Page 69 of The Vow Thief
“No,” I said.“She’s been unreachable.”
Her laugh was soft and cruel.“Translation: she wants nothing to do with you.”
“That’s enough, Lily.”
She hesitated at the door, like she wanted to throw one more grenade. But she didn’t. She just turned and left, her bare feet silent against the hardwood.
An hour later, another knock. Sean entered without waiting for permission, which was becoming a habit I’d have to correct.
“Morning, sir,” he said.“I wanted to talk to you about Lily.”
I didn’t look up from the document on my desk.“What about her?”
“She’s been distant. More than usual. I think she’s... struggling.”
“Of course she’s struggling,” I said.“She’s being forced to evolve. That’s never comfortable.”
Sean shifted his weight, uneasy.“I’m worried it’s more than that. She hardly leaves her room. She isn’t eating.”
I finally looked up.“Then take her out.”
He frowned.“Out?”
“A date, Sean. A distraction. Somewhere public. She’ll perk up when she realizes life goes on whether she likes it or not.”
He nodded slowly.“All right. I’ll plan something.”
“Good.” I returned to my work.“And don’t indulge her theatrics. She’ll adjust.”
Sean lingered, waiting for something I wasn’t offering. When I didn’t look up again, he left quietly.
The room returned to silence. My thoughts didn’t.
They went to Sarah.
Every time I tried to pull focus back to business, her face intervened. The grace in her composure. The precision in her speech. The way she looked at me yesterday like she could see everything I’d done and wasn’t afraid of it. I hadn’t felt that in years.
I opened my laptop, pulled up her public bio from The Concord Initiative website, and stared at the photo for too long. She didn’t smile for the camera. Power radiated from her stillness. Most women used charm. Sarah used restraint.
I picked up my phone and called Montrose Florist. The woman on the line answered in a soft, syrupy voice.“Montrose, this is Claire.”
“I need a delivery,” I said.“White orchids. Two dozen. For Sarah Taylor, Highland Park.”
She repeated the name, and I could almost hear the smile forming.“Yes, I have her here in my files. Card message?”
“Keep it simple.‘Looking forward to dinner.’”
“From?”
“Eli.”
I ended the call and leaned back, letting the image form in my mind. The flowers arriving at her door. Her expression when she saw them. Surprise, followed by that precise, appreciative smile. A reaction carefully measured, just like everything else she did.
Then I called The Grace Room, one of the most exclusive restaurants in Chicago. It wasn’t the kind of place you could just book; it was the kind of place that called you back if your name carried enough weight. Mine did.
“This is Elliott Thompson,” I said when the maître d’answered.“A table for two tonight at seven. The private dining suite.”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson. Done.”
