The meeting wrapped up with handshakes and promises of follow-up emails. Mike gathered his briefcase, flashing that easy, disarming smile. "Thanks for the time, Fin. Clara—pleasure as always. I'll see myself out."
Clara stood quickly, smoothing her skirt. "I'll walk you to the lift. It's on my way down anyway—I've got that client call in twenty." Her tone was casual, professional even, but there was a brightness in her eyes Fin hadn't seen in months. She glanced at Fin. "Back in a minute, babe."
Fin nodded, forcing a smile. "Sure. I'll just… finish up here."
He watched them leave together—Mike's broad back filling the doorway, Clara's heels clicking beside him—then turned back to his desk. The prospectus still lay open, numbers blurring under his gaze. Something felt off, but he couldn't name it. He opened his laptop again, pulled up the office security feed on a whim. It was a habit from the early days when the building had a string of petty thefts; now it was mostly boredom. The camera in the executive corridor showed them walking side by side, chatting lightly. Mike said something that made Clara laugh—that full, unguarded laugh she rarely used with Fin anymore.
They reached the private lift reserved for the top floor. The doors slid open. They stepped inside.
Fin switched the feed to the lift camera—grainy, black-and-white, but clear enough. He told himself it was just curiosity, nothing more. The doors closed. For a moment they stood in polite silence, side by side, the numbers ticking down: 28… 27…
Then the lift jolted.
A sharp metallic screech, a flicker of the overhead light, and the car lurched to a stop between floors. The emergency bulb snapped on, casting harsh shadows. Clara's hand flew to the rail. "What the hell—?"
Mike pressed the emergency button once, twice. No response. He tried the intercom. Static.
"Power glitch," he said calmly. "Happens sometimes in these old towers. Backup generator should kick in any second."
Clara exhaled, half-laughing. "Great timing."
They were close now—closer than the small space required. The air felt thicker. Mike turned to face her fully, his height forcing her to tilt her head up. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just… startled." Her voice was softer, breathier. She didn't step back.
Mike's gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "You know," he said quietly, "you've been tense all meeting. Shoulders up here." He reached out slowly, deliberately, and brushed a thumb along the line of her collarbone, the same spot he'd touched earlier when Fin was out of the room. "Let me fix that."
Clara swallowed. "Mike…"
Fin stared at the screen, heart hammering so hard it hurt his ribs.
He saw her fingers tighten in Mike's jacket. Saw Mike's hand slip lower, cupping her ass through the pencil skirt, squeezing once—firm, possessive.
Then—
The screen went black.
A single line of text flashed across the feed: CONNECTION LOST – BACKUP POWER FAILURE.
The office lights dimmed for a heartbeat, then steadied as the building's secondary grid kicked in. But the camera feed stayed dead.
"NO...NO...NO.."
Fin sat frozen, breath shallow. The lift was still stopped somewhere between 26 and 27. No sound from the hallway. No update from building security. Nothing.
He waited. Five minutes. Ten.
His mind raced through worst-case scenarios and impossible denials. Maybe they were just talking. Maybe she pushed him away the second the lights flickered. Maybe—
The lift dinged.
The doors opened on the monitor feed a few seconds later—power restored, camera online again. Clara stepped out first, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed at the temple where Mike must have threaded his fingers. She smoothed her blouse with quick, nervous hands, glanced once toward the corridor leading back to Fin's office, then headed for the main elevators without looking back.
Mike followed a beat later, adjusting his tie, calm as ever. He didn't even glance at the camera. Just walked away whistling softly.
Fin closed the laptop lid with shaking hands.
When Clara returned ten minutes later—hair perfect again, lipstick touched up—she breezed in smiling. "God, that power cut freaked me out."
Fin searched her face. No guilt. No evasion. Just that same bright, distracted energy she'd had since the gala.
"Yeah," he managed. "Glad you're okay."
She kissed his cheek—quick, affectionate. "You're sweet. I've gotta run—client's waiting. Talk tonight?"
He nodded mutely.
She left.
Fin sat alone in the quiet office, staring at the blank screen. The prospectus still lay open on his desk, mocking him with its clean charts and bold promises.
He never asked her what happened in those dark minutes.
He didn't want to know.
But the unease settled in his gut like lead, cold and permanent. Every time Clara smiled at him after that, every time she came home late or texted "running behind," that blacked-out feed replayed in his mind.
And somewhere, deep down, a tiny, treacherous part of him wondered—not what had happened, but how much further it would go.
The corruption didn't need witnesses. It only needed shadows.