5. Elisa
ELISA
The heavy, matte-black steel of the staging trellis bites mercilessly through the canvas of my work gloves.
The eight-foot archway weighs at least ninety pounds.
The edges dig into the soft flesh between my thumb and index finger, grinding against the bone.
My biceps tremble in violent protest. The joints in my knees lock, bearing the unbalanced load as I drag the massive structure across the polished floor of the Swanson Plaza ballroom.
"Drop it, El. Right now."
Louisa steps directly into my path, her bright coral blouse a glaring anomaly against the sterile, gilded architecture. She holds a clipboard flat against her chest.
"The base needs to be secured before the plaster dries." My throat is lined with sandpaper and the lingering, phantom taste of sterile hospital air. "If we miss the curing window, the entire floral canopy shifts off its central axis. The visual balance will be ruined."
"The Teamsters are on a mandatory union break.
" Louisa points a manicured finger toward the loading bay, where four burly contractors sit on overturned coolers, drinking coffee.
"They go back on the clock in fifteen minutes.
They are paid exorbitant hazard rates to move the steel.
You are the CEO. You do not drag structural frames across a ballroom floor. "
"I don't have fifteen minutes, Louisa." I heave the archway another two feet. The metal scrapes against the floor, a harsh, grating shriek.
I don't have the luxury of time, or rest, or pride.
The blinding fluorescent lights of the pediatric emergency room still burn the backs of my eyelids. The rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the nebulizer mask strapped to my four-year-old son’s face echoes in my head, drowning out the noise of the construction crew.
Two hours of sleep. My mind is a fractured loop of yesterday afternoon.
The suffocating, agonizing silence in the back of Donovan’s Cullinan as his driver tore through the flooded Manhattan streets.
The sheer terror of pulling up to the daycare only to see paramedics already loading my little boy into the back of an ambulance.
The endless, grueling night at the hospital, watching Derick's small chest heave as he fought for every breath.
The guilt is a rotting weight in my stomach. Did I miss his early warning coughs yesterday morning because I was too focused on Swanson invoices? Was I too busy sparring with the man who broke my heart to notice my own child was getting sick?
The sheer, terrifying helplessness of watching a doctor adjust a pediatric oxygen valve while I stood perfectly still—that is the nightmare I am trying to outrun by burying my hands in this work is still vivid in my head.
I dig the heels of my worn boots into the floor and pull.
The heavy steel shifts, the center of gravity tilting wildly to the left. The weight doubles instantly.
My grip slips.
The canvas glove slides against the smooth, cold metal. The massive trellis begins to tip backward, a ninety-pound guillotine of steel falling directly toward my chest. Gravity takes over, absolute and unforgiving.
The heavy scent of rain-dampened wool and clean cedar cuts through the construction dust.
Two large hands shoot past my shoulders. Long, powerful fingers wrap around the thick steel pipes, his knuckles brushing mine. The descent of the trellis stops instantly.
Broad shoulders block the glaring morning light streaming through the windows. The bespoke, midnight-blue wool of a suit coat brushes against the faded, dirt-stained denim of my jacket.
Donovan.
He stands flush against my back. He doesn't strain against the weight. His biceps flex beneath his sleeves, the dense muscle easily absorbing the ninety pounds of falling steel.
The brush of his forearms against mine makes the fine hairs on my arm stand on end. My breathing halts.
He freezes with me.
The shrill whine of the power drills at the far end of the hall seems to mute.
"Let it go, Elisa." His breath fans the damp hair at the nape of my neck. He doesn't sound like the ruthless executive who threatened my firm. The demand is quiet, stripped of all hostility.
My fingers are locked, seized by the sheer adrenaline of the near-impact.
"I have it. Step back."
I open my hands.
Donovan takes the full weight of the trellis. He steps around me, moving the heavy archway with a terrifying, effortless grace. He sets it perfectly onto the chalk anchor marks, the metal connecting with a heavy, final clang.
He turns to face me.
His eyes trap mine, striking and green. He tracks the chaotic mess of my appearance.
No flawless makeup. No crisp, tailored silk.
I wear an oversized, faded denim jacket over a plain black t-shirt.
My thick hair is a casualty of last night's torrential rain and this morning's sweat.
The polished twists have begun to unravel at the roots, tight, uncooperative coils pressing damply against my neck.
Deep, dark purple shadows bruise the delicate skin beneath my eyes.
I hate that he sees me like this. Ragged. Frayed at the edges.
He stares at me, the muscle in his scarred jaw jumping once, twice. His hands remain at his sides, fists curled so tightly the tendons in his forearms strain against the cuffs of his shirt.
"Your union foremen are paid double time to manage heavy lifting," he says. The words are forced out through a clenched jaw. "Where is the site manager?"
"On break." I square my shoulders, refusing to let him see the tremors wracking my exhausted muscles. "The plaster doesn't respect the union schedule."
"You are shaking."
"I am working." I reach down, picking up my fallen clipboard. "I don't have the time to argue with you today, Donovan."
He doesn't argue back. He just stares at the dark circles under my eyes.
Instead of responding to me, he looks over my head, his gaze locking onto Louisa.
"Ms. Bakers." Donovan’s voice rings out across the space.
Louisa straightens, her eyes darting between the two of us, reading the sudden, unnerving stillness between us. "Mr. Swanson."
"Call the concierge desk at the Four Seasons down the street.
Instruct them to send a full hot catering service to the loading dock immediately.
Bill it directly to my personal accounts payable.
" He doesn't look away from me as he issues the directive.
"No one on your team lifts another piece of steel until they have eaten. "
The command leaves no room for negotiation.
Louisa’s eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. She is the only person on my team who knows exactly who this man is to me. She recognizes the terrifying shift in his posture and the absolute exhaustion freezing my vocal cords.
"Understood." Louisa grips her tablet tightly. She takes a slow step backward. "I'll make the call."
She turns and walks rapidly toward the service elevators, leaving us alone in the shadow of the massive trellis.
The crew continues to work around us, oblivious to the fact that I am trapped by his stare.
I look straight ahead, fixing my gaze on the knot of his silk tie. If I look into his eyes, I will shatter into a thousand unrecoverable pieces right here on the floor.
"You look like you're going to collapse," he murmurs quietly.
"I am fine." The lie is brittle, snapping the second it leaves my mouth.
He steps closer to me. His sheer size forces me to stay rooted to the spot.
His hand rises.
I stop breathing .
He reaches out. The rough pad of his thumb presses against the high curve of my cheekbone.
A sharp gasp tears through my lips.
He doesn't pull away. He slowly, deliberately swipes his thumb across my skin, wiping away a dark, heavy smudge of industrial dirt left by the trellis. The friction of his calloused skin against mine burns.
He drops his hand, clenching them.
"Yesterday afternoon, in the car," Donovan says, his tone dropping into a dangerously quiet register. "You couldn't even breathe until my driver reached the daycare. You were clutching your bag so hard your knuckles were white."
My stomach plummets. I clutch the clipboard against my chest.
Donovan steps in, his shadow swallowing me whole as his green eyes search my face with a terrifying, piercing clarity.
"How old is your son, Elisa? Where is your husband?"