Chapter 2: The Elevator
1041 Words
Scarlett
The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the noise of the conference.
Scarlett stood in the corner, her back against the cool mirrored wall, watching Dominic press the button for the penthouse floor. His movements were unhurried. Deliberate. The same way he did everything.
The doors sealed with a soft click.
They were alone.
Twelve years of silence compressed into a sixty-second elevator ride.
Dominic turned to face her. He didn't lean against the opposite wall like a normal person. He stood in the center, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
The elevator began to ascend.
"So," Scarlett said, because the silence was suffocating, "you're a billionaire now."
"I prefer 'tech entrepreneur.'"
"Same thing."
"Maybe." A pause. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "You cut your hair."
Scarlett's hand moved to her shoulder-length waves before she stopped herself. "It's been twelve years, Dominic. A lot has changed."
"Not everything."
The elevator rose higher. Floor numbers lit up in sequence. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Dominic took a step toward her. Just one. But the elevator was small, and suddenly he was very close.
"It means I knew you'd be here." His voice was lower now. Private. "I didn't choose to sponsor this summit for the networking, Scarlett. I chose it because your name was on the contract."
Her breath caught.
She had suspected. Hoped. Feared. But hearing him say it—
"You flew from Boston to Chicago for me?"
"I've flown farther for less." Another step. Now he was close enough that she could see the faint scar on his jaw. The one that hadn't been there twelve years ago. "I've spent twelve years building a company. Making money. Winning." His eyes held hers. "None of it mattered because you weren't there to see it."
Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.
"Dominic—"
"You left the dance."
The words hit her like a slap.
"What?"
"Senior prom." His jaw tightened. "We danced. You smiled at me like I was someone worth smiling at. And then I went to get us punch, and when I came back, you were gone."
Scarlett stared at him. "You left me."
"No."
"My mother came to get me. She said you had already left. That you weren't interested."
Dominic's expression darkened. "Your mother lied."
The elevator stopped. The doors opened onto a private hallway, but neither of them moved.
"My mother," Scarlett said slowly, "told me you walked away. That I was embarrassing myself. That a boy like you would never—" She stopped. Swallowed. "She said you didn't want me."
Dominic's hand moved. Slow. Careful. His fingers brushed her wrist.
"I wanted you so badly I couldn't breathe," he said. "I wanted you every day for twelve years. I wanted you in every city I visited. In every boardroom. In every empty bed."
Scarlett's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could see it.
"Your mother lied," he repeated. "And we lost twelve years because of it."
The hallway waited. The penthouse waited. The bottle of '82 Bordeaux waited.
But Scarlett didn't move.
She looked at his hand on her wrist. At the warmth of his skin against hers. At the way his thumb traced a slow circle on her pulse point.
"What do you want from me, Dominic?"
He stepped closer. His chest almost touched hers. His scent wrapped around her—cedar and smoke and something darker. Something that made her want to forget every wall she had ever built.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "That's what you promised me."
"Twenty minutes," she agreed.
"Then let's not waste another second."
He didn't wait for permission. He took her hand—not her wrist this time, but her actual hand, fingers laced with fingers—and led her out of the elevator.
Scarlett followed.
Because for the first time in twelve years, she wanted to see where this led.
---
Dominic
He didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
He could feel her hand in his. Small. Warm. Trembling just slightly.
She's nervous.
Good. So was he.
Dominic Blackwood did not get nervous. He had faced down hostile boardrooms, billion-dollar negotiations, and a cancer diagnosis that nearly killed his mother. He had built an empire from nothing. He had made men twice his age cry during contract disputes.
But Scarlett Monroe's hand in his made him feel seventeen again.
Unsure. Hopeful. Terrified.
He swiped the key card and pushed open the door to the penthouse.
The suite was exactly as he had requested—floor-to-ceiling windows facing the lake, a bottle of Bordeaux breathing on the coffee table, soft lighting that made everything feel like a dream.
He released her hand.
Scarlett walked past him into the room. She stopped at the window, her back to him, her reflection ghosting across the glass.
"Nice suite," she said.
"I don't care about the suite."
She turned. "Then why am I here?"
Dominic crossed the room. He didn't stop until he was standing behind her—close enough to touch, close enough to breathe her in.
"Because I need to know," he said quietly, "if the girl I wanted at seventeen is still in there somewhere."
Scarlett turned to face him. Her dark eyes searched his face.
"She grew up," Scarlett said. "She built a company. She stopped waiting for boys who disappeared."
"I didn't disappear. I was taken."
"Same result."
A beat of silence.
Dominic reached out. His hand hovered near her face—not touching, just... there. Asking permission.
"I'm not seventeen anymore, Scarlett. I don't run. I don't hide. I don't let anyone tell me who I can and cannot want."
"Then what do you do?"
He closed the distance.
His palm cupped her cheek. Her skin was soft. Warm. Exactly as he remembered.
"I negotiate," he said. "And I always win."
Her breath hitched.
The city glittered behind her. The wine waited on the table. Twenty minutes was ticking down.
But Dominic didn't care about time anymore.
He only cared about the woman in his arms.
And the twelve years he was about to make up for.
- Writer
