CHADLABS Scholarly Hub
Chapter 18 – The Elevator Incident
Eleanor
She kept her distance for the next few days, a fragile truce settling between her and Marcus in the office. She was polite, efficient, and strictly professional, her every interaction carefully curated to avoid any hint of the electric tension that had pulsed between them. The upcoming trip to Chicago loomed in her mind, a prospect both terrifying and strangely alluring.
She didn’t mean to be in the elevator at that hour.
But the building was nearly empty, and she hadn’t slept the night before—not after what she’d found. She needed the quiet hum of motion, the sterile calm of movement to somewhere, anywhere else.
The doors slid closed with a soft hiss.
And then, just before the descent began—he stepped in.
Marcus.
He paused for half a second when he saw her. His eyes flicked down to her hand—clutching her tablet like a lifeline—then back up to her face. But he didn’t say a word.
He pressed the button for the ground floor.
The doors sealed them in.
Silence.
Tension hung thick between them. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her even as she stared forward, pretending she didn’t notice. But she did. Every second stretched like taffy, pulling something frayed and dangerous between them.
And then—
The elevator jerked.
A sudden lurch.
The lights flickered once. Then again.
The numbers froze.
They stopped.
Eleanor staggered slightly, catching herself against the rail. Her breath came fast.
Marcus hit the emergency button. “It’s just a delay,” he said, too calm. “System glitch.”
But she heard it too—the soft hum of electricity silenced. The hum of the city paused. It was just the two of them. In a metal box.
Her voice came out brittle. “I’m not afraid of elevators.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then what are you afraid of?”
A beat. A breath.
You.
She didn’t say it. But her silence screamed it.
Marcus shifted his weight. His voice came low, almost apologetic. “The other night… I shouldn’t have.”
She flinched. “It’s forgotten,” she lied, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“Is it?”
And then he stepped closer. The heat of him hit her in waves. She felt it before he touched her—his body towering, the air between them evaporating.
“I remember,” he said softly.
Her throat locked. “What?”
“That night,” he whispered. “The terrace. The mask. The way you tasted.”
She closed her eyes. Her back hit the cold wall.
“I didn't remember before,” he said, voice thick, “but I do now. You were trembling. But you kissed me first.”
“I didn’t know who you were,” she whispered.
“You still kissed me.”
“I didn’t know I’d end up working for you.”
His breath grazed her neck. “Do you regret it?”
“Every day.”
His hand came to rest beside her head. Not touching. But close. Too close.
“I don’t.”
She opened her eyes.
There was fire in his.
And then—like gravity had given up—he kissed her.
No warning. No apology.
Just need. Pure, unfiltered, years-in-the-making need.
His mouth crushed hers, and she broke. Her hands fisted into his jacket, pulling him closer. Their bodies collided like a match to gasoline—violent, hungry, hot.
Her leg lifted, wrapping around his thigh, her back pressed hard to the elevator wall as his hand skimmed up her ribs, stopping just under her breast, thumb dragging heat into her skin.
“I should stop,” he groaned against her lips.
“Then stop,” she gasped.
But neither of them moved.
She moaned as he kissed down her neck, and in that sound was everything—five years of longing, of restraint, of pretending.
The lights flickered back on.
The elevator jolted into motion.
They pulled apart like waking from a trance. Her lipstick was smudged. His hair was a mess.
But neither looked away.
Marcus
Two days later, they were in Chicago.
The merger meetings stretched endlessly. Conference rooms, boardrooms, hotel lobbies. Numbers, projections, contracts.
But all he could think about was her.
Eleanor.
She was composed and distant again, back to her efficient self. But every time their eyes met across the table, something flickered behind hers—something raw.
That night, he knocked on her hotel suite door under the pretense of clarifying the morning’s itinerary.
She answered in leggings and an oversized T-shirt, her hair damp from a shower, her eyes surprised. “Marcus?”
He hesitated. “I won’t stay. I just wanted to—”
“Talk?” she finished.
He nodded once.
She stepped aside.
The room was dimly lit, soft city light filtering in through the tall windows. Her laptop was closed. A cup of untouched tea sat on the table.
They stood in silence for a beat too long.
He spoke first. “What are we doing, Eleanor?”
Her voice was quiet. “Working.”
“Don’t,” he said, almost a plea. “Not with me.”
She looked down at her bare feet.
He stepped closer. “It wasn’t just the elevator. It’s never just one moment with you.”
Her throat worked to swallow. “You’re my boss.”
“I know.”
“This is insane.”
“I know.”
But then she whispered, “And I want it anyway.”
That was all it took.
He closed the space between them, kissing her again—not like in the elevator. Not with desperation or confusion. This time, it was slower. Fuller. Heavy with everything they hadn’t said.
She pulled him toward the bed, her hands skimming beneath his shirt. He undressed her like he’d done in a dream a thousand times, memorizing every inch of skin like a secret being revealed.
She gasped his name as he entered her, slow and deep. Their bodies moved in a rhythm born of recognition, not rehearsal. Every touch familiar. Every moan, a memory finally realized.
After, she lay with her back to his chest, his hand resting at her waist.
Neither of them spoke.
Because the moment they did—it would become real.
Eleanor
She should have stopped him.
Should have stopped herself.
But as she lay in that hotel bed, the skyline stretching beyond the glass, his breath warm against her shoulder, she knew the truth.
There would be no going back.
Not after this.
Not ever.
