Her heartless billionaire

We both love the dark

The elevator was dead. A silent, metal box suspended somewhere between the glittering fantasy of the party above and the solid reality of the ground below. And I was stuck in it. We were stuck in it. Together.

For a few long, suspended seconds, we remained in the profound, velvety darkness without saying a word. The sudden absence of light and sound was absolute, creating a strange and immediate intimacy. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, muffled drum in the silence, but it wasn't from fear. It was from a wild, thrilling excitement that I knew was utterly irrational. My mind, a frantic narrator, tried to impose logic on the situation. Nothing can happen here. We are strangers trapped for what will likely be a few boring hours. I repeated the mantra to myself, but it was a flimsy shield against the potent reality of his presence. I was still smiling there in the dark, a secret, foolish grin that he couldn't see, as I took in the clean, citrusy scent of his cologne, a fragrance that seemed to cut through the stale, recycled air.

I had no idea what he was thinking. The darkness had stolen his face from me, leaving only the sound of his soft, steady breathing and the faint, radiating warmth of his body somewhere just in front of me.

“It seems we are stuck,” he said, and the sound of his voice, that slow, low timbre, was like a physical touch in the dark. It jerked me back to a more grounded reality while simultaneously making me want to dissolve into the fantasy of the moment.

“Yes, clearly,” I replied. The words escaped my lips, clipped and unintentionally rude, a byproduct of a mind still reeling from the alcohol and the strange, magnetic pull this man exerted.

I heard him shift, the soft rustle of expensive fabric. He moved, and I could feel him standing next to me now, his body heat a tangible presence in the cool, dark air. I had to say something, anything, to fill the charged silence, to keep my own foolish thoughts at bay.

“Is there no one you can call for help?” I asked, my voice sounding a little too bright, a little too eager. “You had your phone with you.” I was trying to sound practical, to hide the fact that a small, reckless part of me was enjoying this, that I wanted us to be stuck here.

“My phone died a few seconds after your near-death experience,” he said, the teasing note in his voice unmistakable. A soft laugh followed. “I apologize if I came off as rude earlier,” he continued, his tone shifting to something more sincere. “I’ve been in a rather foul mood since I arrived in the city today, and this situation isn't exactly improving it.” He moved past me, and I heard his hand brush against the cool metal of the elevator doors.

“And I’m sorry if I sounded rude just now,” I offered, wanting to match his unexpected civility. If we were going to be trapped together, being friendly seemed like the only sane option. “It’s not your fault we’re trapped in a metal box with no way to contact the outside world.”

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice a whisper now, closer than I expected. “I suppose you just don’t like being in the dark.”

Was he teasing me again? I couldn't be sure. “It has nothing to do with the dark,” I replied honestly, shrugging, a gesture lost to the blackness. “To be honest, I like the dark.” I paused, a mischievous impulse taking over. “Maybe you’re the one who’s scared of it.”

His laugh, when it came, was a slow, rich sound that seemed to reverberate through the small space, warming it instantly. “I love the dark. So, I guess that’s something we have in common. Being stuck here might not be so bad after all.” He paused again. “We might be in here for a while. I doubt standing the entire time will be comfortable for you, especially in those heels.”

“I suppose having a sofa installed in elevators would be a brilliant idea,” I quipped, trying to make him laugh again. It worked. “But alas, we are without one.”

“What I was trying to say,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “is that you can come sit next to me. The floor near the doors is padded. It’s quite soft. We can share it while we wait.”

It was a simple, polite offer, a gesture of kindness to make up for his earlier arrogance. But to me, it felt like an invitation into a dangerous, thrilling new territory. The idea of being closer to him, of willingly shrinking the space between us in this intimate darkness, was both terrifying and irresistible. I had to take it.

Finding my way to the doors was easy. I felt my way along the wall until my hand met his. The brief, electric touch sent a jolt up my arm. Sitting next to him was also easy. The difficulty began when his leg brushed against mine, a casual, unintentional contact that reignited the strange, intense heat between my thighs. I realized then, with a sinking feeling, that staying this close to him in the dark was a profoundly bad idea. But it was too late. I was already here.

I needed a distraction, a way to pull my mind from the overwhelming physical awareness of the man beside me. Conversation. That was the key.

“You left the party pretty early,” I began, my voice a little breathless. “I guess you weren’t enjoying it?”

“I actually enjoyed it more than I expected to,” he replied, his voice a low hum next to me. “But I flew in from Milan this morning and came into town without a phone charger. My battery was on its last legs. I was just heading down to the reception to see if they had one. What about you? You left early, even though you were clearly having more fun than anyone else in that room. I saw you dancing. Then, all of a sudden, you stopped, retreated to the bar, and started drinking like you were trying to forget something. What happened?”

