Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Ella
Eight fifty-eight, Friday morning, I burst into the Volkov Building lobby.
I was going to be late.
The goddamn subway was delayed again. I'd stood on the platform for a full twenty minutes, watching the seconds tick away, anxiety eating me alive.
I clutched my bag and a stack of files—the printed version of the PPT I'd redone last night, because Sergei wanted hard copies. My hair was still wet because I'd had no time to blow-dry it before leaving. My shirt buttons were crooked, one fastened in the wrong hole.
But I couldn't worry about that now.
All I knew was that if I wasn't at my desk by nine, Andrew would write a big fat "TARDY" in the weekly report, and my probation review would have one more black mark. I'd fought so hard to stay in New York on my own terms. I couldn't let it end like this. Fuck.
The elevator doors were closing.
"Wait!" I yelled, sprinting forward.
The doors stopped at the last second.
I exhaled in relief, squeezed through sideways, muttering "thank you, thank you."
Then I slammed into a wall of muscle.
The files in my arms scattered across the floor with a crash.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" I dropped to my knees, hair sliding forward to block my vision. "I didn't see—"
"Miss Collins."
That voice.
Low, laced with amusement, the kind that made every vertebra in my spine go cold.
I froze.
Slowly lifted my head.
Sergei Volkov stood before me in a navy three-piece suit, white shirt, tie knotted to perfection. He looked down at me, mouth curved in something between a smile and a smirk.
"Mr. Volkov." My voice shook. I scrambled to my feet, forgetting I still held half the files. More pages fell.
Shit.
"Looks like you're having a rough morning." Mockery dripped from every word.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't notice..." I crouched again to gather the papers, fingers trembling.
Why him?
Why the fuck did it have to be him?
I scooped up the files, shoved them into a messy pile against my chest, and when I stood, I realized something worse—
We were alone in the elevator.
And this wasn't just any elevator.
The walls were dark wood paneling. The carpet was charcoal gray. The button panel had only five numbers: 1, 15, 30, 42, P.
Fuck.
This was the executive elevator.
I spun around to leave, but the doors had already closed.
"Sorry, I got in the wrong one—" I reached for the door button, but a long-fingered hand shot out and blocked mine.
"It's fine." He pressed 15, then stepped back, hands sliding into his pockets. "I don't mind the company."
He was going to the fifteenth floor?
Why?
I'd never seen him on fifteen.
The elevator began to rise.
Just the two of us.
The quietest kind of elevator in Manhattan's most expensive building—no terrible muzak, no ding-ding-ding, just the low hum of machinery barely audible. The air filled with the rhythm of two people breathing.
I could smell his cologne—cedarwood, citrus, a whisper of tobacco.
The same scent I'd buried my face in at his collarbone last Friday night.
My thighs clenched like someone had flipped a switch.
No. Don't think about it. Don't...
He moved.
My whole body went rigid.
He didn't walk toward the doors. He moved slowly, slowly, circling behind me.
Expensive leather shoes made almost no sound on the elevator carpet, but I felt his position shift—left rear, then directly behind me.
I held my breath.
When he stopped, he was close.
Close enough that I felt his body heat on the back of my neck. Close enough that if I leaned back an inch, my spine would touch his chest.
He didn't touch me.
He might not have even moved.
But he bent down.
I heard it—the faint rustle of fabric, the shift of his vest hem as he leaned forward. Then I heard him take a deep breath above my head.
He was smelling me.
This man, CEO of Volkov Group, one of New York's most feared business titans, stood behind me like a wolf identifying prey, his nose almost brushing my hair, and inhaled deeply.
My heart skipped a beat, then doubled its pace to compensate. My fingertips went numb. The folder in my arms started to slip.
The floor numbers kept climbing. 6, 7, 8...
"What shampoo do you use?" he asked quietly above my head.
His voice, this close, was low as the deepest string on a cello.
My knees weakened.
"Just... something from the drugstore." I heard myself stammer.
A brief pause.
Then he laughed softly. The sound was barely more than breath through his nose, but it swept across the back of my neck like a feather, raising every hair on my body.
"Drugstore." He repeated the word like he was tasting it. "Surprising."
I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, not knowing what.
"After all," his voice dropped lower, "what I smelled last Friday night didn't seem like drugstore quality."
My face burned from zero to my ears in three seconds.
"Ding."
The elevator arrived.
The second the doors opened, I bolted like my life depended on it, nearly hitting the frame.
