Chapter 1: Departure
Eliot stood by the bedroom doorway, arms folded, watching Lydia zip up her carry-on suitcase. The morning light slanted through half-open blinds, catching motes of dust in the air. Lydia moved with efficient grace, smoothing a wrinkle from her tailored navy blouse. She had always been a light packer, proud of her ability to live out of a carry-on for even a week-long conference. Normally, Eliot admired that about her – how organized and prepared she was. But today, a prickling unease coiled in his chest as he observed her final preparations.
He tried to swallow the feeling. It was just pre-coffee grogginess, he told himself, or the sadness of another weekend apart. In their seven years of marriage, Lydia’s career as a medical tech executive had taken off. Each conference, each flight she boarded, was supposed to be an investment in their shared future – or so Eliot had believed. All those conference miles were building their future together, he often mused. When promotions rolled in and her professional star rose, he took pride in her achievements, even if it meant lonely nights with takeout for him.
Today felt different. Lydia was heading to Las Vegas for a three-day summit on emerging biotech innovations. She’d given him the rundown: panels, networking mixers, a keynote speech she was delivering on Saturday. Eliot had nodded, smiling supportively at all the right moments. But a tiny detail gnawed at him now – a detail he almost wished he hadn’t noticed.
On the nightstand, a small plastic tub of aloe vera gel peeked out of Lydia’s toiletries pouch. Next to it lay a discarded strip of wax, folded in on itself, with a few tiny golden-brown hairs stuck to the resin. Eliot’s throat tightened. He recognized it immediately: Lydia had given herself a bikini wax last night.
He forced a casual tone. “You’ve been up since dawn,” he said, stepping into the room. “Need any help?”
Lydia glanced up and flashed him a distracted smile. “I’m okay, thanks. Just double-checking I have everything.” She patted the suitcase and slid the final zipper closed. “Flight’s in two hours. Traffic might be rough, so I should head out soon.”
Eliot drifted closer, pretending to straighten the collar of a shirt hanging out of his side of the closet. “You sure you have time for breakfast? I could whip up some eggs,” he offered.
She shook her head, her earrings catching the sunlight. “No, I grabbed a protein bar earlier. Don’t worry.” She lifted her travel satchel onto her shoulder and wheeled the suitcase toward the door. Her perfume – a crisp, citrusy fragrance – lingered in her wake. Usually, she saved that perfume for special occasions.
He followed her down the hallway. “Vegas, huh,” he said, aiming for lightness. “You going to have any fun between panels? Don’t spend all your time working.”
Lydia laughed softly. “It’s a work trip, Eliot. Not exactly a vacation on the Strip.” At the entrance, she set down her bag and turned to him. She looked radiant, Eliot thought – conference-ready in her confidence and poise. She had even gotten a subtle tan recently, her skin glowing.
He rested his hands on her arms, unwilling to let the moment slip by without a proper goodbye. “I’ll miss you,” he said quietly. It was true – but not complete. He’d miss her, yes, but more pressingly, he would worry. He hated that the worry was there at all.
Lydia’s expression softened. “I’ll miss you too.” She leaned up and kissed him. Her lips were warm and familiar, yet Eliot sensed a hint of hesitation – or was that his imagination? He deepened the kiss for a moment, trying to reassure them both. When they parted, she brushed an invisible speck off his shirt. “I’ll call you tonight, okay? After the welcome reception.”
He nodded. “Of course. Knock ’em dead with that keynote, superstar.”
She rolled her eyes playfully, but he saw pride in them. “Thanks. I’ll do my best.”
They embraced once more. Eliot inhaled the clean scent of her freshly washed hair, memorizing it. As he released her, his mind flickered back to the wax strip on the nightstand. He’d almost forgotten to ask casually, but the words caught in his throat. Why would I comment on that? he scolded himself. It’s none of my business if she wants to feel groomed. And yet – she only ever went to that length before trips where he wasn’t accompanying her.
He forced the thought away and grabbed her suitcase handle. “Let me help you to the car.”
“I’ve got it,” Lydia insisted, but allowed him to carry it down the porch steps. The spring morning air felt cool. Their driveway was dappled with early sunlight filtering through the maple tree they’d planted when they moved in.
A rideshare car pulled up along the curb. Right on time. Lydia gave his hand a final squeeze. “See you Monday. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Eliot replied, hoping she didn’t hear the crack in his voice. She slid into the back seat of the car, and he closed the door behind her.
Lydia waved through the window as the car started off. Eliot raised his hand in return, watching the vehicle until it turned the corner at the end of their quiet suburban street.
He stood there for a long moment after the car was gone, the morning silence pressing in. Inside his chest, that coil of unease tightened another notch. It was ridiculous, he tried to reason. Lydia was going to a professional conference. She had groomed herself – so what? Maybe she planned to use the hotel pool or spa; many people wax for swimsuit season. Maybe it was simply part of her routine now, something that made her feel confident in business attire.
