Accidentally yours

CHAPTER TWO: Trapped

IVY

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft, final click and Ivy's life officially became a nightmare.

It was Monday morning. 8:47 AM. She was running late for a meeting at Monroe Industries, clutching a coffee she hadn't had time to drink, wearing heels she already regretted, and praying to every deity she could name that the elevator would take her to the twelfth floor without incident.

It did not.

The lights flickered once. Twice.

Then the elevator lurched a sickening drop that made her stomach fly into her throat and stopped.

Ivy froze.

The silence that followed was deafening.

No. No, no, no, no

She pressed the button for the twelfth floor. Nothing.

She pressed it again. Nothing.

She pressed the emergency call button. A crackling voice answered almost immediately.

"This is building security. We're aware of the issue. Power surge on the east wing. Technicians are on their way. Please remain calm."

Remain calm.

Remain calm?

Ivy was trapped in an elevator. Alone. On a Monday. With a coffee she couldn't drink and a meeting she was going to miss and

The elevator lurched again.

And then the doors opened.

Not to the twelfth floor.

To him.

Ryan Blackwood stood on the other side, his dark suit immaculate, his expression unreadable, his hand already reaching for the door as if he'd been about to step in.

He stopped.

She stopped.

For one endless, horrible second, neither of them moved.

Then the doors began to slide shut again and Ryan stepped inside.

No.

The doors closed behind him with a soft thud.

They were alone.

Trapped.

Together.

---

Ivy's heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape her body.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice coming out higher than she intended.

Ryan's gaze flickered to her calm, unhurried, infuriatingly composed.

"Getting on the elevator."

"It's broken."

"I noticed." He pressed the button for the fifteenth floor. Nothing happened. He pressed it again, slower this time, as if the elevator might respond to his patience. It didn't. "Or perhaps not."

Ivy wanted to scream.

Of all the people in all of Arellui, of all the elevators in all the buildings, of all the mornings in all the weeks it had to be him.

She backed up, pressing herself against the far wall, creating as much distance as possible. The elevator was spacious mirrored walls, soft lighting, expensive wood paneling but right now it felt like a coffin.

Ryan leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, watching her.

He was always watching her.

Stop it, she told herself. Don't think about his eyes. Don't think about his jaw. Don't think about the way he looked at you at the gala

"You're bleeding," he said.

Ivy blinked. "What?"

He nodded toward her hand. She looked down and saw a thin line of red running down her wrist a paper cut from the files she'd been carrying, probably. She hadn't even noticed.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, wiping it on her skirt.

"It's bleeding."

"I said it's nothing."

Ryan pushed off the wall. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief white, folded, impossibly crisp and stepped toward her.

Ivy's breath caught.

"What are you"

"Hold still."

He took her hand.

His fingers were warm. Steady. They wrapped around her wrist with a gentleness that contradicted everything she knew about him every cold glance, every clipped word, every moment of quiet, distant indifference.

He pressed the handkerchief to the cut.

Ivy couldn't breathe.

She couldn't move.

She couldn't do anything but stare at his dark head as he bent over her hand, his brows furrowed in concentration, his thumb resting lightly against her pulse point.

He can feel my heartbeat, she realized.

He can feel how fast it's going.

She pulled her hand back too fast, too abrupt and clutched the handkerchief to her chest.

"Thank you," she managed.

Ryan straightened. His expression was unreadable again, but something flickered in his eyes something she couldn't name.

"You're welcome."

Silence.

The elevator hummed softly around them. The air was warm, close, heavy with something neither of them acknowledged.

Ivy stared at the floor. At the ceiling. At anything but him.

Ryan stared at her.

"Why do you hate me?" he asked.

The question landed like a stone in still water.

Ivy's head snapped up. "What?"

"You heard me."

She had. She just couldn't believe he'd asked.

"I don't" She stopped. Swallowed. "I don't hate you."

"You do." His voice was calm, even, but there was an edge to it something raw beneath the surface. "You've hated me for years. You avoid me at every event. You flinch when I get close. You won't look me in the eye for more than two seconds."

Ivy's throat tightened.

He noticed.

He noticed everything.

"I don't flinch," she whispered.

"You flinch."

"I"

"You're doing it now."

