Unbothered

I corner him before the elevator doors can close.

My hand slams against the metal with a sharp clang, forcing the doors to slide back open.

Lucien doesn’t flinch.

Of course he doesn’t.

He stands inside the elevator like he’s been expecting me one hand in his pocket, jacket draped perfectly over his shoulders, expression calm to the point of insult.

The doors fully retract.

Silence stretches between us.

Employees hover down the hallway pretending not to stare.

I step inside.

“Ground floor,” I tell the operator.

“There’s no operator,” Lucien says mildly. “It’s automated.”

Frustration tightens my jaw.

I press the button myself. The doors slide shut with a quiet seal, boxing us in.

Finally,

No board members. No assistants. No glass walls.

Just him.

And the tension that’s been clawing at my ribs since yesterday morning.

“You lied to my face,” I say.

Lucien’s gaze drifts lazily to the digital floor count above us. “That’s a strong accusation.”

“You told me you spent the night reviewing projections.”

“I did.”

The elevator hums as it begins its descent.

I step closer. “You booked a hotel suite in my name.”

His expression remains neutral. “Did I?”

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

This is what’s driving me insane. Not the denial. Not even the memory gaps.

It’s the fact that he looks untouched.

Unaffected.

Like I’m the only one who walked away marked.

“You left something behind,” I say carefully.

“A mistake?”

“A cufflink.”

That gets his attention but only slightly. His eyes flicker with brief recognition before smoothing over again.

“Ah,” he says softly. “I was wondering where that went.”

No apology.

No tension.

Just acknowledgement.

“You don’t seem concerned,” I bite out.

“Should I be?”

The elevator passes the thirty-fifth floor.

I study him openly now. The sharp lines of his face. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The steady rhythm of his breathing.

He looks exactly the same as he did yesterday morning in that conference room.

Perfectly composed.

Meanwhile, I haven’t slept.

I’ve replayed every second I can’t remember.

I’ve checked security footage from the hotel conveniently glitched between midnight and six a.m.

I’ve had IT scan my phone for malware.

Nothing.

No proof.

No leverage.

Just heat under my skin and his name stuck in my head.

“What do you want?” I ask.

That’s the real question.

This isn’t random. It can’t be.

Lucien tilts his head slightly, studying me in a way that feels far too intimate for the tight space we’re sharing.

“From you?”

“Yes.”

The elevator dings softly as we pass the twenty-eighth floor.

He considers the question like it deserves thought.

“I want the Milan acquisition approved,” he says finally.

I stare at him.

“That’s business.”

“Everything is business.”

“No,” I say sharply. “Not everything.”

A quiet pause.

His gaze drops briefly too briefly to my collar before lifting again.

The memory flashes between us without words.

My breath tightens.

He saw them earlier. The marks. The evidence.

And he still stood there like ice.

“I don’t mix personal and professional,” I say.

His mouth curves faintly. Not quite a smile.

“Is that what this is?”

The implication makes my pulse spike.

“This is you overstepping.”

“By doing my job?”

“By pretending nothing happened.”

The elevator slows slightly at the twentieth floor but doesn’t stop.

We’re alone.

Still descending.

Lucien finally shifts his stance, turning fully toward me.

Up close, his calm feels deliberate. Engineered.

“I don’t pretend,” he says quietly. “If something happened, you would remember it.”

The words are smooth.

Measured.

Carefully chosen.

Anger flares hot in my chest.

“You think I’m imagining it?”

“I think,” he says, voice even, “that you don’t like not being in control of a narrative.”

The hit lands because it’s true.

Control is structure.

Structure is safe.

And he dismantled it with a single night I can’t piece together.

“I don’t lose control,” I say.

His eyes darken slightly.

“That’s what you told me.”

The air shifts.

My heartbeat pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.

“You admit it,” I pressed.

He shrugs lightly. “I admit you said it.”

The elevator drops past the fifteenth floor.

I take another step closer until there’s barely an inch between us.

“You touched me,” I say quietly. “You marked me.”

His gaze flickers not with guilt.

With heat.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“That’s my line.”

A faint exhale leaves him. Almost a laugh.

“You’re angry,” he observes.

“Yes.”

“Because you think I have something over you?”

“Do you?”

He holds my gaze steadily.

“No.”

It’s immediate.

Confidence.

Almost sincere.

And that unsettles me more than if he’d smirked.

The elevator dings at the tenth floor but continues down.

“I don’t need leverage,” he continues. “If I wanted power in this building, I’d take it the traditional way.”

“And what way is that?”

“Results.”

Arrogant.

Calculated.

Infuriating.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” I say.

“I don’t waste energy being unsure.”

I search his face for cracks.

There’s something there. Not indifference.

Restraint.

Like he’s holding back more than he’s showing.

“You think this doesn’t matter,” I say.

“I think,” he replies slowly, “that you want it to matter more than it does.”

The elevator reaches the fifth floor.

My frustration coils tighter.

“You walked into my company,” I say. “Into my life. And you expect me to believe this is a coincidence?”

He studies me for a long moment.

“No,” he says quietly. “Nothing about me is a coincidence.”

The honesty in that should feel like a victory.

Instead, it makes my chest tighten.

“So you planned it.”

“I planned to work here,” he says. “I planned to succeed.”

“And the rest?”

His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before lifting again.

“That depends on you.”

The elevator slows.

Third floor.

“You’re enjoying this,” I say.

“Enjoying what?”

“Watching me try to figure you out.”

A faint smile curves his lips now. Subtle. Dangerous.

“You’re the one who cornered me.”

Because he’s unbothered.

That’s the problem.

If he looked guilty, I could punish him.

If he looked obsessed, I could control him.

But he looks steady.

Balanced.

Like whatever happened between us didn’t shake him at all.

The elevator reaches the lobby level.

It stops.

The doors remain closed for one suspended second.

Then Lucien steps closer close enough that our chests almost brush.

My breath catches.

His voice lowers, losing its corporate polish.

“You’re not used to being the one unsettled,” he says softly.

The doors slide open.

The lobby comes into view marble floors, employees moving briskly, the world continuing like nothing inside this elevator matters.

Lucien steps out first.

I follow automatically, anger and something far more dangerous burning under my skin.

He adjusts his cuff calmly as we walk side by side toward the exit.

People greet him.

He nods politely.

Unbothered.

As if I didn’t just accuse him of rewriting my memory.

As if he didn’t leave fingerprints on my body.

We stop near the revolving doors.

Sunlight pours through the glass, sharp and blinding.

“This conversation isn’t over,” I say quietly.

He glances at me.

There it is again that measured look. That careful restraint.

“It can be,” he replies.

“It won’t.”

A beat of silence.

Employees pass between us, unaware of the current running beneath the surface.

Lucien studies my face one last time.

Then his lips curve slightly, not mocking. Not cold.

Something else.

Almost intimate.

“Try not to look so troubled,” he says softly.

My jaw tightens. “You don’t get to tell me how to look.”

His eyes hold mine steadily.

And then

He says it.

Not Mr. Vale.

Not sir.

“Relax, Adrian.”

My name lands between us like a match dropped on gasoline.

And the worst part?

He says it like he’s been saying it for years.