Yet a part of him – the part trained in vigilance and pattern-recognition from his Army days – flagged this as an anomaly. Change in personal grooming habits – he recalled a buddy from his military unit grimly joking that he knew his ex was cheating when she suddenly started wearing perfume to “girls’ nights” and keeping her legs smooth constantly. Eliot had laughed it off then, never imagining he’d be in those shoes.
Now, a pang of guilt accompanied the suspicion. Lydia had given him no concrete reason to doubt her. She’d never come home with lipstick on her collar or secretive phone calls in the dead of night. Sure, she had been busy – maybe more distant these last few months – but nothing outright incriminating. If anything, it was Eliot who often worried too much.
He rubbed the back of his neck and stepped inside the quiet house. Lydia’s absence was tangible already. Usually, he’d distract himself with one of his cybersecurity projects or catch a morning run to clear his head. But today, an uneasy restlessness held him in place.
On an impulse, Eliot went back upstairs to their bedroom. The sun had shifted slightly, throwing a golden rectangle of light across the neatly made bed. He sat on the edge of it and took out his phone, thumbing over to the calendar app. Lydia had shared her work calendar with him – something she did years ago for convenience, not because he’d asked. On it, he saw the entries for this weekend: “Biotech Innovation Summit – Las Vegas” blocked out from Friday through Sunday, with her return flight noted early Monday morning. Everything perfectly normal for a career-driven executive.
His eyes drifted from the screen to the nightstand once more. The wax strip was still there beside the little aloe gel tub. Eliot picked it up gently, unfolding the strip. The wax was cold now; the hairs caught in it glinted under the light. A lump formed in his throat. This felt… intimate, almost invasively personal to look at. He realized he’d never seen this evidence before because Lydia usually cleaned up such things. She must have been in a hurry this morning to leave that behind.
He laid the strip back down and sighed. He was being absurd, letting paranoia get the better of him. Lydia deserved his trust – she had never betrayed it. He should toss that strip in the trash and go about his weekend, looking forward to her return.
But as Eliot rose, something under the bed caught his eye – a flash of color. Bending down, he reached underneath and pulled out a small satin drawstring bag, black with lacy trim. His heart kicked. It was the kind of bag used to protect delicate lingerie. And he was pretty sure it wasn’t empty.
Slowly, he loosened the drawstring and peeked inside. A wisp of burgundy fabric met his fingertips – silk, cool and smooth. He didn’t need to pull it out to know it was some piece of intimate apparel. Lydia’s? Possibly. But he hadn’t seen her wear anything burgundy and silk in… he couldn’t recall how long. Their once-passionate nights had, lately, settled into a familiar routine. Comfortable, if not as fiery as before. Certainly, he hadn’t seen fancy new lingerie in that routine.
Eliot sat back on his heels, the bag dangling from his fingers. A new piece of lingerie packed quietly away for a trip could mean nothing. She might have bought it to surprise him upon her return, or simply to feel confident by herself on the road. Lydia liked nice things; she often said beautiful undergarments made her feel empowered even if no one else saw them.
Yet when combined with the bikini wax, the special perfume, the extra care with her appearance… The little anomalies added up in Eliot’s mind like pieces of a code that didn’t align with its usual pattern.
He carefully placed the satin bag back where he found it, mind racing. A familiar voice in his head – rational, steady – tried to talk him down. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t invent ghosts. But another voice, one honed by years of network intrusion tests and catching hidden vulnerabilities, urged him not to ignore these signs. In his line of work as a cybersecurity consultant, ignoring small red flags could lead to catastrophic breaches. You had to follow your gut when something seemed off.
He closed his eyes and pictured Lydia’s smile as she waved goodbye. It was genuine… wasn’t it? She had looked happy, a little excited even. Of course she was excited – she was giving a keynote at a major conference. Why did he have to muddy that with baseless suspicions?
Eliot exhaled slowly. He needed clarity. Maybe a cold shower or that run he’d considered earlier. He stood and headed to the bathroom to splash water on his face. As he flicked on the light, he noticed one more thing: the small jewelry dish by the sink that usually held Lydia’s wedding band and engagement ring when she washed up. The dish was empty.
His heart knocked against his ribs. It wasn’t unusual per se – she probably was wearing her rings. She always wore her rings to conferences, he remembered; she said it helped fend off over-eager schmoozers.
But last night, when they were getting ready for bed, he recalled her taking them off before moisturizing her hands. Had she put them back on this morning? Eliot couldn’t remember seeing them on her finger during their goodbye. However, he hadn’t exactly been looking.
He turned off the bathroom light and paced back into the bedroom. He should call her – yes, a quick call under the pretense of checking if she got to the airport safely. Hearing her voice would soothe him and perhaps allow him to innocently ask, “Did you remember to wear your rings? I noticed them gone.” At worst, she’d find it a sweet, if odd, concern from him.
