Saving Isabella

Chapter 19: My Dad: Robert, sorry Roger Thompson

NARRATORS POV:

Roger Thompson sat on a barstool at the Avalon Hollywood nightclub, glaring into the half-empty beer bottle in his hand. The neon lights flickered overhead, casting an unnatural glow on the polished counters and well-dressed patrons. To say he was pissed would be putting it mildly. His fingers drummed against the bar, tension rolling off him in waves as he downed another swig, the cool bitterness doing nothing to ease the knot of irritation tightening in his chest.

A stolen wallet. His wallet. The absurdity of it gnawed at him. Who the hell had the nerve? Didn't they know who he was? Roger Thompson, for Christ's sake—a man who'd worked his ass off for everything he had, now reduced to dealing with common theft like some nobody. It was almost laughable. But the joke wasn't funny when it was happening to him.

His thoughts swirled as the thumping bass of the club music reverberated through the floor. Avalon was one of his go-to spots whenever he was in L.A. The crowd here, usually made up of industry players and well-heeled professionals, was the type that respected men like him. Men with money. Men who didn't get their damn wallets stolen by some low-life punk looking for a quick score.

How did this happen? His brow furrowed as he replayed the evening in his head. He'd been standing near the VIP section, chatting with a colleague, minding his own business. His wallet had been in his pocket, safe as always, until it wasn't. And now, some scumbag was out there, walking around with his ID, his credit cards, his hard-earned money. The thought made his stomach churn with disgust.

Didn't they know who I am? The question echoed in his mind, a mixture of disbelief and arrogance. He wasn't just some average Joe who could be brushed off. He was Roger freakin' Thompson—a man who closed million-dollar deals over a single round of golf, who owned properties across multiple states, and could crush someone's financial life with a single phone call. He didn't deserve this level of disrespect. He didn't tolerate it.

His jaw clenched as he drained the last of his beer and signaled the bartender for another. A slick, Italian leather wallet. High-end, just like everything he owned—carefully chosen because of the image it projected. The kind of wallet that made a statement before you even opened it. That's how he operated—polished, professional, untouchable. Until tonight.

Roger swirled the next beer in his hand, staring at the bubbling liquid as if it held some sort of answer. He thought of the photo on his ID, the grinning face that always looked a little too eager in official pictures. 58 years old, and this is what he was dealing with? He wasn't some aging businessman past his prime—he was still in his prime, damn it. Taller than most at 6'1", and with his suits tailored to perfection.

Roger's lips curled into a sneer as he imagined the thief—some punk kid, no doubt, probably laughing about how they got one over on a rich guy in a suit. Oh, they'd pay for this. He'd make sure of it. The contacts he had, the kind of people he knew—it wouldn't take long to track down whoever had the gall to lift his wallet. No one gets away with screwing Roger Thompson over.

He took a deep breath, the cool air in the club doing little to calm the heat of his temper. It wasn't about the money. Hell, he could afford to lose a couple hundred bucks without blinking an eye. But the principle of it? That's what really pissed him off. The audacity.

They'd stolen from the wrong man. Roger wasn't just another face in the crowd, another suit in the boardroom. He was someone who didn't forget things like this. It wasn't just about the wallet—it was about what it represented. His identity. His power. And he'd be damned if he let someone strip that from him without consequences.