The Elevator

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The letter on my kitchen table said "FINAL NOTICE" in red, the kind of red meant to scare people into action.

I stared at it longer than I should have, keys still dangling from my fingers, like the words might change if I gave them enough attention. They didn’t. Rent overdue. Grace period expired. Eviction imminent. Every sentence felt like a shove closer to the edge.

Beside it lay another envelope, thinner but heavier in every way that mattered, the hospital bill. I didn’t open it. I already knew the amount would make my stomach knot. Numbers had stopped feeling real months ago; they were just another way to be told I was failing.

My phone vibrated against the table.

PHARMACY: Prescription on hold. Payment required before release.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and squeezed my phone even tighter, images of my poor mother in the hospital filled my mind, my stomach dropping.

This interview was my last card. If I lost today, I wasn’t just losing a job, I was losing the fragile structure holding my life together.

I showered quickly, letting the water run too hot, grounding myself in the sting. When I dressed, I chose the most neutral outfit I owned: a black skirt, a white blouse, low heels worn thin at the soles. Professional. Invisible. I needed to look competent, not desperate, even though desperation lived under my skin.

The Blackwood Corporation building towered over the street when I arrived, all glass and steel and quiet authority. I paused outside, staring up at it, my reflection distorted in the polished surface.

This was it.

Inside, the lobby felt colder than the morning air. Marble floors gleamed beneath soft lights, and everyone moved with purpose, as if they knew exactly where they were going and why they belonged there.

I didn’t.

My phone buzzed again. Interview 9:00 a.m., Floor 62.

I crossed the lobby and stepped into the elevator just as the doors began to close.

A hand stopped them.

He entered without apology or hurry, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit that looked expensive without trying. The doors slid shut behind him, his aura and presence making the space immediately feel smaller.

Charged.

I kept my eyes on the glowing numbers above the door, refusing to look at him.

“Which floor?” he asked.

His voice was calm, deep, Controlled. The kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to be obeyed, and the kind that made a woman imagine things...

I snapped out of it, “Sixty-two,” I said, mentally scolding myself for thinking such perverse things about this strange man.

He pressed the button. I felt his attention shift to me, not staring, not obvious, but sharp.

“You’re nervous,” he said.

“Not nervous, just stressed, I’m prepared,” I lied, I knew damn well I was extremely nervous.

A pause stretched between us. “Prepared people don’t grip folders like weapons.”

Heat crept up my neck. slightly annoyed, I loosened my fingers deliberately. “And men who notice usually enjoy being intimidating.”

That earned a look.

Not surprise. Interest, I didn't care, I wasn't going to let this pretty man in a black suit ruin my confidence.

The elevator slowed. The doors opened.

He stepped out first, turned around,

“Good luck,” he said.

"I don't need it pretty boy" I clapped back

He froze, like he was shocked, like no one had ever talked to him like that before. I wonder who he thought he was?, he was probably just a mid level employee playing dress up, putting up airs like that...

I walked past him with a smirk, as I felt him drill holes into my back with his gaze.

---

The interview room was all glass and silence.

Three people sat across from me. Two smiled politely. One didn’t smile at all.

My stomach dropped. My vision blurred

It was him.

The pretty man.

The man from the elevator sat at the head of the table now, jacket removed, sleeves rolled back with precise intent. No one introduced him. No one needed to, As he stared bullets into me, if I was nervous before, it had definitely tripled, I bit my tongue and squeezed my eyes shut in regret, I had blew my chances at getting this job, he wasn't just an employee, he was a member of the board, probably even worse.

The other two men carried the interview most, their questions came quickly, about experience, adaptability, pressure. I answered honestly. About long hours. About responsibility, About needing stability. I didn’t beg. I refused to.

Throughout it all, his gaze never left me, I was sweating bullets.

Then it ended, the other interviewers shook my hand and told me they would get back to me, I smiled back politely then, they gathered their files and left the room.

He stayed.

I quickly packed my files and rushed to follow them out.

“Sit,” he said to me for the first time since I got into the room.

It wasn’t a request.

I sat. squeezing my eyes shut.

“You have a smart mouth,” he said calmly.

“Am I hired?” I smiled, trying to feign confidence, but God knows I was dying on the inside

“I’m offering you something better.”

My pulse spiked. “I didn’t apply for—”

“My name is Adrian Blackwood,” he said, raising an eyebrow like it would ring a bell.

And it did.

The name hit like ice.

The CEO, Ruthless, Billionaire.

The man I had challenged in an elevator.

“I need a wife,” he continued, as if discussing the weather. “One year. A contract. No romance.”

I was so shocked I almost laughed in his face, But I wouldn't dare, I had heard one too many stories about this man, how people who went against him didn't just loose jobs, they never recovered...

He didn’t move.

"I personally have shareholders who need convincing and besides,

Your mother’s medication lapses in twelve days,” he said mildly. “Your rent is overdue. And this was the only interview you were offered this month.”

The room tilted.

"How do you-"

“I don’t make offers to women I can’t protect,” Adrian said. “And I don’t miss.”

He slid a thin folder across the table.

“One million dollars upon signing,” he said. “Security, Stability. An end to your problems.”

My hands trembled as I stared at the folder, One million dollars would erase every red notice on my table and leave more than enough for me to breathe.

“And if I say no?” I asked.

His eyes lifted, dark and unyielding.

“Then you’ll learn,” he said softly, “what it costs to walk away from me.”

I left the building in a daze, the folder pressed to my chest.

But I hated how my pulse raced to the idea, I

didn’t know which terrified me more, the contract, or the fact that part of me wanted to sign it.

I had walked into Blackwood Corporation looking for a job,

And I walked out knowing my life had just been claimed-