Instead, Eliot sank down on the edge of the bed again, phone in hand. A framed photo on the dresser caught his eye – it was from their honeymoon in Maui five years ago. In it, Lydia was perched on his back, both of them laughing, the sun painting golden highlights in her brown hair. He remembered the absolute trust and love he’d felt that day, how certain he was that they’d grow old together unshaken. He still loved her that deeply, didn’t he? And surely she loved him the same.
He realized with a twist of shame that in all those imaginings of a shared future, he’d never once considered infidelity as a possibility. Not until recently, not until these stupid, circumstantial clues started piling up.
Maybe the problem was him – his own insecurities. After leaving the Army, he had struggled to find his footing while Lydia’s career skyrocketed. He eventually landed in cybersecurity consulting, a decent if unglamorous job. He did well, but it was Lydia making waves in her field. There were times he felt left behind, though he rarely admitted it. Could it be that his ego was searching for cracks in their marriage where none existed, simply because he felt uncertain of his own path?
Eliot rubbed his temples. He had to do something other than wallow in conjecture. If he stayed here alone all weekend, his imagination would torment him with every worst-case scenario. He needed either to prove to himself that everything was fine, or…
The alternative was unthinkable. But if it were true, better to know than to be a blind fool.
His phone buzzed, startling him. A text from Lydia: “At gate now. Crazy security lines. Will text when I land. <3”
He stared at the little heart she’d typed. It brought a bittersweet smile to his lips. She texts hearts; cheaters probably don’t do that when they’re about to betray you, he told himself, trying to be reassured. Unless the heart was a diversion to keep him complacent.
Eliot clenched his jaw. Enough. He had to shake off this mental tug-of-war.
He texted back: “Okay. Safe flight. Love you.” Simple, nonchalant.
Dropping the phone onto the bed, Eliot walked to the window. Outside, a jogger trotted by, morning sunlight glinting off their neon vest. The world was continuing normally, and here he was unraveling in his bedroom.
Suddenly, an idea struck him with blinding clarity. He could follow Lydia to Las Vegas—catch the next flight out and see for himself what she was really doing.
Chapter 2: The Decision
The audacity of it made him almost laugh. Was he really that far gone? To turn into some kind of stalker husband?
But as Eliot grabbed his overnight bag from the closet and began tossing clothes into it, he knew the answer. Yes – if that’s what it took to lay his fears to rest.
He booked a seat on a 1:30 PM flight to Vegas without hesitating, paying a premium for the last-minute ticket. By noon, he was already weaving through airport traffic in his car, heart hammering in his chest. He felt a strange mixture of resolve and guilt. He was crossing a line he never thought he would – violating the implicit trust between them – yet the thought of doing nothing was worse.
By the time he parked and hustled through the terminal, the adrenaline of his decision was wearing off, leaving him a raw bundle of nerves. He checked in, cleared security on autopilot, and found himself at the gate a full forty minutes before boarding.
As he sank into a plastic chair near the window, he realized his hands were trembling. Outside on the tarmac, a steady line of airplanes taxied under the midday sun. Eliot closed his eyes and willed his racing heart to slow. What am I doing? he wondered for the tenth time since leaving home. Spying on Lydia? Chasing ghosts?
To steady himself, he pulled out his phone. There were no new messages from Lydia since her quick text at the gate. She would be in the air now, unreachable for another hour at least. Absent-mindedly, he opened the “Find My” app linked to their shared devices. They had set it up years ago when Lydia went on a hiking trip, as a safety precaution. Neither of them used it much since.
The app took a few moments to load. A map flickered on screen. Eliot’s own phone location pinged here at Newark Airport. A second dot, labeled “Lydia’s iPhone,” appeared as well – but to his surprise, it was already in Nevada, blinking near Las Vegas.
His eyebrows rose. Lydia’s flight must have made great time; she’d landed earlier than scheduled. The dot moved slowly along a road – likely in a car leaving the airport. Eliot zoomed in, expecting it to head west toward the convention center area. But the route gave him pause: it was moving north on Paradise Road, away from the direction of the big conference hotels like Mandalay Bay.
He frowned and tracked the progress. The dot turned west on Flamingo Road, passing the university campus, then stopped. A label popped up: Bellagio Las Vegas.
Eliot’s stomach dropped. Bellagio? That wasn’t the conference hotel she’d told him about. Why would Lydia be headed there? The Bellagio was a luxury resort famous for its fountains, not a typical venue for a biotech summit. The conference was supposed to be at the Mandalay Bay Convention Center, all the way down at the other end of the Strip.
His mind raced through possible explanations. Maybe a colleague was giving her a ride and had to stop at Bellagio? Or the conference organizers arranged accommodations there unexpectedly? Or – a darker possibility slithered in – maybe Lydia wasn’t going straight to the conference at all.
