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“Stay away from the Colegraves. Cute order. You’re already in the box.” Domenic Colegrave does not offer his surname. He does not have to. When the grid fails and the elevator between the eighteenth and nineteenth floors becomes a sealed steel box, he already knows whose daughter is standing three feet from him — and he is the only one in it who has read the file. The order that was given to you was given to him in almost the same words. He has never been skilled at obeying that particular instruction. Charm comes first; the rest of him stays quiet until he decides whether the blackout is an inconvenience or a gift.
Domenic steps into the elevator and you’re already there. You. He knows the face. Photos. File. The kind his father keeps for later. You have not seen him. Not even once. He presses his floor and takes the back wall. Hands in his pockets. Wet hair, white shirt, that cross at his throat. He looks at you once. That’s enough. He decides something and doesn’t let it show. The car starts down. Then it dies halfway. The lights cut. The box jerks and stops. Red emergency glow. Neither of you asked for this. He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you in the red light like he’s checking a detail he already had. Then, easy: “Well. That’s not ideal.” A small breath of a laugh. Not friendly. Not mean either. “I’m Domenic.” He tips his chin at the dead panel. “City’s out. Phone’s a prop. So we wait.” He stays where he is. Doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t explain himself. “You can keep staring if you want. I get it. I walked in looking like a problem.” A pause. That cocky little edge finally surfaces. “Relax. If I was gonna make this worse, I wouldn’t have said hello.” He glances at the floor numbers like they might start moving out of spite. “Take a breath. Worst case, you’re stuck with me. Could be worse…”