I sat in the new chair.
It was too big.
The office was too quiet.
Outside my window, the city spread out like a promise and a threat.
My phone buzzed again.
Zane: Why would Blackwood promote you NOW?
What did you do to get this?
The suspicion had curdled into a direct accusation, just as Jovi had intended.
I could almost see her, feeding his fears, painting a picture of a transactional, sordid arrangement.
I wrote back, my fingers steady.
Me: My work earned it.
Something you’d know if you’d ever paid attention.
And tell Jovi her spy network is getting sloppy.
The news took a whole 15 minutes to reach you.
I put the phone away.
I didn’t wait for his reply, or for the panic that message would surely cause in both of them.
I looked around the empty office.
It was mine.
I had earned it.
It was also a new front in a war I hadn’t known was being fought on so many levels.
And somewhere in this building, a woman who had been my best friend was watching me through someone else’s eyes, trying to pull my strings.
That, more than anything, hardened my resolve.
My intercom buzzed later—Linda from HR.
“Ms. Sullivan, Mr. Blackwood would like you in the main conference room.
The Harrington follow-up.”
”I’ll be right there.”
I gathered a fresh notebook, my laptop, and the Harrington file.
My hands were steady.
The woman in the elevator mirror this morning had looked like she belonged in this office.
I was starting to believe her.
Vance was already in the conference room, standing at the head of the table with two other senior directors.
He glanced up as I entered.
“Sullivan. You’re on the Harrington board call at three. You’ll lead the data review.”
One of the directors, a man named Chen, shifted in his seat.
“Shouldn’t Finance run the numbers presentation?”
”Sullivan compiled the Scandinavian models.
She understands the gaps in our own projections.” Vance’s tone left no room for debate.
“She presents.”
The meeting moved on.
I took notes.
I answered questions when asked.
I was professional, capable, invisible in the right ways.
After twenty minutes, Vance stood.
“Sullivan, walk with me. I need the Q3 projections from your floor before the call.”
I followed him out.
We didn’t speak in the hallway.
He led me not toward the file room, but to the executive elevator bank.
He swiped his key.
The elevator was empty.
The doors closed.
“Chen is nervous,” Vance said, his eyes on the descending floor numbers.
“His department’s projections were off by eighteen percent last quarter. He thinks you’re being positioned to replace him.”
The blunt assessment didn’t surprise me.
“Am I?”
”That depends on you.
The board call today isn’t just about Harrington.
It’s about who in this company can talk to tough clients without flinching.” He looked at me. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
“Can you?”
”Yes.”
I looked at him.
“The assistant told me something.”
Vance waited.
“She said this office used to belong to your wife.”
Silence.
Only the quiet hum of the elevator.
Then—”Officially,” he said, “Jovienne is Director of Corporate Relations.”
”I’ve never seen her working.”
”You weren’t supposed to.
She handled charity foundations.
Investor galas.
Media appearances.
The public image of Blackwood.”
”So why give me her office?”
”It wasn’t mine to give.”
Pause.
“My father created the position after we married. Then granted her the office after we returned from oversea.”
Another pause.
“She never stepped inside it.”
As if the building itself had decided we’d talked enough, the elevator shuddered.
The lights flickered once, then held.
The digital display went dark.
We were stopped between floors.
Silence, thick and close, filled the small space.
Vance didn’t look surprised.
He leaned against the brass railing.
“It seems we have a moment.”
I should have been nervous.
Trapped in an elevator with my boss.
Instead, I felt something else—a strange calm.
“Is this part of the plan?”
”A fortunate malfunction.” His gaze was steady on me.
“Now we wait.”
Minutes stretched.
The air grew warmer.
Closer.
I could smell his cologne—something clean and sharp, like winter air.
My shoulder brushed his arm as I shifted.
I didn’t move away.
“You’re not afraid,” he observed.
“Should I be?”
”Most people dislike confined spaces with their bosses.”
”Most people haven’t already hit rock bottom,” I said quietly.
“There’s nothing left to be afraid of.”
He studied me.
That look again—like he was seeing something no one else did.
“You’re wrong. There’s always further to fall. But you’ve decided not to. That’s what frightens them.”
Them.
Zane.
Jovi.
Chen.
The world waiting outside this stuck box.
Another shudder.
The lights dipped.
In the sudden dimness, I stumbled.
My files slipped.
His hands shot out, one steadying my arm, the other catching the files.
We were close.
Chest to chest.
My back against the cool wall.
The lights surged back.
I could see the precise weave of his white dress shirt.
The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
His eyes weren’t cold.
They were focused, intent.
But something in them shifted as I didn’t pull away.
Time seemed to slow.
My heart hammered against my ribs, not with fear, but with a wild, reckless certainty.
His grey eyes focused on me.
And the way he looked at me felt different.
Zane had spent years looking through me.
Vance had seen me in a single night.
Maybe I wasn’t trying to kiss him.
Maybe I only wanted someone to know I existed.
Before I could second-guess myself, I moved.
I rose onto my toes, closed the last inch between us, and pressed my lips to the warm skin just above his collar.
It wasn’t a kiss of passion.
It was a brand.
My mouth lingered for a breath against his neck, the edge of my lip catching the starched white cotton.
Then I stepped back.
The world rushed back in with a roar of static.
What had I just done?
This wasn’t in the plan.
This was the kind of desperate, possessive marking Jovi would do.
The taste of his skin, clean cotton and salt, was on my lips like an accusation.
For a long, silent moment, Vance didn’t move.
He just stared at me, his expression unreadable.
His eyes were wide, his breathing slightly uneven.
He looked…
stunned.
Not angry.
Not calculating.
Truly, visibly thrown.
The mask was gone.
Completely.
And in that moment, I saw him.
Not the CEO.
Not the strategist.
Just a man, caught off guard by a woman who’d decided, for once, to take what she wanted.
The elevator shuddered again.
The lights flickered.
The hum of machinery whirred back to life.
Ding!
The elevator restarted.
Neither of us moved.
The doors slid open.
Silence filled the air.
Three members of the executive board stood outside.
Every eye settled on the crimson lipstick mark staining the crisp white collar of Vance Blackwood’s shirt.