Chapter Two: The Friction of Shadows

The silence that followed the slamming of the security shutters was absolute. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a library; it was the heavy, pressurized silence of a tomb. The city of London, with its sirens and its millions of lives, had been erased, replaced by the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the building’s life-support systems and the sound of Sloane’s own frantic heartbeat.

In the crimson glow of the emergency lights, Dominic looked less like a man and more like a predator blending into the night. The red light caught the sharp angle of his cheekbones and the dark depth of his eyes, making him look dangerous in a way that made Sloane’s skin prickle.

"Forty-eight hours," Sloane whispered, the words feeling like grit in her throat. "Tell me you’re joking, Dominic. Tell me the great Dominic Vane hasn't built a fortress he can't even unlock."

"The system is designed to protect the data, Sloane. Not the people," Dominic said, his voice coming from much closer than she expected. He had moved through the dark with the silence of a ghost. "The external hack triggered a 'Scorched Earth' protocol. The building thinks we’re under siege. It won't let anyone in—and it sure as hell won't let us out until the security cycle resets."

Sloane felt a surge of claustrophobia. The walls of the boardroom, once grand and expansive, now felt like they were inching inward. She turned toward the wall where the intercom should be, her hand fumbling against the cold glass of the partition. Her heel caught on the edge of the plush carpet, and she felt herself tilt.

Before she could hit the floor, a hand clamped around her upper arm—firm, warm, and entirely too familiar.

"Careful," Dominic murmured. He didn't let go. His fingers were pressed against the bare skin of her arm, and where he touched her, the "hate" she had carefully cultivated for three years began to melt into something much more volatile.

"Don't touch me," Sloane snapped, though her voice lacked the venom she intended. She ripped her arm away, her breath hitching in the small space between them. "And don't you dare act like you care if I fall. You’re the one who pushed me off the cliff in the first place."

"Is that what you think?" Dominic stepped into her space, his shadow looming over her. "You think I enjoyed watching you walk out of that hotel three years ago?"

"I think you enjoyed the fifty-million-dollar commission you got for betraying me," she countered.

"The boardroom has no backup power for the climate control," Dominic said, ignoring her barb as he moved toward the hidden service door. "My private suite on the top floor does. If we're going to be stuck, we're doing it where there's oxygen."

He shoved open the heavy steel door to the emergency stairwell. Inside, the space was a narrow, concrete throat that spiraled upward into infinity. The red emergency LEDs were spaced further apart here, creating pockets of deep, velvety darkness between every landing.

"Thirty flights, Sloane," Dominic said, his voice echoing. "I hope those five-inch heels were designed for more than just looking lethal."

"I could climb a mountain in these just to see you fall off the other side," she snapped, but as she stepped onto the first concrete step, the reality of the task hit her.

The air in the stairwell was stagnant. With every flight they climbed, the temperature seemed to tick upward. Sloane could feel the silk lining of her blazer beginning to cling to her shoulder blades. Behind her, she could hear the steady, rhythmic pace of Dominic’s footsteps. He wasn't rushing. He was stalking—staying exactly three steps behind her.

Don’t look back, she commanded herself.

By flight fifteen, her lungs were burning. The silence was gone, replaced by the heavy, synchronized sound of their breathing. In the narrow stairwell, the sound bounced off the walls, making it impossible to tell where her breath ended and his began.

"You're flagging, Sloane," he murmured. His voice was closer now. She could feel the heat radiating off his chest, a physical wall of warmth pressing against her back.

"I'm... fine," she huffed, reaching for the handrail. Her fingers slipped on the cold metal, her equilibrium faltering as her calf muscle cramped. She gasped as her ankle buckled.

In a flash, Dominic’s arm was around her waist. He didn't just steady her; he hauled her flush against him, pinning her back against the rough concrete wall of the landing. The impact knocked the remaining air from her lungs.

She was trapped between the cold stone and his hard, heated frame. In the dim red light, his face was inches from hers. She could see the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his pulse throbbed in the hollow of his throat.

"Let. Me. Go," she whispered, her hands resting against his chest. Beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt, his heart was drumming a frantic, violent rhythm.

"You're shaking," Dominic noted, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl. His hand stayed locked on her waist, his thumb grazing the small of her back. "Is it the climb, Sloane? Or is it because you haven't been this close to me in a thousand days?"

"It's the disgust," she lied, her eyes searching his.

Dominic leaned in, his nose brushing against the shell of her ear. He took a deep, shaky breath. "Your mouth is a liar," he whispered, his lips grazing her skin. "But your skin... your skin remembers everything."

He didn't kiss her. He let his forehead rest against hers for one agonizing second before he pulled away just enough to let her breathe.

"Ten more flights," he said, his voice suddenly cold again. "Try not to break anything else on the way up."

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