EMMA
The elevator doors remained sealed, a wall of brushed steel between me and the lobby. The air inside the cabin grew thick, tasting of recycled oxygen and my own mounting panic. That recording—my own voice begging for a man who wasn’t there—played on a loop, a jagged blade of sound intended to lobotomize my hope.
Gabriel! Please!
"Shut up," I whispered, slamming my fist against the control panel. "Shut the f**k up!"
The recording cut out, replaced by a low, rhythmic thrumming that I felt in the soles of my feet before I heard it. It was the building’s security override. I watched the floor indicator. I was in the lobby, but the doors wouldn't budge. Then, the number began to change.
1… 2… 5… 10…
The elevator wasn't letting me out. It was taking me back up. But not to Damien’s off