He stared at the pulsing dot, jaw clenched so hard it ached. The boarding announcement for his flight sounded over the PA system, making him flinch. Group 2 – his group – was being invited to line up. Eliot stood, shoving the phone into his pocket, and grabbed his small duffel.
As he joined the queue of passengers, the rational side of him struggled for footing. Don’t jump to conclusions, he told himself. There could be a perfectly valid reason for Lydia to be at Bellagio. Perhaps an old friend was in Vegas and invited her to lunch there. Maybe her company’s travel agent booked her there instead of the conference hotel due to availability. It wasn’t evidence of wrongdoing on its own.
Yet, the secrecy of it – not mentioning a change in plans – felt like another crack in the veneer of trust. If she was staying at Bellagio, why not tell him?
Eliot boarded the plane in a daze. He found his seat – a window near the wing – and stowed his bag. The airliner was only half-full; a blessing, as no one sat directly next to him. People murmured as they settled in, and the overhead bins thumped shut one by one. He buckled his seatbelt and immediately took out his phone again, switching it to airplane mode but connecting to the in-flight Wi-Fi network as soon as it allowed. He couldn’t shake the image of that little dot stopping at Bellagio.
As the plane taxied and then roared down the runway for takeoff, Eliot found himself pressing back against the seat, eyes shut. The force of acceleration pushed him down as the aircraft soared upward, engines screaming. His stomach swooped – a familiar feeling from dozens of military flights in jump seats and cargo holds. He’d never particularly enjoyed flying; too many memories of turbulent rides in rough weather over the desert.
This commercial flight, with its cushioned seats and soft music, was tame in comparison. Still, he felt far from calm. He opened his eyes to a view of clouds thick as cotton beneath the wing. The seatbelt sign pinged off.
Eliot immediately went back to the Find My app. It refreshed and showed Lydia’s phone still at Bellagio. Now his thoughts churned about what to do when he landed. Should he go straight to Bellagio to find her? Or head to the conference venue first to maintain cover as just a supportive husband who happened to come?
If he confronted her outright at Bellagio, it would reveal he’d tracked her – a breach of privacy that would definitely anger her. If she had a reasonable explanation, he’d come off looking obsessive and controlling.
Perhaps a subtler approach was better. He could show up at the biotech summit as if he decided to surprise her by attending her keynote. That was innocent enough. Then he could observe her reaction, see if anything seemed off when he was around unexpectedly. If she was hiding something – or someone – she might slip.
Yes, that felt like a saner plan. Confrontation in public was not ideal, but neither was lurking in hotel hallways. He needed more certainty before any confrontation.
The plane ride wore on through a cloudless afternoon sky. Eliot’s water sat untouched as he pieced together bits of a puzzle that might not even exist. Outside, endless desert ridges passed beneath the wing. The hum of the engines became a backdrop to his internal monologue.
He remembered how just last month, Lydia had come home late from a business dinner and mentioned, offhand, “Oh, I ran into my old colleague Andrew from Chicago at the dinner, we caught up a bit.” At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it; he trusted her completely. Now he wondered if that encounter with Andrew had been when something more started.
Stop it, he admonished himself for the hundredth time. This path only led to dark places.
A pocket of turbulence jolted the aircraft, and the seatbelt sign flickered back on. Some passengers gasped at the sudden shake. Eliot instinctively gripped the armrests, knuckles whitening, but his training kicked in – breathe steady, evaluate. It was a minor bump.
Yet turbulence was an apt metaphor for his life at the moment. He and Lydia had been coasting smoothly for years, and now without warning, he felt them plunging through unstable air, everything shaking. Would they level out safely, or was a crash inevitable?
He gazed out at the horizon. In the far distance, he could see where the sky began to glow a faint amber – the late afternoon sun over Nevada. They’d be landing soon. He took a long, slow breath.
One way or another, he was about to find out what waited for him on the ground.
Chapter 3: Turbulence
McCarran International Airport was a jolt to the senses after the tranquil emptiness of the sky. Eliot disembarked amid throngs of weekend travelers, the slot machines in the terminal already chiming and flashing their welcome to Las Vegas. The air smelled of recycled ventilation, tinged with excitement and desperation in equal measure. With only his carry-on, Eliot moved quickly through the terminal, head down, ball cap pulled low. He suddenly felt self-conscious, as if everyone could see the turmoil that carried him here.
By the time he stepped outside into the dry late-afternoon heat, he had a plan: go to the Bellagio. He would trust the evidence of his eyes over conjecture. If Lydia was staying there, he needed to confirm it. Perhaps he’d spot her or overhear something. The idea of walking straight up to the front desk and asking for her felt too confrontational – and if she wasn’t alone, it could get messy. Better to stay in the shadows a bit longer.
He caught a taxi from the airport, his knee bouncing with impatience the entire ride. The driver chatted about the influx of visitors this weekend, but Eliot barely responded, eyes fixed on the city unfolding outside the window. Glass high-rises and massive billboards towered above, promising musical extravaganzas, celebrity chef restaurants, five-star pleasures. He wondered bitterly if Lydia was planning to indulge in those pleasures with someone else by her side.
