reading people to know the difference between guilt and surprise. Hers had been the latter.
So he began to watch more closely.
He wasn't proud of it — the casual surveillance, the mental notes. But it was instinct now, a habit born of too many betrayals. When you'd been burned enough, you learned to read the smoke before the fire.
He saw how she double-checked her files now, how she carried a flash drive she never let out of her sight, how she'd occasionally glance toward her desk drawer as though guarding something.
And he noticed Sienna — floating near Isabelle's desk more often than necessary, borrowing stationery, chatting idly with the IT intern, asking questions about shared folders she had no reason to use.
Robert wasn't given to paranoia. But he knew sabotage when he saw it.
He brought it up with Richard two days later.
They were in the Richard's office, reviewing client proposals over coffee. Richard was in good spirits — he'd just returned from a lunch that had apparently "smoothed over" a difficult client relationship. Robert suspected it had involved more wine than diplomacy.
"Richard," he said, keeping his tone neutral, "how long has Isabelle been with you?"
"Four years," Richard replied easily. "Came on board not long after the divorce. Bright girl, very capable."
"She seems to do a lot more than her job description."
Richard chuckled. "That's what makes her so valuable. I can rely on her for anything — calendar, correspondence, research, all of it. She's indispensable, really."
Robert leaned back slightly. "I've gathered that. Your wife, however, doesn't seem to share your enthusiasm."
The words landed like a dropped coin — a small, clean sound that made Richard's smile falter.
He set his cup down carefully. "Ah. You noticed that."
"Hard not to."
Richard exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Eleanor can be… spirited."
"That's one word for it."
"She's protective," Richard said, choosing his words. "She's had her suspicions about my working relationships before. Comes with the territory, I suppose. Long hours, late calls — she imagines things."
Robert watched him quietly. "It's not Isabelle's fault your wife's insecure."
Richard stiffened slightly, then gave a small, humourless laugh. "You're very direct."
"I've found it saves time."
Richard's eyes narrowed, thoughtful rather than hostile. "You don't think there's any truth to it?"
"None," Robert said flatly. "Your assistant doesn't have an ounce of flirtation in her. She's too busy doing everyone else's jobs."
Richard looked at him then, properly, as if reassessing. "You've been paying attention."
"Professional curiosity."
"Of course." Richard smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Still, I appreciate the defence. Isabelle's a good person. She's had it hard these past few years, but she never complains. I think that's what Eleanor can't stand — people who don't need her sympathy."
Robert said nothing, but the thought lingered. He'd met women like Eleanor all his life — those who equated worth with attention, who withered when someone else commanded respect effortlessly.
He couldn't decide whether to pity her or despise her.
That evening, the office thinned out early, the rain outside steady and relentless. London through the glass looked grey and slick, the skyline smeared with fog.
Robert stayed late, pretending to catch up on reports, but really he was observing. Isabelle was still at her desk, as usual, tidying up the day's debris.
He noticed her pause over her computer, frowning slightly. Then she opened her drawer, slipped the small flash drive into her bag, and checked her phone. Her movements were precise, methodical — the way soldiers handled weapons.
He wondered what she was guarding.
When she finally left, he lingered behind, walking the length of the empty floor. The place felt hollow without the hum of chatter — only the buzz of fluorescent lights and the soft thrum of rain on the windows.
Her desk was immaculate. Papers squared, pens aligned, a faint scent of citrus and paper lingering.
On a whim, he crouched beside the desk and studied the angle of her monitor. A small black lens sat nestled behind the desk plant — almost invisible.
A camera.
So she was onto something.
He straightened slowly, an involuntary flicker of respect passing through him. Not naïve, then. Not entirely.
Still, he found himself frowning. Cameras invited trouble. If whoever was undermining her discovered it, things could turn ugly.
He left it untouched. Whatever she was doing, she was doing carefully.
The next morning, he tested her — subtly.
He asked her to prepare two versions of the same client summary: one with adjusted figures, the other raw. He gave the instructions verbally, offhandedly, and didn't write them down.
If she sent the wrong one, he'd know she wasn't as meticulous as he'd thought.
If someone else tampered with it, he'd know that too.
By noon, both files arrived in his inbox, precisely labelled and correct.
He allowed himself the faintest smile.
When she came by his office later with Richard's updated itinerary, he said, "Good work on the reports."
She looked momentarily surprised — perhaps because he so rarely offered praise. "Thank you."
"You double-check everything, don't you?"
"Usually twice."
He nodded. "Wise."
She hesitated, studying him with that calm, clear gaze of hers. "Why do I get the feeling you were testing me?"
"Because you're observant."
"Was I being tested?"
He allowed a beat of silence before saying, "Not anymore."
Her lips curved, just slightly. "Good to know."
When she left, he realised he'd been fighting the urge to smile back. Ridiculous. He didn't do that sort of thing.
At the end of the day, Richard invited him for a drink at the members' bar downstairs — a dim, wood-panelled refuge of low lighting and quiet conversation.
They sat in the corner, scotch in hand, the hum of the city muffled beyond the rain-streaked windows.
"About earlier," Richard said, after a pause. "Eleanor and Isabelle. I shouldn't have let that happen."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "You didn't make her say it."
"No, but I didn't stop her either. I suppose I thought Isabelle could handle it — which she did, better than most would've."
Robert took a slow sip. "She shouldn't have to."
Richard glanced at him, something curious flickering behind his eyes. "You've taken quite an interest in her."
Robert shrugged. "I notice competence. It's rare."
"Is that all?"
He gave him a dry look. "Don't start matchmaking."
Richard laughed softly. "Perish the thought." He swirled his drink, his gaze distant. "You know, I used to think people like her were the backbone of places like this — loyal, dependable. But the higher you climb, the more you realise how easily they're taken for granted. The vultures, as you like to call them, always find a way."
Robert's expression didn't change, but inwardly, the words struck closer than Richard knew.
He'd built a career on keeping emotion out of the equation. Caring only complicated things. It blurred the line between clarity and chaos.
And yet, he couldn't shake the image of Isabelle at her desk late into the night — the quiet determination, the camera hidden behind the plant, the flicker of pride in her voice when she said she double-checked everything twice.
He finished his drink and set the glass down.
"You're right about the vultures," he said. "But she's not easy prey."
Richard smiled faintly. "You almost sound like you care."
Robert's gaze returned to the rain. "I don't."
But the words rang hollow, even to him.