The elevator dinged at 9:30 PM.
Gracia rubbed the back of her neck. Her muscles were tied in knots. She had finished the data entry. It was perfect.
She stepped into the elevator, desperate to get home.
There was someone already inside.
Bridger.
He was leaning against the back wall, holding his suit jacket over one arm. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked exhausted, but devastatingly handsome.
Gracia froze. The doors started to close. She put her hand out to stop them, intending to back away.
Bridger hit the 'Door Close' button.
"Get in," he said, his voice flat. "I don't have time to wait for the next elevator."
Gracia stepped in. She pressed herself into the front corner, as far away from him as the six-by-six box allowed.
The air smelled of him. Sandalwood and something sharp, like expensive scotch.
The elevator descended. Floor 30. Floor 29.
Bridger didn't look at her. He stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors.
"Working late," he observed. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Gracia said.
"Does your husband mind?"
The question hung in the air.
Gracia gripped her bag strap. "He supports my career."
Bridger let out a short, harsh laugh. "Career? Is that what you call data entry?"
"It pays the bills," she said defensively.
"Does it? Or does he expect you to bring home the bacon while he plays daddy?"
He was baiting her. He was fishing for information about the man he thought she loved.
"He's a good father," Gracia said. It was the only truth she could offer, because Bridger would be a good father, if he knew.
Bridger turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark pools of resentment.
"I'm sure he is."
The elevator hit the lobby. The doors opened.
Outside, a storm had broken. Rain lashed against the glass doors of the lobby, turning the world into a blur of gray and black.
Gracia pulled out her phone. She opened the Uber app.
$82.00.
She stared at the number. Surge pricing.
She couldn't afford it. That was half a week of groceries.
Usually, the company expensed rides after 9 PM.
Bridger walked past her. A black Maybach was waiting at the curb, the driver already standing there with a massive umbrella.
Bridger stopped. He looked at the rain, then at Gracia.
"By the way," he said casually, over the sound of the thunder. "We're cutting costs. As of tonight, the late-night transportation stipend is suspended for non-executive staff."
Gracia looked up at him, horror washing over her face. "What?"
"You heard me. No more free rides."
He signaled to his driver.
Gracia looked at her phone again. $82. She couldn't do it.
"Why?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Bridger stepped under the umbrella. He looked back at her, his face illuminated by the headlights of his car.
"Call your supportive husband," he said coldly. "Let him pick you up."
He got into the car. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.
The car pulled away, splashing water onto the sidewalk.
Gracia stood alone in the lobby. The security guard looked at her with sympathy.
She put her phone away. She pulled out a broken umbrella from her tote bag. One of the spokes was snapped.
She walked out into the rain. The subway station was four blocks away.
Bridger watched her from the back seat of the Maybach. He watched her struggle with the broken umbrella as the wind turned it inside out. He saw her hunch her shoulders against the freezing downpour.
He waited for a car to pull up. He waited for the husband to save her.
No one came.
She walked into the dark, wet night alone.
Bridger felt a knot tighten in his gut. He reached for his phone to tell the driver to turn around, but his pride stopped his hand.
She chose this, he told himself. She chose him.
But as the car sped toward his penthouse, the image of her small figure fighting the wind burned into his retina.
