Ch 8: Elena—In the Dark With Him

It’s been four days, and I haven’t come up with an answer yet. 

Quarterly reports blur together after hour nine. Revenue projections. Market analysis. Competitive positioning. Numbers that should matter but feel increasingly abstract.

My office clock reads 11:20 PM. Most of the building cleared out hours ago—just security making rounds, a few workaholics on the twentieth floor burning midnight oil, and me.

I gather the files, balancing them against my chest as I head for the elevator. These need to be in the car tonight. Board meeting at seven AM. No room for excuses or delays.

The elevator doors open.

Adrian steps out.

We freeze.

He's in workout clothes—gray t-shirt dark with sweat, gym shorts that show more leg than I'm prepared for, duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

His hair is damp, curling at the ends. He smells like exertion and appealing.

"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out sharp.

"I joined the gym. Last week." He stops, standing in the elevator doorway like he's not sure whether to advance or retreat. "The one on the third floor."

"This building has forty-seven gyms within a ten-block radius. You chose mine?"

"I chose the one where I might run into you." His honesty lands like a confession. "I know how that sounds. But I'm not hiding anymore, Elena. I want to be where you are."

I should be angry. Should do something other than step into the elevator with him.

But I step in. He follows. The doors close with a whisper.

We stand on opposite sides of the elevator as it descends. The space between us feels charged like we’re standing too close to a downed power line.

Then the lights flicker. Violent. Wrong.

The building shudders—a deep, resonant shake that travels up through the floor, seeping into my bones.

Darkness swallows us whole as the elevator grinds to a halt, metal screaming against metal in protest.

My files scatter across the floor. I hear paper sliding, the thump of folders hitting steel.

"Elena?" Adrian's voice cuts through the absolute black. Sharp with concern.

"I'm fine." No. I'm not. My heart is trying to punch through my ribcage.

Light blooms—harsh blue from his phone screen. It illuminates his face in sharp angles, all shadows and worry.

"Transformer explosion." He's reading something on his screen. "East Village substation. Affecting twenty blocks."

Emergency lighting kicks in—dim, red, claustrophobic.

We're suspended between floors 28 and 29, trapped in a steel box with nothing but our breathing and the distant hum of the building's backup systems.

"How long?" My voice sounds thin.

"Twenty minutes. Maybe longer." He pockets his phone. "Depends on how fast Con Edison responds."

I press against the elevator wall. The metal is cool through my blouse. He stays on the opposite side, giving me space. Respectful distance. Everything he should be.

Silence stretches. Heavy. Suffocating. I can hear my own pulse in my ears.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "Not claustrophobic?"

"I'm fine." I growl. "I've been in tighter spaces."

"That's not what I asked."

"It's the answer you're getting."

Another silence. I count my breaths. Try to slow my racing heart through sheer force of will.

"You're leaving breadcrumbs, Elena." His voice is quiet in the red darkness. "And I'm following every one."

My pulse jumps. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." He shifts, and I hear fabric rustle, the soft thump of his duffel bag settling on the floor.

"Maybe I'm just documenting your stalking for when I need it."

"Is that what your head says?" He pauses. The red light makes his face look carved from stone. "Think about what your heart is telling you. Perhaps it doesn’t want me to stop."

"Your ego is showing."

"I remember everything about you, Elena." His voice drops lower. "The fact that you take your coffee the way I’ve been sending it recently because your mom used to make it that way when you were little, before your parents moved to California."

My breath catches. I'd forgotten I told him that detail about my mother. Forgotten that he remembered something so small.

"Stop."

"I can't." Raw honesty bleeds through every word. "I've tried for five years to forget you. Delete you from my memory like a bad code. I can't. You're written into my operating system, Elena. You're hardwired."

The lights flicker back on. Sudden. Blinding after the red darkness.

The elevator lurches into motion with a groan of metal and machinery.

We're standing closer than I realized—only a few feet apart.

His hand hovers near my face, suspended mid-air like he was about to touch my cheek or brush away a tear I didn't know had fallen.

Our gazes meet.

His face holds regret, longing, hope. It was everything I've spent half a decade trying not to feel. And all the things I've buried under quarterly reports and hostile takeover strategies.

The elevator dings. Floor 27. Parking garage. Doors open to fluorescent lighting and concrete.

I step out. Don't look back.

But my hands shake when I grip my steering wheel.

The leather is cold under my palms. I check the rearview mirror before starting the engine—a habit, an excuse, a need to see.

He's still standing there in the red emergency lighting, watching me. His hand has dropped to his side, but he hasn't moved.

Adrian hasn't looked away. His face holds hope and resignation tangled together.

I force myself to start the car. Put it in drive. The engine purrs to life.

I drive away slowly—too slowly.

But I feel his eyes tracking me even after I've turned the corner.

Even after the garage has disappeared from my mirrors, even after I've merged into late-night Manhattan traffic.

When I get home, I stand in my closet staring at the emerald dress.

It hangs between a navy sheath and a black cocktail dress. Professional. Appropriate. Safe choices.

I had pulled it from the hanger that morning. Fastened every button. I checked the mirror and saw his favorite color wrapped around my body.

I knew exactly what I was doing. Does he know?