Chapter 1 : Wrong Floor

POV: Elara

I am not supposed to be here, this looks like the wrong floor.

 The realization hits me the second the elevator doors glide open with a hushed whisper. The air shifts immediately thicker, colder, carrying the faint scent of aged wood, leather, and something metallic I can’t quite name.My pulse kicks up. I press the elevator button again, harder this time, but the panel stays dark. The doors have already sealed behind me with a soft, final click, trapping me in this unfamiliar hallway like a verdict.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath, gripping my small clutch tightly. The sequins from my own design dig into my palm.  I only wanted five minutes. Five minutes away from the pounding bass, the sweaty bodies rubbing against each other. As a 21 year old aspiring fashion designer still fighting for every break, I had jumped at the chance when my friend got me on the guest list for this high-end event on the upper floors of one of the city’s most elite skyscrapers.

I told my friend I just needed a breather from the party, but really, I was following a lead. I’d spotted a face from my private research heading for the restricted elevators, and I couldn't help myself. I didn't think the elevator would actually let me up here, but the doors opened anyway. I never expected the building to feel this exclusive or this forbidden.

The hallway stretches long and dim, lined with dark walnut panels that gleam under recessed lighting. Marble floors swallow the sound of my heels. Everything here screams old money fused with dangerous new power the kind of place where normal girls like me are never meant to wander.

A door at the far end stands slightly ajar. Warm light spills out into the corridor like spilled honey. Low voices drift toward me.

 I should turn around. Every instinct screams it. But curiosity has always been my fatal flaw.     

 I creep closer, breath shallow, until I’m just outside the door.

Inside, two men face each other.

One is older, maybe late fifties, bald, sweat glistening on his forehead as he wrings his hands. “You promised,” he says, voice cracking. “You promised I’d be protected if I delivered the files.”

 The second man stands with his back to me, tall, broad-shouldered, perfectly still in a way that feels unnatural. Like the room itself bends around him. Power radiates off him without effort.

“You were protected,” he replies, his voice calm and low, almost gentle. The kind of calm that makes the hair on my arms rise. Until you got careless. Until you started talking to the wrong people.”

 Something cold snakes down my spine. This isn’t a business disagreement. This is something darker.

 I take one careful step back, praying the marble stays silent beneath me.

My heel catches the edge of the rug.

The soft scrape might as well have been a thunderclap.

The tall man turns.

Our eyes lock.

Time fractures.

His face is devastating in its severity, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and eyes so dark they seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. He wasn't shocked to see me. In fact, he looked at me like he’d been expecting me to walk through that door. It wasn't the look of a killer catching a witness; it was the look of a man who had finally found what he was looking for.

I open my mouth maybe to apologize, maybe to lie and say I’m lost but before a single word escapes, a gunshot rips through the air.

The sound is deafening in the enclosed space.

I scream.

The nervous man jerks violently, eyes wide with disbelief, before crumpling to the floor. Blood soaked into his white shirt, expensive fabric, I noticed instinctively. It was the kind of detail I’d usually sketch in my notebook, but seeing it on a dying man made my stomach flip. This wasn't a fashion choice; it was a crime scene. The metallic smell of blood hits me instantly, thick and nauseating.

My knees buckle. I slam a hand against the wall to keep from collapsing completely.

The shooter doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance at the body. He simply lowers the gun with the casual grace of someone who has done this many times before and expects to do it again.

Now I can see his face clearly under the light.

He’s younger than I expected, early thirties. Handsome in a way that feels unfair given the circumstances. The kind of handsome that belongs on magazine covers, not in this kind of room. But there’s nothing soft about him. His expression is carved from ice.

He looks at me again.

My heart hammers so violently I’m sure he can hear it. Tears blur my vision as I shake my head frantically.

"I had to stay calm. I needed to act like a lost, scared girl, not someone who spent her nights digging into city corruption. 'I—I didn’t see anything,' I stammered, trying to make my voice sound as weak as possible.", the words tripping over each other. “I swear. I was just looking for a quiet place. I won’t say a word to anyone. Please”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with unnerving patience, as if my desperation is something to be weighed and measured. Behind him, two more men enter the room, drawn by the shot. They glance at the body, then at me. One of them, a stocky man with a scar across his eyebrow, mutters a low curse.

“She saw everything, boss.”

The word “boss” lands heavily. This isn’t some random hit. This man commands loyalty. He commands death.

I press my back harder against the wall, wishing I could melt into it. My legs feel like water.

The tall man raises one finger. The room falls deathly silent.

“I want her alive,” he says quietly.

The instruction is simple, but it terrifies me more than the gunshot did. Not “let her go.” Not “she’s harmless.” Just alive.

The stocky man hesitates. “Boss”

“I said alive.”

The finality in his tone leaves no room for argument.

He steps toward me, each movement deliberate, unhurried. When he stops, he’s close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne, clean, woody, expensive. It feels obscene in a room that now smells like blood and fear.

“What’s your name?” he asked. His voice was low and steady. I hesitated. Giving him my name felt like giving him a way to own me. “Elara,” I whispered. My throat is so dry the name barely makes it out.

 He repeated it slowly, as if he’d already known it all along.

His gaze drops to the clutch still clutched desperately in my trembling hand.

“Give it to me.”

I don’t hesitate. I place the small bag in his palm like an offering.

He opens it, takes out my phone, powers it off without looking, then slips it into the inside pocket of his tailored black jacket.

“You’re in the wrong place, Elara,” he says, almost conversationally.

“I know,” I breathe. “I’m sorry. I’ll disappear. I won’t go to the police. I’ll forget your face, this room, I mean everything. Just let me leave. Please.”

He studies me for a long, heavy moment. Those dark eyes seem to peel back every layer, searching for lies.

Then he says, simply:

“No. You won’t.”

The words settle over me like a death sentence wrapped in silk. Fear coils tight in my stomach, cold and vicious.

He turns slightly toward the two men waiting behind him. His voice remains calm, controlled.

“Take her.”

My chest squeezes painfully. “Where are you taking me?”

His eyes return to mine. For the first time, something almost like dark amusement flickers in their depths and is gone in an instant.

“Somewhere safe,” he says with a dangerous smirk.

Safe.

The word feels like the cruelest lie I’ve ever heard.

One of the men grabs my arm, his grip firm but not yet bruising. As they begin to lead me away, I steal one last glance at the man who just rewrote my entire life in a single heartbeat.

He’s watching me leave, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

And I realize with horrifying clarity that I will never be the same girl who stepped into that elevator looking for peace.

Because tonight, curiosity didn’t just lead me to trouble.

It delivered me straight into the hands of the devil himself.