The Man In The Elevator
1573 Words
Chapter Three: The Man in the Elevator
I was already awake before the alarm went off.
It’s the first time in months I haven’t needed it to drag me out of bed, but today isn’t just any day. Today is the start of something new. A job that pays well, a future that might finally be mine. And maybe, just maybe, the end of all the barely-making-it mornings and late-night crying sessions when Noah is asleep.
I picked out the outfit I laid out last night: a crisp cream blouse, high-waisted navy trousers, and low nude heels. Polished but not flashy. Professional, but not stiff. My hair falls in loose waves down my shoulders, and I opt for a soft, natural makeup look. Just enough to look awake and confident.
When I walked into the kitchen, Noah was already up, crouched in front of the fridge with a spoon halfway in a peanut butter jar.
“That’s not breakfast,” I say, grabbing an apple and tossing it at him.
He catches it midair. “Only counts as breakfast if it’s before ten.”
I shook my head, suppressing a smile. “I’ll be back by six. There’s leftover pasta in the fridge, and don’t forget you promised to study for your math quiz.”
He groans like I’m sending him to war. “Yes, Mom.”
“Smartass,” I mutter, grabbing my bag.
It’s barely 7:30 AM, but I can’t sit still. Better early than late. I step outside and let the morning air cool, the nerves fluttering in my chest. The city is just waking up, but I’m already buzzing.
When I get to Cross Enterprises, I pause at the towering glass building for a moment. It’s even more intimidating in daylight, all sleek edges and mirrored windows. I pushed through the revolving doors and headed for the elevator bay, checking the time. Perfect. Early.
Then I see it.
An elevator is about to close.
Without thinking, I started sprinting. “Wait! Hold the elevator!”
The man inside makes direct eye contact with me.
And let the doors close.
I reached it a second too late, smacking a palm against the cold metal. “Unbelievable,” I hissed under my breath. “Arrogant prick.”
A chime sounds.
The doors slide open again.
He heard me.
I straighten, my cheeks heating as I step inside. He doesn’t look at me immediately, and for a second, I think maybe he won’t say anything. But then I glanced up and looked at him.
Tall. Clean-cut. Suit tailored within an inch of its life. Broad shoulders. His hair was dark and tousled like he ran a frustrated hand through it. But it’s his eyes that catch me. Cold, slate grey. Sharp enough to cut through excuses.
“What did you just call me?” he asks, his voice low and calm in a way that only makes it worse.
I met his eyes, refusing to shrink. “I said, ‘arrogant prick.’ Should I spell it out for you?”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You have a sharp tongue for someone so eager to get into an elevator.”
“I have a sharp tongue for people who pretend not to see others running.”
He turns slightly toward me. Not threatening, but something is unsettling about his stillness.
“Maybe next time you’ll be faster,” he says.
“Or maybe you could try not being an ass,” I shot back.
We stare at each other. A thick, electric silence pulses between us. I feel like I should say more, but I don’t trust myself not to say something I’ll regret.
The elevator dings.
We step out, and I realize with a sinking feeling we’re going the same way.
No. No way.
He walks a few paces ahead, and I watch the way people react to him. Everyone in the office space stiffens. Heads bow slightly. A few muttered greetings echo.
“Good morning, Mr. Cross.”
Mr. Cross.
My stomach drops.
Damien Cross. CEO. Billionaire. My boss.
I feel like I’ve swallowed a brick. He doesn’t glance back as he stops at the secretary’s desk.
“Send her in after ten minutes,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” the secretary replies.
Her eyes flick at me as he disappears behind the tall glass door. She smiles tightly. “You must be Emma Blake." Come, I’ll show you to your office.”
I move behind her, dreading whatever’s waiting for me.
But when we reach the space I’ll be working in, my nerves falter a little.
It’s stunning.
A wide desk positioned in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Sleek white furniture with gold accents. A MacBook, a tablet, even a mini coffee bar. Everything is elegant, minimal, and crisp, just like the man behind the door I’ll eventually have to face.
I ran my fingers over the desk, slowly sinking into the chair. Just for a moment, I allowed myself to feel it. This space is more than an office. It’s a symbol. Of change. Of possibility.
Someone dumps a stack of files on my desk, and I dive in without a word.
Time slips by quickly. The work is straightforward enough, organizing Damien Cross’s daily itinerary, confirming meetings, and prioritizing emails. I lose myself in it until a soft knock sounds at my door.
It’s the secretary.
“Mr. Cross will see you now.”
I forced a smile, masking the lump forming in my throat.
Inside, I’m screaming.
I walk toward his office like it doesn’t feel like a death march. The door closes behind me with a whisper, and I take a few steps forward.
He’s seated at his massive desk, head bent over papers. The office is even more intimidating than I imagined. Dark wood, steel accents, and abstract art. Masculine. Controlled.
He doesn’t look up.
“You’re late,” he says.
My heart stutters. “I was told ten minutes.”
His gaze lifts slowly, like he’s savoring the moment.
And when our eyes meet.
His expression changes. The cool mask cracks. Just slightly.
His eyes flare with recognition. Then something darker.
Anger.
I feel it like heat.
His voice is razor-sharp. “You.”
I stiffen. “I’m Emma Blake. Your new assistant.”
“Of course you are,” he says tightly, standing. “Of all the applicants.”
“If this is about the elevator-”
“It’s not,” he says, though the way his jaw tightens tells me it very much is.
He moves around the desk, standing a little too close. “Tell me, Miss Blake. Are you always this reckless with authority?”
“I didn’t know who you were,” I say evenly.
“And now that you do?”
I square my shoulders. “Now I know that even billionaires can be jerks.”
For a beat, silence.
Then he laughs. Just once. Low and without humor.
“You won’t last a week,” he murmurs.
“Watch me,” I shoot back.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts again. “Careful, Emma. In my world, attitude gets crushed.”
“So does ego.”
Another pause.
Then he turns, walking back to his desk. “Get out of my office. And be back in five minutes with my meeting schedule.”
I spin on my heel before I can say something stupid.
But as I reached for the door handle, I heard him say it.
“Interesting first impression.”
My pulse hammers.
So is yours, Cross.
After our encounter, the rest of the day blurs by. I barely see Mr. Cross again, and we don’t speak. I keep my head down, trying to stay focused on the tasks I’ve been given, which is harder than it sounds with the constant pressure of being new.
During lunch, I head down to the cafeteria alone. The space is sleek and modern, but the atmosphere is far from welcoming. As I walk in, I can feel eyes following me. Whispers trail behind me like a shadow, and the glances I catch are anything but friendly. It’s like I’ve walked into enemy territory, and everyone knows something I don’t.
I sit at a table in the corner and nibble at a bland sandwich, trying to ignore the tension crawling up my spine. No one joins me. No one even offers a smile. It’s clear I’m not wanted here, and I don't understand why. I haven’t done anything except get hired.
The moment work ends, I drag myself home, every part of me exhausted. Noah is already there, lounging on the couch with his laptop open and a half-eaten bag of chips beside him. He looks up when I walk in.
"Hey, Em. How was your first day?"
I dropped my bag and managed a tired smile. "It was... fine. Just a lot to take in."
He nods, sensing that I don’t want to talk about it. We chat a little about his day, his classes, and what we’re doing for dinner, but the weight of everything else lingers in the b
ackground.
Eventually, I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I’ll have to do it all over again. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll get easier.
But right now, I’m not so sure.
- Writer
