But a hand slips between them.
They reopen—and Matteo walks in.
My pulse stumbles, traitorous and immediate. He keeps a respectful distance, standing behind me, but the elevator suddenly feels smaller, the air thickening with every second of silence.
The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing us in.
He doesn’t speak at first. Neither do I. I keep my eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers, pretending I can’t feel the heat of him behind me, pretending the memory of his hands isn’t already rising like a tide inside my chest.
The elevator hums downward.
Then, quietly—so quietly I almost miss it—he says, “I haven’t been sleeping.”
The admission folds into the confined space, heavy, intimate, unguarded.
I swallow, my voice barely steady. “Neither have I.”
The elevator dings softly as it reaches the ground floor, and the doors slide open with a quiet rush of air. I step forward automatically—ready to escape the tight space, ready to escape the weight of him behind me—when fingers wrap around mine.
Not rough.
Not demanding.
Just…stopping me.
My breath catches, the entire world narrowing to the warmth of his skin against mine, the steady pressure of his hand holding me in place. I turn slowly, afraid of what I’ll see, afraid of what I already know I’ll feel.
Matteo is looking at me the way a man looks when he has been holding something inside for far too long. His eyes are dark and wounded and unbearably full—of want, of pain, of a restraint stretched so tightly it feels like the next breath might snap it.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. We just stand there, suspended in a silence thick enough to drown in.
“Don’t,” I whisper, barely breathing the word.
His fingers loosen instantly, releasing me like it hurts him to do it.
“What happened between us was a mistake,” I say, lying with a steadiness I don’t feel. My pulse slams against my ribs so violently I’m surprised he can’t hear it echo in the elevator walls.
I pull my hand free before I betray myself and walk toward the lobby without looking back, without letting myself see the expression I know he’s wearing.
I don’t have to check to know he isn’t following.
He just stands there, alone in the elevator, and the doors closed between us with the softest hiss—a quiet, final sound that somehow feels louder than anything either of us could have said.
And as I walk across the lobby, the ghost of his touch still burns against my skin, but I steady my breath and pull my mind back to the only thing that matters now— getting out.
I need a plan. A real one. A way out that doesn’t rely on miracles or wishful thinking.
The building doors open and Arthur greets me with his kind, fatherly warmth. “Good morning, Beatrice. You look… beaming today.”
My smile widens, and this time it feels genuine. “It’s a good day, Arthur.”
“With a smile like that, I believe you. Enjoy it.”
I wave goodbye, step outside, and hail a cab. I tell the driver to take me across town—to a bank I know Giacomo has no affiliation with. I refuse to risk him seeing what I am doing, not when I finally have two weeks of freedom to set myself in motion.
Two weeks to save myself. Two weeks to untangle the mess my life has become. Two weeks to reclaim the woman I used to be.
The bank’s marble lobby is cold and impersonal, and my palms are damp by the time I approach the desk and request a loan application. The amount I write down makes my throat tighten, but this is step one. If they deny it, I’ll find another avenue. If that fails, I’ll take a job, any job. Even the ones I once swore I’d never touch. I’m in fashion; I know people, I understand value, and I’m not too proud to do what’s needed. If I have to take freelance work I dislike or join a merchandising team in some soulless brand just to get enough steady income to start repaying him, then so be it. Pride won’t save me. Action will.
