Chapter 6: Trapped in the Dark
The stainless steel doors of Simon Waldorf’s downtown office building slid shut with a muffled sigh, sealing Matt and Dee inside a clattering, fluorescent-lit box. The scent of synthetic lemon cleaner hung in the air, undercut by the ozone tang of old electricity.
“He couldn’t have just taken a Zoom call,” Matt muttered, jabbing the button for the 24th floor. The elevator gave a lethargic shudder and began to climb.
“It’s a power play,” Dee said, leaning against the back wall. She wore a sleek, navy pantsuit, her hair a precise wave. The professional armor was back on, but her eyes, when they flicked to his, held a trace of the unspoken from a week ago. The red pen was in his jacket pocket right now, a stupid, secret talisman. “A summons to the throne room means you’re on his turf. He wants to talk about the ‘Whisper Creek’ notes you emailed. The ones I helped with.”
“They were good notes,” Matt said, a defensive edge in his voice.
“They were great notes. Which is why he’s suspicious.”
The elevator passed the 10th floor with a whine. At the 14th, the lights flickered—a rapid, sickening pulse. Dee pushed off from the wall, standing straighter. At the 18th, the car gave a violent, jerking lurch, as if it had been punched in the gut. A metallic groan echoed through the shaft. Then, with a final, dying hum, everything stopped.
The lights went out, plunging them into a blackness so absolute it felt solid. The distant, mechanical sounds of the building vanished, replaced by a silence that roared in Matt’s ears.
A sharp, panicked gasp came from Dee’s corner.
“It’s okay,” Matt said immediately, his voice too loud in the dark. “Just a glitch. Building management’s probably already on it.” He fumbled for his phone, thumbs slick on the screen. The sudden glow of his flashlight was blinding, carving his shadow huge and grotesque against the wall.
It illuminated Dee, pressed flat into the corner where the handrail met the wall. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the rail. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid hitches. Her eyes were wide, fixed on nothing, seeing something else entirely.
“Dee.”
“I can’t—” she choked out. “The air. It’s getting thin.” She swallowed convulsively, her head shaking a tiny, frantic ‘no’. “I can’t do small spaces. Not like this.”
Claustrophobia. It slammed into Matt, understanding followed by a surge of protectiveness. This wasn’t the poised, sharp woman from his couch. This was raw, animal fear.
“Hey. Look at me.” He kept the light pointed at the floor, softening the harshness. He took a step closer. Her gaze snapped to his, clinging to his face like a lifeline. “The air is fine. It’s a big elevator. We’re not buried. We’re just… paused.”
“It’s a metal coffin,” she whispered, the words trembling. “What if nobody knows we’re here? What if the phone—” She gestured weakly toward the emergency panel.
Matt crossed the small space and pressed the call button. A empty, static hiss filled the car. He pressed it again. Nothing. Dead air. A cold knot formed in his stomach, but he locked it down. He couldn’t let her see it.
“Temporarily out of service,” he said, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. “Probably because of the power surge. They’ll know the elevator is down. They’ll check.”
“When?” The single word was a plea.
“Soon.” He made a decision, sliding his phone into his breast pocket so the light shone up, casting their faces in a soft, upward glow from below. It erased the crushing darkness above. “Here. Give me your hand.”
She stared at his outstretched palm as if it were a foreign object.
“Give me your hand, Dee,” he said, firmer now, the same tone he’d used to guide her through the script’s emotional beats.
Slowly, she unclenched one hand from the railing and placed it in his. Her skin was ice cold. He wrapped both of his hands around it, warming it, anchoring her.
“Feel that?” he said, his voice dropping into a low, steady rhythm, a counterpoint to her ragged breathing. “That’s my pulse. Right there in my thumb. Count it with me.” He applied gentle pressure. “One. Two. Three. Just count the beats. Don’t think about the walls. Think about the count.”
“One…” she breathed, her eyes locked on their joined hands. “Two… Three…”
They stood there in the strange, upturned light for a minute, just counting. Her breathing began to deepen, synchronizing with the silent count. The violent trembling in her hand subsided to a faint shiver.
“Better?” he asked softly.
She nodded, not letting go. “Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” He shifted slightly, leaning his shoulder against the wall beside her, a solid barrier between her and the void of the elevator car. Their joined hands rested between them. “You know, in ‘Containment Protocol,’ I was stuck in a malfunctioning airlock for six hours. The director had them pump in dry ice to make it look like I was losing oxygen.”
