Chapter 40 Trapped
We were descending from the fortieth floor in the executive lift, a silent, silver box suspended in the shaft. The air between us was already thick, charged with the weight of the confession he’d just made. My arms were draped loosely around his neck, his hands resting on my waist.
Then, the world tilted.
The elevator shuddered violently, a groan of metal on metal that vibrated through the soles of my heels. The sudden arrest of motion threw me against him. Tristan caught me instantly, his grip tightening, turning a stumble into an embrace.
"You said it was finicky," I whispered, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "You didn't say it was lethal."
"It’s not lethal," he replied, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. "It’s just... stuck."
He released me slowly, moving to the panel. Under the eerie red wash of the emergency lighting, his features looked sharp, predatory. He pressed the call button.
"Hello? This is Tristan Johnston. We’re stuck in the executive lift."
The response was a wash of static. "Mr. Johnston? We... power surge... main grid... backup failing..."
The voice dissolved into white noise. Then, the red light flickered and died.
Absolute, suffocating darkness.
"Tristan?" I reached out, my hands grasping at the empty air.
"I’m here."
His hand found mine. It was warm, solid, an anchor in the void.
"The backup generator failed?" My voice pitched up, betraying my panic. "In the headquarters of a billion-dollar company?"
"It seems Ida’s reach extends beyond the estate," he said grimly, his voice vibrating in the small space. "Or maybe it’s just the universe telling us we need to talk."
"The universe has a twisted sense of humor."
I fumbled for my phone, the screen blindingly bright when I toggled the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating the wood-paneled box. It was terrifyingly small—six feet by six feet of luxury cage.
"How long?" I asked.
"If the main grid is down... it could be hours."
"Hours?" I slumped against the back wall, the adrenaline beginning to crash, leaving exhaustion in its wake. "Tristan, it’s already getting hot in here."
"The ventilation runs on the main circuit," he explained. He was already shedding his suit jacket, tossing it into the corner. He loosened his tie with a sharp tug. "Take off your jacket."
I hesitated. Underneath the leather, I was wearing the green slip dress—the weapon I had chosen specifically to unsettle him.
"Mina, don't be stubborn. You’ll overheat."
He was right. The air was already growing stagnant, heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and rising panic. I slipped the jacket off, letting it fall. The sweat was already prickling at my hairline.
Tristan turned to me. In the harsh, unidirectional light of the phone, his eyes were dark pools, unreadable and intense. His gaze traveled over the silk, lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulders and back.
"You wore that to provoke me," he said softly.
"It worked, didn't it?"
"It worked too well."
He slid down the opposite wall, sitting on the carpeted floor with a weary sigh. He patted the space beside him. "Sit. Conserve oxygen."
I sat. The floor was cool, but the air around us was stifling. We existed in a bubble of silence, the only sound the ragged rhythm of our own breathing.
"So," he said eventually. "Therapy."
"Don't start."
"You said I needed help. You said you couldn't fix me."
"I can't."
"But you’re here," he pointed out. "Trapped in a box with me. Again."
"I have bad luck with enclosed spaces."
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Or maybe you just like being close to me."
"Don't flatter yourself."
He turned his head. In the cramped space, his face was mere inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him.
"Tell me something," he said, his voice dropping, shedding the bravado of the CEO. "Tell me about Milan. Tell me about the life you built without me."
I stared at the intricate patterns of the wood grain illuminated by the phone. "Why?"
"Because I missed it. Because I want to know who you became when you weren't being Mrs. Johnston."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "I became... busy. I worked. I designed cafes, boutiques, a library in Florence. I drank too much espresso. I walked everywhere until my feet bled."
"Did you date?"
The question was a blade, sharp and sudden.
"A few times," I admitted, refusing to look at him. "Nothing serious."
"Why not?"
"Because," I said, finally meeting his gaze. The flashlight cast deep shadows across his face, making him look haunted. "Because every time a man touched me... I compared him to you. And he lost."
Tristan went perfectly still.
"Even when I hated you," I whispered, the truth spilling out like blood. "Even when I cursed your name... my body remembered yours."
He reached out, his fingers grazing my knee. His touch was scorching against my skin.
"My body never forgot you either," he said hoarsely. "I tried, Mina. I tried to move on. Lorelei... she was safe. She was easy. But when I kissed her... I felt nothing. It was like kissing a ghost."
His hand moved up my thigh. heavily, slowly. Testing the boundary. Pushing the line.
"You’re not a ghost," he murmured. "You’re fire."
My breath hitched. The heat in the elevator was becoming unbearable, a physical weight pressing down on us. Or maybe that was just him.
"Tristan," I warned, my voice trembling. "We’re trapped."
"I know."
"If you touch me... if we do this... and the doors open..."
"Let them open," he said, his eyes locking onto mine. "Let them see."
He leaned in, capturing my neck in a kiss that wasn't gentle. It was hungry, desperate. He bit down on the sensitive cord of my neck, marking me.
I gasped, my head falling back against the wall. "Tristan."
"Say yes," he murmured against my skin, the vibration running through me. "Say you want this."
I wanted to say no. I wanted to be strong, to stick to my conditions, to maintain the walls I had rebuilt. But the heat, the darkness, and the sheer, overwhelming force of his need shattered my resolve.
"Yes," I breathed.
He didn't hesitate.
He pulled me into his lap, the movement fluid and commanding. He kissed me hard and deep, a reclaiming of territory. His hands roamed over the silk dress, finding the hem, pushing it up until skin met skin.
I arched into him, the friction electric.
"You’re so beautiful," he groaned. "So responsive."
The air in the elevator had turned into a sauna. Sweat slicked our skin, making us slide against each other, blurring the lines between where I ended and he began. It was messy. It was desperate. It was raw.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I looked. His pupils were blown wide, black with a lust that mirrored my own.
"I am going to take you," he said, the promise dark and heavy. "Right here. On the floor of this elevator. And I am going to make you scream my name until the whole building hears it."
The rest was a blur of sensation. The hardness of the floor, the suffocating heat, the frantic tangle of limbs. I forgot about Ida. I forgot about the fire, the contract, the years of pain. There was only this. Only him. Only the way he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world, the way he claimed me as if he were starving and I was his only sustenance.
When the end came, it was explosive, a white-hot release that left us both gasping, collapsing against the wall, slick with sweat and utterly spent.
Silence returned to the elevator. But it wasn't heavy anymore. It was sated.
Tristan wrapped his arms around me, pulling my head to his chest. I could hear his heart slowing, matching the rhythm of mine.
"I love you," he whispered into my hair.
I closed my eyes, letting the darkness hold us for just a moment longer. "I know."
Suddenly, the lights flickered. The hum of the ventilation system roared back to life, a jarring intrusion of reality. The elevator jolted, the cables groaning as they took the weight.
"We’re moving," Tristan said.
He helped me up. We were a disaster—hair wild, lips swollen, clothes rumpled and damp. We frantically fixed what we could as the numbers on the panel ticked down.
The doors slid open.
We were in the lobby. It was empty, save for the night security guard who looked up from his desk, startled by our sudden appearance.
"Mr. Johnston?" he stammered. "Are you okay? We tried to reach you... the power..."
"We’re fine," Tristan said, his voice remarkably steady as he took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. "Just a minor technical difficulty."
He led me out of the building, past the confused guard, and into the cool night air. The city lights were dazzling after the darkness of the box, the noise of the street overwhelming.
"My car is here," I said, gesturing vaguely.
"Leave it," he said, turning to me. "Come home with me."
"To the estate?"
"Yes."
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had just wrecked me in an elevator and then walked out holding my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Okay," I said.