His directness caught me off guard. He wasn't just making polite conversation; he was observing, analyzing. And he wasn't shy about admitting it.

“So, you were watching me?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“It was impossible not to notice you,” he said, his voice a smooth, unapologetic caress in the dark. “You’re beautiful, you were wearing a dress the color of fire, and you move like you were born on a dance floor. It was a captivating performance.”

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely impressed by his honesty and flustered by the compliment. A reckless impulse, born from the strange intimacy of our situation, took hold of me. “Can I be honest with you?” I asked quietly.

“We’re fated to become acquaintances by the time they pry these doors open,” he said with another soft laugh. “You should speak freely. You have my complete and undivided attention. Literally.”

“I think I should at least know your name before I spill a secret to you,” I countered, turning to face the direction of his voice. “I can’t go around telling secrets to complete strangers, even handsome ones trapped in an elevator with me.”

“You’re right. My apologies,” he said, his tone polite and cool again. “I am Francis Benet. I’m a businessman. As I said, I just arrived from Milan this morning. I was hoping to meet an old friend at the party, but he couldn't make it.” A low, almost inaudible sigh followed his words. “So, what about you, lady in red? What is your name, and what is your secret?”

“My name is Sarah,” I said, deciding to take the plunge. “And to be very honest with you… I’m a reporter for PRIME VIEW Media.” I waited for the inevitable shift in his demeanor, the coldness that usually followed that admission.

“Wow,” he said, his tone still curious, not hostile. “I thought reporters weren’t allowed at these kinds of private events.”

“They’re not,” I confessed, his charming, non-judgmental tone making it easy to be honest. “I was here to work. That’s why I wore the red dress, why I danced so much. I was trying to stand out, to get noticed by a specific target without arousing suspicion. I was trying to find someone.”

“I attend this party every year,” he said, catching on quickly. He was smart, I gave him that. “I know most of the people who come. If you tell me who you were looking for, perhaps I can help. An unofficial interview with someone important, I assume?”

Could he really help me? Could this random, handsome businessman from Milan possibly know someone as powerful and reclusive as Max Malevolo? I doubted it.

“There’s no need,” I said, trying to change the subject. “You wouldn’t know him. The rumors say he doesn't keep many friends. And even if you did, you couldn't possibly get me an interview.”

He was silent for a moment, and I thought he had dropped it. I was wrong.

“What if I told you that I own this entire building?” he said, his voice casual, almost bored, but underscored with a note of seriousness. “And that I am one of the three people who organize this party every year? Do you think I can help you now?”

My breath caught in my throat. This changed everything. “If I give you the name,” I began, my mind racing, trying to cover all the angles, “and you know who he is, you have to promise me two things. First, that you will tell me what you know about him, right now, while we’re stuck here. And second, that you will try to get me an interview.” I knew if I just said the name ‘Max Malevolo,’ he might shut down, just like Ethan had. I needed his word first.

“You have my word as a businessman,” he said, his voice firm and convincing even in the total darkness. “If I have any information on this mystery man of yours, I will share it. And I will do my best to arrange a meeting. I promise.”

For some strange reason, I believed him.

“Do you know Mr. Max Malevolo?” I asked, the name finally out in the open. “He’s Italian-American, lives in Italy. He was supposed to be here tonight, but he never showed up.” I shook my head, my hopes already beginning to dim. The coincidence was just too great. He hadn’t said a word, and the silence stretched on, confirming my fears. He didn't know him. It had all been a long shot.

And then, I heard his low, sweet voice again, laced with an astonishment that mirrored my own.

“You are a very, very lucky lady, Sarah,” he said, followed by a loud, incredulous laugh. “Max happens to be one of my oldest and closest friends. I could even say we are best friends. I’ve known him for over fifteen years.” He was still laughing, clearly as intrigued by this impossible stroke of fate as I was. “If there is anything you want to know about Max, you can ask me. Getting you a formal interview will be nearly impossible—he hates them, as I’m sure you know. But he won’t mind me telling you a thing or two about his life.”

A surge of pure, unadulterated joy, mixed with disbelief and the lingering intoxication from earlier, overwhelmed me. Without thinking, I turned toward him in the dark and wrapped my arms around him, hugging the complete stranger I had met less than thirty minutes ago. It was a spontaneous, uncontrollable reaction, born from the sheer, stunning relief of the moment. I had done it. I had found a source.

I was genuinely, deliriously happy. No journalist had gotten any real information on Max Malevolo in years. Whatever I learned in this stuck elevator would change my life, my career, forever. I had finally found someone willing to talk about the Heartless Billionaire, the man the entire world was desperate to know. Getting stuck in this elevator hadn't been a disaster. It had been a blessing, a gift from a universe I never could have planned for or expected.