The regular lifts were out of order, something about a technical issue, though no one seemed particularly alarmed. One of the admin girls noticed me lingering near the elevators, uncertainty no doubt written all over my face. She gave me a polite smile, gesturing toward a smaller elevator tucked discreetly to the side.
"It's fine," she assured, her voice light, like this happened all the time.
I hesitated, my gaze flicking toward the unfamiliar lift. It looked too clean, too pristine, the brushed steel gleaming under the bright overhead lights. Everything about it felt… deliberate. Like it belonged to people who didn't fidget in waiting rooms or double-check their reflection in every passing surface. People who didn't question if they deserved to be here.
Still, not wanting to cause a scene or draw unnecessary attention to myself, I stepped inside. The doors slid shut with a soft, almost soundless sigh, sealing me into a space that felt just a little too perfect. The kind of place where every surface was untouched and every reflection too sharp. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the gentle hum of the elevator the only sound in the air.
I exhaled slowly, silently willing the lift to hurry, my fingers brushing against the cool rail at my side for reassurance.
Then, with a soft chime, the doors opened again.
And in stepped Kelvin.
I stiffened instinctively, my fingers curling slightly against the rail. He didn't notice me at first — or maybe he did and pretended not to. His tall frame moved with the kind of effortless ease that people like him were born with. Dressed in a tailored suit, he looked as though he belonged in the pages of a magazine. Or at the very least, on the other side of a polished office desk, giving orders.
He strode to the control panel, long fingers brushing over the buttons like he owned not just the elevator, but the building, the street, maybe the whole city. His reflection in the mirrored panel showed a face unreadable, sculpted and impassive.
Then, without turning, he spoke.
"Chioma."
Just my name. No greeting. No warmth. But the sound of it in his deep, smooth voice sent a ripple through me.
"Sir," I replied, trying for casual but hearing the tightness in my own voice. I straightened my shoulders, though it felt as if the space itself had shrunk. There was something about being in there with him, just the two of us, that made it difficult to breathe easily. The air seemed heavier somehow, thick with something unspoken.
We rode in silence for a while, the elevator climbing smoothly, the numbers above the doors ticking upward in steady increments. I told myself not to speak, to let the moment pass, but curiosity — or perhaps foolishness — won out.
"I wanted to thank you," I said, keeping my gaze ahead but sneaking a glance at him. "For the opportunity… and for the house. It's more than I expected."
He didn't look at me. His attention remained fixed on the control panel as though my words barely registered. "You earned it," he said simply.
I gave a small, almost self-deprecating smile. "Did I? Or was it because of your friend?"
That got his attention. He turned his head, just slightly, his sharp gaze cutting to me. "Which friend?"
"Justin." The name hung there, lingering in the quiet like a question neither of us really wanted to answer.
For a moment, something flickered across Kelvin's expression. A brief tightening of his jaw, so quick most people might've missed it. But I saw it. And though he masked it quickly, something had shifted in the air between us.
"He never mentioned you were a chef," Kelvin said, his tone measured, though his eyes betrayed something else. Not surprise exactly. Something heavier.
I swallowed. The conversation felt like stepping onto uncertain ground.
"Well… we don't talk anymore," I said, the words escaping before I could stop them. I meant for it to sound indifferent, but it didn't. It sounded like something unresolved.
Kelvin didn't respond. His hand moved to press another button, the silence stretching between us until it felt like the elevator itself was holding its breath.
Then, without warning, the elevator jolted to a stop.
My stomach lurched. My breath caught. The hum of the machinery cut out, leaving an unnatural, suffocating silence. I felt the walls inch closer. The perfectly mirrored panels distorted, closing in on me.
No.
I stepped back, one hand gripping the rail. Panic bubbled up, sharp and sudden. My heart raced, my throat tightening.
"No…" I whispered, the word torn from my lips.
Kelvin turned sharply. His posture shifted, alert. "It's fine," he said, his voice calm, steady. The kind of calm that might've worked on anyone else. "Just a glitch. It'll move again in a second."
But I couldn't focus. The walls pressed in tighter. My breathing came fast, uneven. I could feel the familiar grip of claustrophobia clawing at me. My vision blurred at the edges.
"I… I can't… I'm claustrophobic," I confessed, my voice barely audible.
Something in his expression changed then — the sharpness softened. In an instant, Kelvin crossed the small space between us, his presence solid, commanding. Close enough that the heat of his body registered through the thin air.
"Look at me," he instructed, his voice low and firm, but not unkind.
I hesitated, my pulse roaring in my ears. But his gaze was locked on mine, steady and unwavering, and it was almost impossible not to obey.
"Breathe with me," Kelvin said, his tone dropping into something soothing. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow."
His own breathing slowed, exaggerated enough for me to follow. I tried to mimic him, though my chest still felt too tight, my lungs too small. His eyes didn't leave mine, and somehow the world shrank down to that one small point of focus — the steady, even rhythm of his breath.
"You're okay," he murmured, his voice a thread of reassurance in the storm of my panic. "You're safe. I've got you."
And as absurd as it sounded, a part of me believed him.
I kept breathing, slow and shaky, trying to match him. The tension in the space shifted — not gone, but changed. The air was charged, not just with fear anymore, but with something else. Something intimate. I was hyper-aware of how close we were. The faint scent of his cologne. The way his hand hovered near my arm, ready to steady me.
After what felt like an eternity, my breathing evened out. The tight band around my chest loosened. I swallowed hard, feeling the ghost of panic still lingering but manageable now.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, breaking the silence, unable to meet his gaze.
"You don't need to apologize for that," Kelvin said quietly, and when I finally looked up, there was a softness in his eyes I hadn't expected.
The elevator lurched back to life. I almost lost my footing, but Kelvin's hand landed on my shoulder, steady, grounding.
When the doors finally slid open, he stepped aside, giving me space.
As I passed him, his voice followed — low, gentle.
"Are you alright?"
I turned to glance back at him, the normalcy of the hallway feeling jarring after the closeness of that space.
"I'm fine," I managed, my voice still unsteady. "Thank you."
Kelvin gave a small nod, his gaze holding mine for a beat longer than necessary.
"You're stronger than you think," he said softly.
And just like that, the doors closed between us.
But the memory of his words lingered long after.