So, the words slips out before I can swallow them.
“Promotion sounds good.”
“Smart choice.”
The elevator jerks to a stop.
Sixth floor.
Relief hits fast. The doors begin to open?—
—and his hand moves.
A single press.
The top floor.
The doors slide shut again before I can react, closing on my chance at freedom.
The elevator tilts into ascent again, the change slight but undeniable. We’re going back up.
“Wait—”
“Your desk,” he says, not even glancing at me, “is outside my office.”
The numbers climb. Seven. Eight. Nine.
Each one feels like a countdown in reverse.
I’m going back. Back to that floor. Back to him.
Ding.
He gestures for me to step out first. Polite. Measured. Completely insane, considering the circumstances.
I move anyway, legs unsteady as I step onto the executive floor.
It doesn’t feel the same.
“You’ll handle my schedule. My correspondence. Anything else I require.”
He’s already walking. I follow, because stopping doesn’t feel like an option.
“You don’t speak about what you see or hear. You don’t ask questions. You do your job”—a slight pause—”and you stay alive.”
Stay alive.
He says it like it belongs on a benefits package. Salary, insurance, continued existence.
“Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
We reach his office. He opens the door, pauses, looks back at me.
“One more thing, Miss Mendez.”
“Yes?”
