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SASHA
The elevator doors are closing,and I have exactly two seconds to make a decision:
Accept defeat and wait for the next one like a normal, civilized human being.
Channel my inner action hero and go for it.
Naturally, I choose violence.
With a coffee cup in one hand and my tote bag slipping off my shoulder, I lunge forward, shoving my free hand between the closing doors.
The elevator jerks open in protest. My sensible flats skid against the polished marble as I stumble in, barely keeping my coffee from sloshing over the rim. I mutter a breathless “Jesus,” push a strand of hair out of my face, and straighten my blazer.
And that’s when I feel it.
The air in the elevator is different, thicker somehow. Not the usual awkward silence of standing next to strangers, but something charged, like a static current buzzing just beneath the surface.
I glance up?—
And everything inside me comes to a screeching halt.
He’s tall, at least a head taller than me, dressed in an impeccable black three-piece suit that fits his broad frame like it was made for him. His white dress shirt is crisp, unbuttoned just enough at the collar to hint at something indecently attractive beneath.
But it’s his face that makes my stomach drop.
His features are chiseled, but not in a boyish, pretty way—more like something sculpted from stone.
The kind of handsome that comes with age, the kind that makes twenty-something guys look like awkward teenagers in comparison. He has a strong jaw, the barest hint of scruff, and salt-and-pepper hair that only adds to the unfair level of attractiveness.
And his eyes?
Cold. Glacial gray.
They flick over me, assessing, measuring, and I feel it everywhere—like an unseen hand trailing down my spine.
Oh.
Oh no.
Breathe, Sasha, breathe.
I should look away. I should pretend like I didn’t just ogle a stranger in an elevator, but my brain is actively refusing to function. My heart stutters in my chest, heat prickles up my neck, and the moment stretches too long—like he’s waiting for me to say something.
His expression is unreadable, but there’s something intensely watchful about it, like he sees things other people don’t. Like he sees me, even though I’m just a nobody rushing to my low-level job.
Beside him, a massive bald man in a suit stands with his hands clasped in front of him, watching the exchange with silent disapproval. He’s the kind of guy you do not mess with, and for the first time since entering the elevator, I realize?—
I might’ve just walked into the wrong place.
A normal person would probably apologize. Step out. Act normal.
But no. I clear my throat, grip my coffee like it’s a damn life raft, and blurt out, “This isn’t a staff-only elevator, right?”
The man’s lips—full, ridiculously well-shaped lips that should not be the focus of my attention right now—twitch, just barely. Not a smile. Not even amusement. More like…intrigue.
A slow, deliberate flick of his gaze. First to my coffee. Then to my face.