The cab let him off at the Bellagio’s grand entrance. Eliot paid and stood for a moment beneath the ornate porte-cochère, where valets in vests jogged to open car doors. He was here. This was the same hotel he and Lydia had once daydreamed of visiting “someday, when we can splurge,” to see the famed dancing fountains. Now the thought made his heart ache.
Inside, the lobby was all marble floors and flower arrangements the size of small trees. A towering glass ceiling art installation cast dappled colors on the check-in lines. Eliot moved through the crowd, trying to blend in as just another tourist. He scanned the faces in the lobby, heart thudding. Executives with conference badges, families on vacation, couples arm-in-arm – but no sign of Lydia yet.
He hovered near a pillar, taking out his phone as if checking messages while surreptitiously surveying the scene. If she had checked in, she might have gone up to her room to freshen up. His eyes flicked to the bank of elevators across the lobby.
Almost on cue, one set of elevator doors opened with a chime. Eliot’s breath caught as he saw Lydia step out.
There she was, in the flesh – a mere twenty yards away. Eliot instantly ducked his head behind the pillar, adrenaline jolting through him. He peered subtly around the marble column to watch.
Lydia looked radiant, as she often did after a bit of rest and a chance to freshen up. She’d changed outfits from the morning; now she wore a form-fitting teal dress that accentuated her figure, paired with the delicate silver necklace he’d given her two Christmases ago. Her hair was down, brushing her shoulders in soft waves. She looked less like a weary traveler and more like a woman ready for a night out.
But it wasn’t her appearance alone that seized Eliot’s attention – it was the man stepping out of the elevator beside her. He recognized him immediately from a few company event photos Lydia had shown him in the past: the sandy-blond hair, the confident posture. It was Andrew Michaels.
They were chatting as they emerged, walking side by side. Lydia said something that Eliot couldn’t hear, and Andrew laughed warmly. The familiarity between them was evident in the easy way they stood close, their bodies angled toward each other.
Eliot’s hands balled into fists at his sides. Seeing them together, the abstract fears from the plane solidified into a punch to the gut. There was an undeniable chemistry in their interaction – or at least, he perceived it that way in his current state of mind. Lydia’s expression was bright, almost girlish as she smiled up at Andrew. When was the last time Eliot had seen her smile at him like that, with that particular sparkle?
Andrew lightly touched Lydia’s back, guiding her through the lobby crowd. It was a brief, gentle touch – the kind of courteous gesture a man might do out of habit. But to Eliot it was electricity arcing across his vision. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
They were moving toward the lobby exit. Eliot followed at a safe distance, mind racing. It was early evening now; perhaps they were heading to dinner. The conference welcome reception was likely starting about now at Mandalay Bay – and clearly, Lydia had chosen to skip it.
Outside, dusk had settled, bringing the neon world of the Strip to life.
The Las Vegas Strip glittered with neon and marquee lights as night fell. Tourists thronged the sidewalks under colossal LED screens and dazzling billboards, their laughter and chatter blending with the clang of slot machines spilling from casino doors. The scent of street food, vehicle exhaust, and a hint of cigarette smoke hung in the warm desert air. Amid the carnival of sights and sounds, Eliot trailed Lydia and Andrew at a cautious distance, feeling as though a glass wall separated him from the revelry around.
They strolled north along the Strip, past Bellagio’s manicured lake where jets of water lay still in anticipation of the next fountain show. Andrew walked casually close to Lydia, occasionally leaning his head toward her when he spoke, as if sharing confidences meant only for her ears. She would tilt her face up toward him, listening intently, then laugh at something he said. The easy intimacy of it was like salt in a wound.
Eliot’s mind flashed to memories of him and Lydia walking like this, years ago in another city – hand in hand, heads inclined together in their own private world. Now she was recreating that posture with someone else.
He tried to stay far enough back not to be noticed, occasionally slowing to pretend to examine a casino’s facade or pausing at a crosswalk even when the light was in his favor. His Army training in stealth operations kicked in, unbidden – keep to shadows, use the crowd as cover, observe without drawing attention.
They eventually turned into a grand entrance under a massive faux-Italian archway – Caesars Palace, judging by the Roman statues flanking the doors. Eliot hesitated, then slipped in after them through the revolving glass doors.
Inside, the casino floor sprawled out in a sensory overload of chiming slots and cheers from the table games. It took only a moment to spot Lydia’s teal dress weaving through the crowd, headed toward a quieter corridor that led to restaurants. Eliot hung back, pretending to be engrossed by a garish fountain where animatronic Caesar figures bellowed on the hour.
They entered an upscale restaurant with gold script lettering that read “Bacchanalia” above the door. A hostess greeted them warmly and led them inside, out of view. Eliot approached just in time to catch a glimpse of Lydia’s hand lightly touching Andrew’s arm as they were guided to their table.
