CHAPTER 9 （SARAH）
Anger crackles under my skin when I step into the elevator late tonight, the metal doors sliding shut behind me.
My nerves are frayed from endless Redwood emergencies and the swarm of rumors dragging my name through the mud.
Michael steps in at the last second, posture rigid.
Tension floods the tiny space. He glares at the panel, then, without warning, slams the emergency stop button.
The jolt rattles my teeth. My heart thuds.
I snap at him, voice low but pulsing with rage, demanding to know what he thinks he’s doing.
His reply is an accusation—he’s sick of the wildfire of gossip.
He says I’m fueling it by skulking around, by letting whispers fester.
My chest tightens with disbelief. He’s placing blame on me?
His eyes burn with frustration, as if all Redwood’s problems land at my feet.
The overhead light flickers, and we stand face-to-face, breath short, the hum of machinery stilled.
Neither of us backs down. My hands tremble, and I clamp them into fists at my sides.
The hush is so thick I can hear my own blood pounding.
He throws out a scathing remark about how my silence only feeds speculation.
My cheeks burn. I fling back that he keeps me guessing, that he’s so distant it looks suspicious.
We lock glares, the elevator walls closing in around us, tension ramping to a breaking point.
We stay in hushed confrontation, both voices tight.
His blame collides with mine, each of us lashing out.
I’m furious that he let these rumors spiral by never addressing them, by never speaking up to clear my name.
He fires back that I hide in corners, never seeking clarity or support from him.
The tone is clipped, bouncing off the metal walls.
My pulse hammers. He has no idea how powerless I feel.
I grit out that he’s the one who kept me at arm’s length, giving every gossip junkie reason to assume there’s a secret scandal.
He curses under his breath, says Redwood is drowning in speculation and we’re too busy fighting each other to fix it.
My throat knots. We’re so close that our frustration seems to spark in the air, each word slicing deeper.
Guilt jabs me—I do want him to be more open, but at the same time, I’m scared of fueling tabloid talk.
Our voices lower, each retort more pointed.
He says I never come to him with concerns.
I respond that it’s hard to approach someone who keeps the door shut.
Harsh breathing echoes in this cramped box.
We might tear each other apart before Redwood even stands a chance.
A charged silence. Fury whips through me, then shifts into a desperate ache.
I stare at him, chest heaving. The overhead light flickers again, and everything inside me snaps.
My entire body surges toward him, and our mouths crash together.
It’s raw. Intense. I’m not sure who lunges first, but we collide with the force of every pent-up emotion.
My hands clamp onto his shoulders. His hand digs into my waist, pressing me closer.
My entire self ignites, the taste of his breath leaving me dizzy.
My insides quake with a wild sense of release.
We don’t speak. We can’t. Everything that’s been building—fear, anger, attraction—erupts in this frantic kiss.
My mind goes blank except for the thud of my heart and the scorching heat of his mouth.
There’s no caution or logic. Only this tidal wave of need, unleashed by weeks of tension.
The press of his lips aches with bitterness and longing combined.
My pulse throbs as we steal each other’s air, pushing deeper into the moment.
A tiny voice warns that this is insane. But I ignore it.
Because something about this feels inevitable, like every argument led to this collision.
My mind swims, body trembling, heat zipping from head to toe.
The elevator walls hold us tight, trapping us in this sudden, desperate grip.
We break apart gasping, reality crashing in.
The hush slaps me as the echo of that hungry kiss fades.
My cheeks burn. Shame roars up like a wave, tangling with lingering longing.
What have we done? He stares at me with equal shock, chest rising and falling in jagged rhythm.
My lips still buzz from the press of his.
I step back, heartbeat thudding against my ribs.
The elevator’s fluorescent light feels garish, exposing the meltdown of boundaries we just staged.
My face flames at the memory of his hand gripping my waist. He looks as if he’s teetering between apology and some deeper emotion.
Heat still radiates off me, but now the weight of professional lines we’ve shattered presses down.
Everything Redwood stands for, every caution from HR, every rumor in the breakroom, it all converges on this single reckless act.
Our eyes lock, and the tension pulses again.
But now it’s tinted with shame and raw desire.
He opens his mouth as though to speak, but no words emerge.
We’ve crossed a line we can’t un-cross, and that knowledge thrums in the hush.
My lungs fight for air, my mind darting to Redwood, to the precarious position we both hold.
I clamp my lips shut, too rattled to trust my voice.
He reaches over and flicks the emergency stop button again, releasing the elevator from its stalled limbo.
It jolts into motion. We stand in silence as the floors tick by.
My heart clenches at the turmoil twisting his features, like he’s wrestling with a thousand regrets at once.
So am I. The gap between us grows in that small car.
The kiss might as well be a physical presence, pulsing in the space like a living thing.
We face the door, eyes forward, bodies still thrumming from the shock.
My chest aches with regret. But a deeper hunger lingers beneath the shame.
I taste him on my tongue. My fingers still tremble with the ghost of his touch.
He keeps a rigid distance now, breathing taut.
Each passing second feels loaded. The elevator dings open on the executive floor.
I swallow hard. He strides out ahead, shoulders tense, not glancing back, like he’s afraid even one look will break him further.
My stomach twists. Redwood is in crisis.
We just lit a fuse that could blow up everything if we’re not careful.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm the frantic pounding.
That single moment changed the temperature of our entire world.
We end up in his office moments later, a silent swirl of tension shadowing every corner.
He shuts the door with a sharp click. The hush vibrates.
Our eyes meet, and I sense an undercurrent of accusation, confusion, raw need.
Words stumble out—him demanding why I had to push him like that, me snapping that he cornered me first. We’re both furious with each other and with ourselves.
