It's 2:43 p.m. when the elevator doors finally open.
I see him before he even steps into the open space. Impeccable charcoal suit, hair a little messier than usual, jaw clenched like he's spent the entire morning grinding his teeth. He walks quickly down the corridor, not looking at anyone… until he meets my gaze.
Our eyes lock.
One second. No more.
But that second burns into my retina. There's something dark, exhausted, almost dangerous in his eyes. Then he turns his head and continues toward his office as if I don't exist.
I stay frozen in my chair, fingers gripping the mouse.
I want to get up.
I want to follow him.
I want to scream: "You're married, you bastard!"
I don't move.
Five minutes later, the intercom crackles at my desk.
His voice, low, authoritative, without a hint of warmth:
"Amelia. My office. Now."
I hang up. My legs are already trembling.
I walk across the open space under curious eyes. I close the door behind me. The click echoes like a lock.
He's standing behind his desk, hands in his pockets, back to the floor-to-ceiling window. He doesn't invite me to sit.
I stay standing too.
Silence.
I break first.
"Your wife… is she okay?"
My voice is colder than I intended.
He presses his lips together.
"Yes. Just whiplash. Thanks."
He looks away, studies a file, sets it down.
"The Morrison file. I need you to..."
I cut him off.
"No. We're not talking about the Morrison file."
He lifts his head, surprised.
"Excuse me?"
I step forward.
"You're married, Ethan."
It's not a question.
He freezes. One second. Two.
Then he sighs, like it's a chore.
"Yes."
One word. Dry. No excuses.
I feel the anger rise, scorching.
"And you think it's okay to tell me 'I want you' in an elevator? To like my story at 3 a.m. while I'm pressed against another guy? You think it's okay to play with me like that?"
He clenches his jaw.
"I never played."
"Oh no? Then what is this? A midlife crisis? Your wife annoys you, so you take it out on your assistant?"
He steps toward me, eyes black.
"Watch your tone."
"No, you watch yours. Do you think I'm a toy you pull out when your perfect marriage bores you?"
He chuckles, cold.
"You really want to talk about who started this, Amelia?"
He steps closer.
"Because I remind you, you never asked either. Not once. 'Ethan, are you single?' Nothing. You just stared at me with those big eyes and let me believe you wanted the same thing as me."
I take a step back.
"I… I didn't know!"
"And if you had?"
His voice drops, dangerously soft.
"Tell me the truth. If you'd seen a ring on my finger from day one… would you have stopped looking at me like you do? Would you have stopped blushing when I brush against you? Would you have said no in that elevator?"
I'm speechless.
Because I don't know.
I really don't.
He moves closer. We're less than a meter apart now.
"Answer me, Amelia."
I shake my head, unable to speak.
He smiles but it's not a kind smile.
"You see. You're as guilty as I am."
He's so close I can feel his warmth, his scent, that smell that's been driving me crazy for weeks.
"You wanted me to cross the line. You begged for it with every glance, every breath, every time you moistened your lips while looking at me."
I back up until I hit the edge of his desk.
"That's not true…"
My voice trembles.
He places both hands on the desk, on either side of me, trapping me without touching.
"Liar."
He tilts his head, his mouth just inches from mine.
"Do you know what I think?"
I don't answer. I can't.
"I think even knowing everything, you'd still be here. Exactly here. Shaking. Waiting for me to kiss you."
I close my eyes.
I open them.
He looks at me like he can read my soul.
"Tell me to stop, Amelia. Tell me now and I'll let you go."
His voice is hoarse, almost painful.
I should say it.
I should scream, "Stop!"
I should slap him.
I should walk out, slamming the door.
But I do nothing.
I stay there, trapped by his arms, his gaze, this tension that liquefies me.
My heart is pounding so hard I'm afraid he can hear it.
My breath comes short, jagged.
I'm hypnotized. Completely. Irreversibly.
He knows it.
He smiles, slowly, cruelly.
"Just as I thought."
He doesn't kiss me.
He stays there, ten centimeters away, watching me drown.
And I let myself sink.
I don't know who I am when he looks at me like that.
I don't know what I want.
I don't know where right ends and wrong begins.
All I know is I'm trapped.
And I have no desire whatsoever to be set free.