“Mr. Maxwell.” Tom spins in his chair, angling his computer monitor away before folding his hands on his desk. “What’s going on?”
“Just felt like coming in today.” I hook my fingers through my belt loops and try to find a casual, comfortable stance, but nothing feels natural. “Do you still keep in touch with Elle?”
“Sparingly . . .”
“How’s she doing since her untimely departure?”
Tom flicks a hand in the air. “You know, she hasn’t said. I think she just wants to move on and kind of forget about this place.”
I worry the inside of my lip and play dumb. “Ah, so she isn’t working for anyone else?”
Tom chuckles. “It’s only been a week.”
“Didn’t know if she had something else lined up,” I say, silently relieved that she isn’t blabbing all over town about helping out with Scarlett. Not that I thought she would. But it speaks volumes about her character that she isn’t turning my personal situation into cheap fodder for her social circles.
“After everything she went through, I don’t blame her for wanting to start fresh,” Tom says, legs crossed as he shakes his head.
“The aneurysm,” I say. “I heard.”
“Not just that but the boyfriend thing too.” He leans forward, lowering his voice.
“What boyfriend thing?” I distinctly recall reading her GoFundMe story a handful of times, and not once did it mention any kind of significant other.
My skin heats at the thought of Elle gifting some faceless man her contagious smile, pressing her body up against him, eyes twinkling as his hands are in her hair and his mouth is seconds from crushing hers.
“Well, she was with this guy for, I don’t know . . . almost a couple of years?” Tom says. “She was actually at his apartment the morning of the aneurysm. He’d already left, but she was getting ready to go when it happened . . . and then apparently the boyfriend’s wife showed up.”
“Wait, what?” I never took Elle to be a home-wrecker. “So her boyfriend was married?”
Tom splays his hands on his desk as he inhales. “Yes. But Elle had no idea. This guy—Matt was his name—was living a double life. Had an apartment in Manhattan and a wife and kids back in Jersey.”
Fucking punk.
“And get this: he was even paying for his love nest with his wife’s trust fund. How screwed up is that? Needless to say, Elle was devastated. She really loved the guy. To die and lose the person you thought you were going to spend your life with all in the same day?”
Lifting a hand, I say, “Pause. She died too?”
Whoever wrote her GoFundMe story was clearly not a fellow journalist, as the article left out several crucial details.
“For three minutes, yes,” Tom says. “She coded, but they brought her back.”
It makes sense now—Elle’s quest for a truthful, meaningful existence.
Rapping on the doorjamb before I go, I sniff. “Let me know if you hear from her again, Tom. Tell her I hope she’s found that purpose she was looking for.”
His thin brows knit as he presses his fingertips lightly over his heart. “Will do, sir. Will do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ELLE
“Your menu, madame.” My authentically French server hands me a breakfast menu printed on linen paper before topping off my goblet of artisanal still water. “Will be back to take your order shortly.”
Beauvais is every bit as glamorous as I’d hoped. Crystal chandeliers. White tablecloths. Natural light. Herringbone floors. Delicate french-blue wainscoting contrasted with saddle-leather seating.
Indie was supposed to join me this morning, but at the last minute she backed out—sidelined by a migraine. There was a time in my not-so-distant past that dining alone was a social prison sentence for me. I wouldn’t dream of it. It always seemed like such a lonely endeavor. But today I’m excited to embrace it—like a date with myself. I even took the liberty of wearing a midlength black dress with buttons down the back, twisting my hair into a sleek chignon, and finishing off the look with a swipe of matte-red lipstick.
Trés chic.
I’m debating between the brioche french toast and the berries-and-crème oatmeal when something catches the corner of my eye. Glancing up from my menu, I’m forced to do a double take when I realize the man at the adjacent table is none other than my ex.
Steeling my nerves and focusing on the words on the linen paper in my hands, I ignore the bastard, though from my periphery I can’t help but notice his every squirm and the way his gaze flicks in my direction every two seconds.
The woman sitting across from him—with her back to me—wears designer jeans and a Chanel bouclé jacket, and when she gets up to use the restroom, her hair is blowout fresh, bouncing with each step. I can’t see her face, but I’m sure she’s beautiful—and I’m also sure she’s not Claudia.