His heart thundered. This certainly didn’t look like a casual bump-into-each-other meeting or a group dinner with colleagues. It was just the two of them, out for a meal at one of Vegas’s more romantic dining spots – he knew of Bacchanalia; it was famous for its wine list and intimate atmosphere.
Eliot lingered in the corridor, uncertain of his next move. He could hardly march in and demand a table without risking being seen. Instead, he found a perch at a lounge bar directly across from the restaurant entrance. From there, partially hidden behind a tall potted palm, he had a line of sight on the doorway and anyone exiting.
The bartender approached, and Eliot ordered a soda water – something to justify his presence. As he waited, his knee jogged anxiously under the bar. His thoughts churned: What were Lydia and Andrew talking about in there? Work? Personal lives? Each other? Was Lydia’s foot brushing his under the table at this very moment? Was Andrew reaching for her hand across the candlelight?
He realized he was clutching the cocktail napkin in his hand so tightly it tore. He forced himself to breathe slowly, releasing the shredded paper.
Minutes ticked by, turning to a half hour. The soda water was gone, replaced with a second at the bartender’s subtle prodding. Eliot barely tasted it; he was too busy picturing scenarios through the foggy lens of jealousy. Each laugh he occasionally heard ring out from the restaurant (was that Lydia’s voice? he couldn’t be sure) prickled his skin.
At one point, a couple exited Bacchanalia, holding hands and looking blissful. Eliot’s stomach knotted at the sight. Would Lydia and Andrew emerge like that?
As if on cue, he saw them appear at the hostess stand inside, settling the bill. They stepped out moments later, Andrew politely holding the door for Lydia. She looked at ease, happy even. Andrew said something and she laughed, confirming to Eliot that the feminine laugh he’d heard earlier was indeed hers. The sound that used to warm his heart now felt like a dagger, knowing it was prompted by another man.
They did not hold hands – not yet – but as they walked back toward the casino, Andrew’s hand hovered at the small of Lydia’s back, an almost possessive closeness. Lydia didn’t pull away; if anything, she leaned subtly into his guidance as they navigated the busy passage.
Eliot slipped off the bar stool, abandoning a crumpled twenty to cover his drinks, and followed at a measured pace. A fierce debate raged in his head: Confront them now, in public? Demand an explanation? The other voice answered, No – get concrete proof first. Don’t rely on what it “looks like.”
He felt both cowardly and prudent for hanging back. His heart wanted to storm in and yank Lydia away from this interloper, but his mind – and perhaps some self-preservation instinct – counseled caution. Once the confrontation happened, there’d be no undoing it. And if by some impossible chance this was a misunderstanding, causing a scene here could ruin everything.
Through the dispersing crowd, Lydia and Andrew continued on, entering Bellagio’s lobby once more. Eliot’s pulse quickened. If they were returning to the hotel together at this hour, it likely meant only one thing.
He trailed them to the elevators, staying far enough behind that a group of tourists with shopping bags acted as a buffer. He watched as Lydia hit the call button. One elevator opened almost immediately – these likely led to the guest rooms in the tower.
Andrew followed her in. As the doors slid closed, he pivoted casually, giving a brief view of his face in Eliot’s direction. Eliot ducked behind the group of tourists, heart pounding. The elevator doors shut with a soft ding, carrying his wife and the man he feared was her lover up into the heights of the hotel.
On the panel above, red digital numbers ticked upwards: 10…11…12… They stopped at 18.
Eliot released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. At least he had a floor number now. He stepped forward and pressed the elevator call button for himself, hands shaking.
As he stepped into an empty elevator car, he felt the world closing in. He knew where they were – presumably in Lydia’s room on the 18th floor. The question was, what was he going to do about it?
Chapter 4: Arrival
The elevator deposited Eliot in a hushed, luxurious corridor on the eighteenth floor. Plush carpeting muted his footsteps as he made his way toward the room numbers in the 1800s. His heart thumped so violently it almost hurt.
At the corner of a hallway, he paused to gather himself. The air was very still here, far removed from the casino’s chaos below. Soft light sconce fixtures cast a steady glow.
Peering around the corner, he saw a lone figure halfway down the corridor: Andrew. The man was standing outside what had to be Lydia’s room – number 1806, if the sequencing held – and he was just closing the door gently behind him. In his hand, Andrew held what looked like a hotel keycard.
Eliot pressed back against the wall, adrenaline surging. Andrew was leaving Lydia’s room. He waited, breath held, until Andrew walked to the far elevator bank, whistling softly to himself. The elevator dinged and swallowed him up. Andrew was gone.
Eliot turned the corner and approached room 1806. The corridor was silent again. He stood very still in front of the door, staring at the peephole as if it were an eye staring back. Andrew had left; what did that mean? Had he just spent the night with Lydia and was now sneaking off before morning? Or had he only visited briefly? Eliot’s stomach churned.
