Elias Blackwell

The elevator ride was quiet, but her pulse wasn’t. She stepped into the boardroom, clutching her resume like armor - then froze. Elias Blackwell stood at the head of the table. Steel-blue eyes. That voice. That night. “You’re late,” he said, not looking up. “Traffic,” she replied, steadying her voice. “Won’t happen again.” He glanced up. Their eyes locked. Recognition flickered. “I know you,” he said. She swallowed. “I don’t think so.” “You wore red. Whiskey neat. You kissed me first.” Her breath caught. “That night wasn’t supposed to follow me here.” “But it did,” he said, stepping closer. “And now you work for me.” “I earned this job,” she said, chin lifted. “I’m not questioning that.” “Then what are you questioning?”