The elevator didn't answer. It just held them—metal walls, mirrored panels, a strip of emergency light turning everything the color of old paper. Her mind mapped the space anyway, hunting for exits that weren't there.
Two seconds—maybe three.
Then it shuddered and began to move again.
The floor number blinked back on.
Seven.
Six.
Caroline still didn't exhale. Her hand stayed clamped on the rail, knuckles pale, pulse running too fast for how small the danger had been. And still was.
“It's moving." Thorne's voice came low and steady.
“I know." The words came out sharp. Her throat burned.
She could only hope he didn't notice she was actually nervous because of him, and not the elevator.
The descent smoothed out, as if the stall hadn't happened.
She hated that her body betrayed he
