Her heartless billionaire

Things about him.

Chapter 3

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, 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. 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.

“It seems we are stuck,” he said, his slow, low voice a physical touch in the dark, jerking me back to reality.

“Yes, clearly,” I replied, the words clipped and unintentionally rude.

I heard him shift, and I could feel him standing next to me now, his body heat a tangible presence. “I apologize if I came off as rude earlier,” he said, his tone shifting to something more sincere. “I’ve been in a rather foul mood since I arrived in the city today.”

“And I’m sorry if I sounded rude just now,” I offered, wanting to match his unexpected civility. “It’s not your fault we’re trapped in a metal box.”

His laugh, when it came, was a slow, rich sound that warmed the small space. “I love the dark. So, I guess that’s something we have in common.” He paused. “We might be in here for a while. The floor near the doors is padded. We can sit while we wait.”

It was a simple, polite offer. I accepted, and soon we were sitting side-by-side in the dark, a comfortable silence settling between us before I felt the need to break it.

“You left the party early,” I began. “I guess you weren’t enjoying it?”

“I actually enjoyed it more than I expected to,” he replied. “But I flew in from Milan this morning and came into town without a phone charger. What about you? I saw you dancing. Then, all of a sudden, you stopped and retreated to the bar. What happened?”

“So, you were watching me?” I asked.

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

“Thank you,” I said, flustered. “Can I be honest with you?”

“You have my complete and undivided attention,” he laughed softly.

“I think I should at least know your name first,” I countered.

“You’re right. My apologies. I am Francis Benet,” he said smoothly. “A businessman from Milan. And you, lady in red?”

“Sarah,” I said, making a split-second decision. I would not use my father's name. It brought too much attention, too many expectations. “Sarah May. My mother’s maiden name,” I added, a half-truth to ground the lie. “And to be very honest with you… I’m a reporter for PRIME VIEW Media.”

“Wow,” he said, his tone genuinely curious. “I thought reporters weren’t allowed at these events.”

“They’re not,” I confessed. “I was here to work. That’s why I was trying to stand out. I was looking for someone, my target for an interview.”

“Well, Sarah May,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice. “Who is this mysterious target that made you leave the dance floor in such a hurry?”

This was it. My chance. “I was looking for the host of this party. The man they call the ‘Heartless Billionaire.’ Max Malevolo.”

I felt him shift beside me in the dark. “Ambitious,” he said after a moment. “Why him?”

“He’s the biggest story in the world right now. He’s a ghost. No one knows anything about him. The rumors are… intense.”

“I can imagine,” Francis said dryly. “What kind of rumors?”

Here was my chance to get a reaction, to see if he was just another person intimidated by the name. “Well,” I began, leaning in slightly, “they say he’s a ruthless womanizer. That he was involved with Monica Lejeune, Sophia Dell, and Michelle Kay, all in the space of a few weeks.”

Francis let out a short, sharp laugh, but it sounded hollow, almost sad. “Ah, yes. The ‘New York incident’,” he said, his voice taking on a wry, knowing tone. “Max talks about that sometimes. It’s one of his bigger regrets, you know.”

My reporter’s instincts tingled. He was talking about him like he knew him personally. “You know him?” I asked, my voice sharp with excitement.

“Know him?” Francis chuckled again. “Sarah May, Max is my oldest and closest friend. I’m practically his brother.”

The revelation hit me like a physical blow. The sheer, impossible coincidence of it all.

I was trapped in an elevator with Max Malevolo’s best friend....

“You’re serious?” I whispered, my mind racing.

“Completely,” he said. “And for the record, the rumors are only half-true. He wasn't being heartless; he was being careless. He was running from something back then, a ghost from his past. He told me it was selfish, using those incredible women as distractions. He never intended to hurt any of them, but he was in a dark place. He couldn’t offer them anything real, and he’s carried the weight of that ever since.”

His defense was so earnest, so personal. He wasn’t just repeating gossip; he was offering a glimpse behind the curtain, painting a picture of a flawed, human man instead of a monstrous caricature. This was more than I could have ever hoped for.



“What about the other rumors?” I pressed, emboldened by his openness. “The mafia connections? The journalists who disappear?”

He sighed, a long, weary sound in the dark. “Max’s family… they have a long and complicated history in Italy. Let’s just say they are very powerful and very traditional. They are not people you cross. Max himself is a businessman, a brilliant one. But does he use the fear his family name inspires to his advantage? Absolutely. As for the journalists… most of those stories are exaggerations. But the last one… the one who wrote that scathing piece about his family’s ‘traditions’? Max didn’t make him disappear. He bought the man's newspaper, promoted him to a desk job in another country with a salary he couldn't refuse, and made him sign an NDA the length of a novel. Max doesn’t get violent. He gets strategic. It’s far more effective.”

I was captivated, hanging on his every word. This was the story. This was the real man. Flawed, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But not the one-dimensional villain the world had painted him to be. He was complex, wounded, and fiercely protective of his family. I found myself feeling a strange surge of empathy for the man I’d been hunting.

“He sounds… lonely,” I said softly, the words surprising even myself.

Francis was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “He is,” he admitted. “The loneliest man I’ve ever known.”

In that moment, my mission evaporated. My ambition, my desire for a career-making story, it all melted away, replaced by a simple, overwhelming human connection. The handsome stranger next to me was no longer just a source. He was a man, sitting in the dark, sharing a moment of raw vulnerability about his best friend. A friend who sounded a lot like him. And I found myself wanting to offer him some kind of comfort, to bridge the small gap between us.

I turned my body toward him, my hand finding his in the dark. His fingers were long and warm, and they wrapped around mine instantly, a perfect fit, as if they were made to hold mine. The air grew thick, charged with a new and potent energy. I could feel his gaze on me, even in the total blackness.

The world dissolved into three things: the darkness, the faint, citrusy scent of his cologne, and the insistent pressure of his lips against mine. My mind, which had been a chaotic storm, was now a silent, empty vessel, filled only with the overwhelming sensation of him. His kiss was not gentle or hesitant; it was a firm, confident claiming, a slow, deliberate exploration that was both a question and an answer…