She looked down. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands trembling slightly, her entire body angled away from him like a plant turning from shadow.

Damn him.

"I don't hate you," she said again, quieter this time.

Ryan stepped closer.

Just one step.

But it was enough to make her heart stutter, her breath catch, her skin prickle with awareness.

"Then what is it?" he asked.

Ivy's eyes burned.

She thought about all the years. All the galas. All the moments she'd spent avoiding him, ignoring him, telling herself she felt nothing.

She thought about the way he'd looked at her at the gala dark eyes tracking her across the room, lingering a beat too long.

She thought about the way he'd said you look nice like the words had cost him something.

She thought about the way he'd pressed his handkerchief to her skin like she was something precious.

It's not hate, a voice whispered in her head.

It's never been hate.

"I can't do this," she said, her voice cracking.

Ryan's jaw tightened. "Do what?"

"This." She gestured vaguely between them. "Whatever this is."

"There's nothing to do," he said quietly. "I just asked a question."

"And I can't answer it."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know the answer!"

The words burst out of her loud, raw, honest and she immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified.

Did I just say that?

Ryan stared at her.

For the first time since she'd known him, he looked genuinely surprised.

"You don't know," he repeated slowly.

"No." Her voice was muffled behind her hand. "I don't."

The elevator hummed.

Ryan took another step closer.

Ivy's back hit the wall.

He stopped.

He was so close now. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Close enough that she could smell him sandalwood, cedar, something clean and expensive. Close enough that if she reached out, she could touch him.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

"Ivy."

Her name on his lips was a sin and a prayer.

She looked up.

He was staring at her with an intensity that made her knees weak not cold, not distant, but burning. Like he'd been holding himself back for years and was finally, slowly, letting the walls crack.

"You bite your lip when you lie," he murmured.

She caught herself doing it. Again.

"Stop noticing things," she whispered.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because they're about you."

The words hung between them heavy, fragile, terrifying.

Ivy's heart stopped.

What?

"What?" she breathed.

Ryan's eyes dropped to her mouth. Then back up.

"Every time I see you," he said quietly, "I notice something new. The way you laugh too loud and then try to hide it. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're nervous. The way you bite your lip when you're lying. The way you look at me when you think I'm not looking back."

Ivy couldn't breathe.

"I notice all of it," he said. "I've been noticing for years."

The elevator lurched.

Both of them stumbled Ivy forward, Ryan back and his hands shot out automatically, catching her by the waist before she could fall.

She froze.

His hands on her waist.

Her body pressed against his.

His breath warm on her face.

The world stopped.

"Ryan"

"Do you feel it?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Feel what?"

"This."

His thumb moved just slightly against the fabric of her dress. It was a small movement, barely there, but it sent a shockwave through her entire body.

"Tell me you don't feel it," he said. "Tell me I'm imagining it. Tell me I've been wrong all these years and I'll stop. I'll walk away. I'll never look at you again."

Ivy's eyes burned.

She should say it.

She should tell him she felt nothing.

She should protect herself.

But the truth was clawing its way out of her chest, and she couldn't hold it back anymore.

"I feel it," she whispered.

Ryan's eyes flared.

The truth.

Finally.

And then the lights came back on.

The elevator dinged.

The doors slid open.

A technician in a yellow vest peered in, looking confused. "Oh are you two okay? We got the power back. Sorry about"

But Ivy was already moving.

She slipped out of Ryan's grip, out of the elevator, out of the moment her cheeks burning, her heart racing, her head spinning.

She didn't look back.

She couldn't.

Because if she looked back, she'd fall.

And she'd spent too many years building walls to crumble now.

---

RYAN

Ryan watched her go.

She walked fast, her heels clicking against the marble floor, her coffee abandoned, his handkerchief still clutched in her hand.

She didn't look back.

He didn't expect her to.

He stood in the elevator for a long moment, his hands still raised where they'd held her, his jaw clenched tight.

I feel it.

Her voice echoed in his head.

I feel it.

"You're in trouble," the technician said cheerfully, oblivious. "But we fixed the elevator. So that's good."

Ryan didn't respond.

He stepped out of the elevator and walked the other way away from Ivy, away from the meeting he'd been heading to, away from everything except the memory of her body pressed against his.

You're in trouble, he thought.

The technician had no idea how right he was.

---