A weak, almost-laugh escaped her. “That movie was terrible.”
“The worst. My point is, I’ve survived worse elevators.” He squeezed her hand. “And I had to do it with a co-star who ate garlic shrimp between takes. This is a step up.”
She managed a real smile, small but there. “Not a high bar.” She took another long, deliberate breath. Her gaze traveled from their hands up to his face. “Thank you.”
“Any time your elevator decides to become a panic room.”
The silence that followed was different. It was no longer an empty void, but a shared, intimate space filled with the sound of their breathing, the faint scent of her perfume cutting through the stale air. The reality of their position—trapped, alone, hidden from the world—settled over them like a blanket.
“My father is probably at his desk, wondering why we’re late,” Dee murmured. “He’ll assume traffic. Or that we’re together somewhere, conspiring against him.”
“We are together somewhere,” Matt said. “And we probably are conspiring. Just not how he thinks.”
Her thumb moved, a subtle stroke against his palm. “How are we conspiring, Matt?”
The directness of the question, here in the dark, undid him. All the careful lines dissolved. “I think we’re conspiring to pretend this isn’t happening. That I don’t think about you proofreading my lines in the middle of the night. That you don’t think about the fact I kept your pen.”
Her breath caught, but not from panic this time. “It was just a pen.”
“It’s not.” He lifted their joined hands slightly. “This isn’t just about steadying you. Although I would. Forever, if you needed it.”
The air between them crackled, thinner than any oxygen deprivation. The walls of the elevator didn’t feel like a coffin anymore; they felt like the edges of a universe that contained only the two of them.
Dee leaned her head back against the wall, looking at him. The fear was gone from her eyes, replaced by a blazing, vulnerable clarity. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, the truth a relief. “But not nothing. I can’t do nothing anymore, Dee.”
He moved then, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. He released her hand only to cradle her face, his thumb tracing the elegant line of her cheekbone. Her skin was warm now. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second, then opened, holding his.
The first kiss was a question. A soft, searching pressure in the near-dark. Her response was the answer—a release of tension, a low hum in her throat as her hands came up to grasp his forearms, holding on not out of fear, but desire. It was nothing like the polished, choreographed scenes he’d performed a hundred times. It was hesitant, real, and dizzyingly deep, stripping away a decade of restraint.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together. The elevator remained still, silent.
“He’ll fire you,” she whispered, her voice rough.
“He can try.”
“He’ll make it ugly.”
“Let him.”
A sudden, loud bang echoed from somewhere far above them, followed by the ominous whirr of a motor engaging. The lights flickered once, twice, and then blazed back to full, fluorescent life. The elevator gave a healthy shudder and began a smooth, uninterrupted ascent.
They sprang apart as if burned. The real world came crashing back in with the sterile light and the digital chime announcing the floors. 22. 23.
Dee smoothed her hair, her fingers visibly trembling again, though for a completely new reason. Matt adjusted his jacket, the ghost of her lips still burning on his. The distance between them was only two feet, but it felt like a canyon had opened up.
The doors slid open on the 24th floor, revealing the serene, carpeted hallway leading to Waldorf & Associates.
Simon was standing there, phone to his ear, a look of mild irritation plastered on his face. He lowered the phone. “There you are. Building services said there was a hiccup. You two alright?”
Matt stepped out first, a lifetime of acting instincts locking into place. “Just a momentary glitch. Gave us a start.” He threw a casual, careful smile over his shoulder at Dee. “Right?”
Dee walked out, her poise masterfully reassembled, only a slight flush high on her cheeks betraying her. “A long thirty seconds,” she said, her voice impressively steady. “Shall we?”
Simon’s sharp eyes darted between them, a predator sensing a shift in the wind. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “By all means. We have a lot to discuss. Nathan Pryce from Apex Studios is joining us. He’s very interested in Matt’s… creative direction.”
He turned and led the way. Matt fell into step behind him, feeling Dee just a half-step behind. The scent of jasmine trailed after him. The red pen in his pocket felt like a live wire.
The threshold of Simon’s office loomed ahead. But Matt was already somewhere else entirely, back in the dark, with the taste of her and the echo of her heartbeat against his palms, a conspiracy of two that had just begun in earnest.