From inside the room, he could hear muted movement – a drawer opening, then shutting. Lydia was awake.
His first impulse was to pound on the door and confront her, demand to see inside. But he stopped himself. He needed to not just confront – he needed to understand. If Andrew had indeed spent the night and left only now, then any confrontation would be straightforward in its devastation. But if not… what was he missing?
Before he could overthink further, fate intervened. Footsteps sounded from the elevator – someone coming. Eliot panicked and realized he couldn’t be caught loitering suspiciously outside a random room. Without any other option, he strode straight to room 1806 and knocked, his heart in his throat.
For a moment, nothing. Then, from inside, Lydia’s muffled voice: “Coming!”
Eliot’s pulse roared in his ears. A bolt of nervous energy shot through him – this was it. The door unlatched and opened.
Lydia stood there, coffee mug in hand. She wore a casual outfit – jeans and a lavender blouse – and her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. She looked puzzled, expecting perhaps room service. The instant her eyes landed on Eliot, she froze.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Lydia’s eyes went wide, confusion and shock flooding her face. “Eliot?!”
Eliot’s words burst out in a raw mix of accusation and desperation. “Surprise,” he said thinly. “Thought I’d drop in.”
Lydia’s mouth parted, but no sound came. She seemed to be processing, her gaze flicking down the hallway as if expecting someone else to be there. “How… why…?” she finally stammered, still holding the door only halfway open. “What are you doing here?”
Eliot stepped forward, gently pushing the door open wider. Lydia instinctively stepped back, allowing him into the suite’s living area. His eyes swept the room, bracing for whatever incriminating sign might greet him.
Sunlight poured through the window, illuminating a scene he hadn’t anticipated at all. A small dining table by the window was covered with a white cloth and set for two. A bouquet of white lilies lay on the table next to a box tied with a ribbon. There were balloons – silver and blue – tethered to a chair, bobbing gently. And in the center, a beautifully decorated cake with cursive words iced on top: “To New Beginnings, L + E.”
Eliot stared, his brain short-circuiting. This was no den of infidelity; it looked like a celebration.
Lydia followed his gaze and let out a small, miserable sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp. “Oh no,” she whispered, realizing what he was seeing. “Oh no, no…”
Eliot turned to her, throat tight. He noticed now that her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying prior to his knock. “Lydia, what is…?” His voice faltered. Suddenly all the accusations he’d planned to hurl seemed absurd.
She set the coffee mug down with a trembling hand. “You shouldn’t be here,” she managed, voice breaking. “Not like this.”
Eliot took a step closer, confusion and hope and fear warring in his chest. “Please. Help me understand. What is all this?” His gesture encompassed the table, the cake, the balloons emblazoned with Happy Anniversary.
Lydia pressed her hands over her mouth, closing her eyes for a moment as if to draw strength. When she lowered them, her gaze was wet with tears. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” she said unsteadily. “For us. For our anniversary.”
“Our…?” Eliot felt like the floor had tilted. The evidence was right in front of him, but he still struggled to align it with everything he’d assumed the past day. “This was for me?”
She nodded, a tear spilling down her cheek. “For us. I arranged everything – the suite, the cake, the flowers.” Her voice cracked. “I was going to fly you out here today. Andrew was helping set it up. It was going to be my surprise gift to you – to us – after my conference. A weekend in Vegas together, to celebrate and reconnect.”
Eliot’s knees nearly buckled. He sank into the nearest chair, the weight of his misjudgment hitting like a physical blow. He covered his face with one hand. “Oh my God,” he breathed. For a moment, the room blurred. The cake’s inscription swam in his vision – New Beginnings.
Lydia sniffed and wiped her cheeks, trying to regain composure. “I lied to you about where I was staying because I wanted it to be a secret,” she continued softly. “I didn’t want you to accidentally find out. I thought… I thought you’d be delighted by the surprise.” A note of anger crept into her tone even as her voice wavered. “I never imagined you’d… you’d follow me here, Eliot. That you’d think I was—” She choked on the words.
Eliot dropped his hand from his face. “That you were cheating,” he finished for her, his voice dull with shame. He couldn’t meet her eyes now. “I thought exactly that. I’m so sorry.”
Lydia inhaled sharply and turned away for a moment, pressing her fingers against her temple. “I don’t know whether to be furious or…” She didn’t finish. Instead, she looked back at him, searching his face. “All those times I told you about my trips, did you really have so little faith in me?”
Her words cut him. Eliot rose unsteadily to his feet. “I do have faith in you… I just… I lost faith in everything for a bit, I think. In myself. I let my fears run wild, Lydia. I can’t excuse it.” He approached her slowly, as one might a skittish animal. “Nothing happened the way I thought. God, I’ve been such a fool.”
