chapter 3

Chapter Three: The Elevator That Lied

The executive wing was quiet in that unnerving, expensive kind of way—carpet so thick her shoes didn’t make a sound, walls lined with dark walnut and minimalist art that probably cost more than her college debt. It was like walking into the belly of a shark: beautiful, sleek, and full of teeth.

Ashley adjusted the silver serving cart. It rattled once. Too loud. She bit her lip and pushed it down the hallway, willing her fingers to stop trembling.

Suite 3410. Kyle Ashford.

Her heart hiccupped just seeing the name on the placard. Clean serif font. Cold. Detached. Like he didn’t have a woman sobbing into a pregnancy test two weeks ago. Like he hadn’t carved himself into her with every thrust and left her empty.

She knocked twice, professional.

No answer.

Then a voice from behind her, deep and smooth:

“You’re early.”

She spun too fast, startled. And there he was again.

Kyle. Towering, sharp-edged, smell of cedar and aged scotch still clinging to him. His tie was loosened, jaw shadowed, eyes just as cold and unreadable as the night he whispered don’t tell me your name.

“Mr. Ashford,” she managed, dropping her gaze like a coward. “Apologies. I was told to deliver—”

His voice interrupted, smooth as obsidian. “Ashley, right?”

Her spine went rigid. He remembered.

Her eyes snapped to his. But his expression was unreadable—casual. Distant. The kind of look a man gives a barista after the third coffee order. Nothing personal.

“Y-yes,” she said. “Ashley.”

He gestured lazily to the suite. “You can set it up inside.”

She pushed the cart in, hands shaking, too aware of his presence at her back. The door clicked shut behind him and her body remembered everything. The heat of his breath. The rasp of his voice. The sound he made when he came inside her without a word of protection or regret.

She laid out the tumblers. Poured the bourbon.

“You’ve worked here long?” he asked, loosening his cufflink.

“Almost a year.”

“You cover all the penthouse suites?”

“Sometimes.”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

Silence stretched long and cruel.

Then: “Have we met before?”

The question hit like a slap. Her breath stalled. She turned, slowly.

He was watching her, brow slightly raised, no hint of humor. Serious.

He didn’t know.

Her stomach turned. “I... don’t think so,” she lied, voice a whisper.

He studied her face. For a second, maybe a flicker—something in his gaze tightened. Then it was gone. He nodded once, took the drink, and turned toward the window.

Dismissed.

Ashley backed out of the suite, cheeks burning, bile rising in her throat. She wanted to scream. Or sob. Or slap him so hard he remembered.

The elevator doors slid open.

She stepped inside, heart jackhammering—and just as they began to close, his hand shot through. Kyle stepped in with her. Alone.

Silence again. Just the hum of descent. Just inches between them in the small mirrored box.

Ashley’s hands curled into fists.

He stood beside her, broad shoulders brushing hers with every jolt. He smelled the same. Looked the same. Everything in her traitor body screamed yes.

She felt it coming—panic, heat, tears—and then his voice broke the silence.

“You seem... familiar.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

He turned to face her. Full on. Towering.

His eyes dropped to her lips. “Did we...?”

Her breath hitched. “No,” she said too fast. “You’re mistaken.”

His gaze lingered. Intense. Hungry.

“I don’t usually forget faces,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “I’m just staff.”

The elevator chimed.

Doors slid open.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.