The meltdown of professional lines crackles in the air, Redwood’s precarious state looming in my mind.
We’re near shouting, voices hushed but fierce, hurling frustrations about how Redwood can’t handle another scandal.
He paces, fists clenched. I rail against the impossible position I’m in—gossip swirling, blackmail threats, my job at stake.
He snaps that Redwood can’t endure any more rumors tying us together in clandestine ways.
My chest seizes with a confusing mixture of shame and defiance.
We already blurred those lines. We can’t unsee that moment.
Our confrontation rattles in the high-ceilinged space, echoing off glass and sleek furniture.
He stares at me, eyes stormy, and says Redwood can’t survive if we’re too consumed by personal drama.
My cheeks flame, tears prickling. We can’t just pretend it never happened.
But Redwood’s survival is essential for both of us.
My voice trembles as I bark that I wish it were easier.
His glare softens a fraction. Neither of us can fix the situation.
We stand there, hearts pounding, two exhausted people chained to Redwood’s fate.
Tears gather in my throat, burning hot, but I choke them down.
He’s half the reason I’m falling apart. Yet he’s also the only one who truly understands the pressure Redwood imposes.
My desire for him tangles with the resentment that he’s part of the chaos.
I cling to the edge of his desk, knuckles white.
My voice shakes when I whisper that I hate wanting his closeness when he’s also fueling my nightmares.
He looks stricken, like my words slice deep.
Then he crosses his arms, trying to shield himself.
The swirl of frustration in me intensifies.
Redwood’s sabotage, my mother’s bills, the tabloids, HR’s suspicious eyes—everything pushes me to the brink.
Now this impossible attraction bursts through the cracks.
I resent him for contributing to my stress.
Yet I burn with need every time we’re together.
My chest feels ready to cave in, tears threatening to spill.
He stands there, also torn, shoulders trembling with pent-up emotion.
I sense the same conflict in him, a flicker of longing overshadowed by his stern fa?ade.
We both want comfort. But comfort seems impossible in the face of Redwood’s meltdown.
I swallow my tears, keeping my posture stiff, ignoring the ache in my throat.
This is bigger than the two of us. Redwood can’t endure another misstep.
He says we must treat the kiss like it never happened.
His voice is clipped, each word forced through a clenched jaw.
My stomach plunges, leaving me hollow. Of course he wants to bury it.
Redwood’s precarious standing is our top priority.
He reminds me that the entire project could implode if rumors get worse.
My head spins with hurt. A small part of me hoped he would embrace what we shared, that we might face the fallout together.
Instead, he’s piling walls around us again, as if that frantic kiss was just a slip, meaningless.
My nails dig into my palms, tears burning hot behind my eyes.
The finality in his tone leaves me reeling.
He paces behind the desk, not looking at me.
Redwood is our lifeblood, yet the stinging rejection in his words crushes something vital in my chest. I bite my lip, refusing to sob.
I spit out that I understand Redwood’s bigger than any personal entanglement.
But inside, I’m shattered. My chest hurts with longing for a moment that felt so real.
Anger flares, directed at him for shutting down, at myself for letting my guard slip.
The hush crackles as we stand on opposite sides of his office, each breathing ragged, hearts pounding.
I storm out, tears already blurring my vision.
My entire face burns as I pass a few late-working colleagues in the hallway.
Their eyes flick to my flushed cheeks, but I don’t stop.
My chest convulses with heartbreak I can’t fully name.
He’s right—Redwood must come first. But it feels like I’m ripping out a piece of my own happiness.
My shoulders shake as I reach the elevator.
I mash the button, tears spilling despite my effort to keep them at bay.
The door slides open, and I stumble in, grateful no one else is there.
The ride down is a blur of watery lights.
My mind replays that kiss—how it ignited every nerve, how it felt like the exact outlet for all my pent-up stress.
Then how he shut it down with ice-cold logic.
By the time the elevator dings at the lobby, my cheeks are damp.
I dash across the polished floor, ignoring the security guard’s concerned glance.
Outside, the city air hits me, a rush of car horns and bright neon.
My heart thrashes with a toxic mix of heartbreak and guilt.
Redwood is bigger than me. I know that. Still, the sting of rejection throbs.
This building, with all its sleek angles and glossy surfaces, looms behind me like a fortress I can’t escape.
At home, I slam my door and sag against it, tears returning full force.
My head pounds. He’s inside my veins, and it’s all so wrong.
The image of that elevator kiss loops in my mind, my entire body reliving the moment of his mouth crushing into mine.
Shame twists my insides. Redwood is already battered by scandal.
We just handed the rumor mill fresh material on a silver platter if we aren’t careful.
Anger resurges that we had to deny something so fierce, something that stripped away every professional barrier for one wild moment.
I cross to the kitchen and yank open a cabinet, pulling out a cheap bottle of wine.
No glass. Just a direct swallow that burns my throat.
I cough, tears sliding down my cheeks. Then I pour some into a mug, trudging to the couch.
The city lights flicker against the window, a harsh reminder of how everything is public in Manhattan’s endless gossip cycle.
My phone sits on the coffee table, silent.
He’s not going to call. My chest aches. Another swig of wine.
Redwood’s entire existence depends on us burying that kiss.
Yet I can’t help replaying it, the heat, the frantic need, the fury turned into a scorching collision.
My heart clenches with guilt that I risk Redwood for a stolen moment of passion.
The night wears on, each minute grinding that memory deeper into my thoughts, until exhaustion dulls the edges.
I curl up on the couch, wine mug half-finished, mind reeling.
Redwood is still in jeopardy. My future is still tethered to those spreadsheets and endless sabotage.
And Michael Hastings remains the man who can both save me and destroy me in a single breath.