Page 80 of The Vow Thief
“Elliott Thompson.”
The name sliced through the air, barbed and sharp, dragging across every nerve in me.
In that moment, I realized I’d never asked his last name. This was the first time hearing it come straight from his mouth. I just hoped there wasn’t any connection to the walking disaster that was Lily Thompson. My fingers itched to grab my phone and let Google do its worst.
The hotel lobby was bright and bustling with people. My body still hummed, my hair a little wild, my lipstick long gone, but I managed a polite smile for the concierge as I stepped through the revolving door. Was this a walk of shame?
A black sedan waited by the curb. The driver, mid-fifties with silver at his temples, stepped forward and opened the rear door.“Ms. Taylor?”
I stopped, one hand on my purse.“Yes?”
“Eli asked me to take you to your car. He didn’t want you walking alone.”
The instinct to decline pinged in my brain, but exhaustion and curiosity got the better of me.“All right,” I said quietly, sliding into the back seat.
The city blurred past the windows, all muted golds and glass. I kept my hands folded in my lap, trying not to overthink the name I’d just heard upstairs.
“Is Mr. Thompson always this considerate?” I asked finally.
The driver caught my eyes in the rearview mirror, a knowing half-smile tugging at his mouth.“You mean Eli?”
I nodded.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve worked with him for almost eight years. He’s the best boss I’ve ever had. Always looks after people.”
“Sounds like him,” I said, staring out at the skyline, my reflection superimposed over the glass.
He dropped me beside my car, where I left it. I thanked him, but the words felt small, too neat for the mess inside me.
The moment the door shut, that uneasy feeling settled low in my stomach. I sat there for a minute, hands on the steering wheel, replaying everything.
The engine purred to life, and I exhaled a frustrated breath.“You slept with a man whose last name you didn’t even know,” I muttered to myself.“Brilliant work, Sarah.”
That thought played over and over. I panned to the songGood Ol’Daysby Hayley Williams and started my drive back to Highland Park.
Tonight, I was absolutely going to Google Elliott Thompson.
It took nearly an hour to get home. The kids were still asleep, and I found the babysitter, Joshlyn, curled up in the guest room, headphones in. It was nine a.m. on a Saturday. What did I expect?
Damn. We could have had more time.
I showered, dressed, and moved through the quiet house with a kind of practiced normalcy. Coffee first. Then, French toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon, rituals that made me feel like myself again.
By the time the smell of syrup filled the kitchen, the countertop had become my command center. Laptop open. Google’s blank search bar stared at me like it was my research assistant.
I took a sip of coffee, flexed my fingers over the keys, and whispered,“All right, Elliott Thompson. Let’s see who the hell you are.”
E-l-l-i-o-t-t T-h-o-m-p-s-o-n.
Enter.
The search didn’t turn up much. A few articles about philanthropic investments, some vague mentions in real estate circles, and one image that looked like it had been taken years ago. He was standing in front of a wrought-iron balcony in New Orleans, dressed in a white linen shirt and sunglasses, looking effortlessly put together. I stared at it longer than I meant to, tracing the line of his jaw, the easy confidence that came through even in a candid photo.
Nothing about him gave me answers. If anything, it made him more of a mystery. I scrolled a little further, but there were no social media accounts, no interviews, no breadcrumbs to follow. Just a clean digital footprint that felt too intentional to be accidental.
I shut the laptop, expecting to feel relieved, but instead I felt unsettled. The quiet of the kitchen only made it worse.
My phone chimed.