"Miss Collins." He called after me, laughter in his voice.
I stopped but didn't turn around.
"Next time, check your buttons." He said. "Otherwise you'll... distract people."
I looked down sharply.
Fuck.
My shirt buttons were in the wrong holes, making my collar crooked, exposing the edge of my black bra underneath.
My face ignited. I clutched the files to my chest.
He did that on purpose.
He absolutely fucking did that on purpose.
The next two days, my life became an absurd loop.
Wednesday morning. Elevator.
I'd learned from Tuesday's lesson. Left fifteen minutes early. Refused to enter any elevator that might be the wrong one. I walked into the employee elevator, pressed fifteen, and relaxed. Just as the doors were closing, someone stuck out a hand.
Sergei walked in.
The regular employee elevator.
Regular employees.
Same time, running into me.
I felt the two female coworkers next to me go wide-eyed.
He did nothing. Just stood there like a statue. But the instant we reached fifteen, when I squeezed past him, his fingers very lightly brushed the back of my hand.
Brushed. The back. Of my hand.
I hated him.
I also hated myself, hated my stupid heart for deciding to race in that moment.
I couldn't tell what I was feeling anymore.
Every morning, left at eight forty. Every morning around eight fifty-five, ran into him in an elevator. Every afternoon at some point, Emily's cold voice. Every day at some indefinable moment, his fingers, brushing my hand.
At night, I got home too tired to change. Threw down my bag. Collapsed on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.
The wallpaper in my cheap apartment was yellowed and peeling, rattling in the wind. Closed my eyes. All I saw were those gray eyes. Fuck.
Whenever those gray eyes swept over me, from face to throat to collarbone, my heart would lose control. My skin would burn. Between my legs, that unfamiliar wetness I didn't want to admit to.
He didn't even need to touch me.
He just had to look at me.
Fuck, my fingers slid down involuntarily, fantasizing about him pinning me down, ravaging me, imagining his cock pounding inside me, the rush of orgasm hitting—
"Yes, Sergei, make me come, yes—"
I collapsed, panting, staring at the ceiling.
I hated myself.
But I couldn't stop myself.
Friday morning, I was making final preparations for my report to Sergei when Brianna appeared at my cubicle.
She wore an ivory Yohji Yamamoto today. Hair up, showing off Bulgari earrings. She stood there like a revenge goddess fresh off the cover of Vogue.
"Ella, darling." She smiled, voice sweet as glass shards wrapped in frosting. "What are you working on?"
I looked up.
"The quarterly project proposal Mr. Volkov assigned."
"Oh, that." She said dismissively, reaching for the folder on my desk. "How could a newbie like you handle this? Let me take it over."
I instinctively pressed down on the folder.
"What?"
"Darling," her smile stayed fixed, but her eyes went cold, "you're an intern. Do you really think you can handle what Mr. Volkov gave you?"
"But—"
"He handed it to you," she cut me off, "because you happened to be there. But important work like this should be handled by someone with more experience in the group, don't you think?"
"Brianna, Mr. Volkov specifically asked me to do this."
"I already spoke with Andrew." She said with a smile. "He agreed I should take over."
I froze.
"What?"
"Go ask him." She spread her hands, then those manicured fingers landed on my folder, her other hand simultaneously pulling the USB drive from mine. "Thanks, darling. You get some rest."
"Wait—"
She ignored me completely. Took my folder, my USB drive, my entire afternoon's work, and walked away.
I stood at my desk, unable to react.
I watched her enter the elevator bay, press the button, then flash me a smile.
A victorious smile.
My heart, in that instant, sank.
I sat back down at my desk. Stared at the screen. On the screen was a file I'd just been working on, that now no longer belonged to me.
My hands were shaking.
Three days.
Three days he'd called me up four times.
Three days he'd specifically asked me to deliver reports personally.
Three days the whole department had been spreading rumors about some secret relationship between us—and now Brianna Smith, who wasn't even my supervisor, who had no business interfering, had just breezed into the elevator, pressed 42, and taken my hard work to see him.
Using my work, alone with him in that office.
What gave her the right?
When I asked myself that question, my heart gave a thud—and I suddenly realized what that question really meant.
What gave her the right?
What gave her the right to see him?
No, Ella.
No, no, no, no.
You can't think like that.
This is his trap; he's playing you. This is something you should be relieved about.
I practically jumped up and went to the break room for water.