Lydia’s lower lip trembled. “I was distant, I know,” she said softly. “I was distracted with planning this, and with work. Maybe I gave you reason to worry without realizing. But Eliot, you could have just talked to me. Instead…” She gestured at him standing there in her hotel room. “Instead we got… this.”
He gently reached out and took her hand, relieved beyond measure when she allowed it. “I know. You’re right. Instead of trusting and communicating, I spiraled. I’m not going to defend that.” His voice cracked with emotion. “All I can say is that I’m so, so sorry for not trusting you. For what I put you – and myself – through.”
She looked down at their hands, his fingers entwining with hers. “When did you even get here?” she asked quietly.
“Last night,” he admitted. “I was at the airport when you landed. I… I saw you meet Andrew. I followed you two.” He winced at how awful it sounded out loud.
Lydia closed her eyes, groaning softly. “So you spied on my dinner with him? You watched us come back to the hotel?”
“Yes,” Eliot confessed. “I saw you together and it broke me. I was convinced you were having an affair. What was I supposed to think, Lyd? You were in a fancy hotel with a man I barely knew, skipping your conference events to have dinner with him, coming back late… all the signs were there.” He let out a shaky breath. “I have never been so certain of anything, and so wrong.”
She opened her eyes, studying him. Hurt and empathy warred on her face. “I suppose it did look bad from the outside,” she conceded. “I didn’t handle the secrecy well.”
Eliot shook his head vigorously. “No. Don’t blame yourself. This is on me. I could have trusted the woman I love. Instead I turned into a suspicious wreck at the first challenge.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I failed you.”
Lydia stepped closer and, to his surprise, gently touched his cheek. “It scares me that you think you failed me that easily,” she murmured. “What does that say about us, Eliot? About our marriage?”
He felt tears sting his eyes. “It says I have a lot of work to do to earn back your trust,” he said. “I put cracks in something I thought was unbreakable. I hate that I did that. But I will do whatever it takes to fix it.”
For a moment, Lydia just looked at him, her hand warm against his face. Then, with a weary sigh, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his chest. Eliot encircled her in his arms immediately, pulling her in tightly. She was shaking a little, and he realized she was crying again.
“I was so excited about this weekend,” she managed between quiet sobs. “I thought it might fix the distance that had been growing between us. And then last night, when you didn’t respond to some of my texts, I… I got paranoid myself. I thought maybe you were pulling away. I almost called you a dozen times. But I told myself not to worry.” She gave a wet laugh against his shirt. “All the while you were here, thinking the absolute worst of me.”
Eliot closed his eyes, swaying gently with her in his arms. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “We’ve both been anxious about each other in different ways, haven’t we?” he whispered. “But no more secrets. No more silence.”
Lydia sniffled and nodded. After a moment, she pulled back to look at him. “You must be exhausted,” she said, wiping her tears. “Have you even slept?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “I spent most of the night in a chair down the hall, working myself into a frenzy.”
A faint rueful smile touched her lips. “My ridiculous husband,” she murmured, reaching up to smooth his rumpled hair. “Why do we do this to ourselves?”
He caught her hand and kissed her palm, a gesture of supplication. “Because we’re human. Fallible, terrified human beings when it comes to possibly losing each other.”
Lydia’s eyes shone at that, and she stepped back to the table, gesturing to the beautifully set scene that awaited an occasion now marred by misunderstanding. “This is what I wanted,” she said. “Time with you, away from everything, to remember why we work. To show you how much I appreciate you, even if I’ve been busy and distracted.”
Eliot swallowed a lump in his throat. Guilt and gratitude welled up in equal measure. “It’s beautiful,” he said hoarsely. He walked to the table and touched one of the balloon strings gently. “Happy Anniversary. God, you even got us a cake…”
She managed a soft laugh. “Champagne too. Not warm yet, thankfully.”
They stood on either side of the little table, strewn with evidence of her love and his lack of faith. Eliot reached across and took both her hands firmly. “Lydia, I don’t deserve this celebration after what I’ve done,” he said. “But I’m going to accept it as a second chance. Our new beginning, if you’ll still have me.”
Her face crumpled, but in relief rather than sorrow now. “Of course I will, you idiot,” she whispered, squeezing his fingers. “I never wanted anything or anyone else. Just you.”
Eliot stepped around the table and wrapped her in another embrace, this time tilting her chin up so he could kiss her deeply. It was a kiss that tasted of salt from their tears, of apology and forgiveness entwined. When they broke apart, both were breathing shakily, foreheads touching.
Outside their window, far below, Las Vegas bustled on, full of stories and secrets. But in that hotel suite, one story – theirs – had found its way back to honesty. Eliot realized that trust, once cracked, could be mended if both hearts were willing.
Lydia brushed back a lock of his hair and offered a tentative smile. “Happy almost-anniversary, my love.”
Eliot smiled through the sting of tears threatening again. “Happy almost-anniversary,” he murmured. “And here’s to all the miles ahead of us – may we travel them together, always.”