‘No!’ I yell. ‘No, you are not giving up!’ I throw myself onto him, snaking my arms around him and silently vowing never to let go. I don’t miss the let-up in tension from his body under my hold.

My thing.

His thing.

Our thing.

I squeeze him, my lips on his neck and his face in my hair. Then I let go and pull more forcefully on his hand, begging with my eyes for him to come to me. And he does. He takes one slow step forward. Then another. Then another. Then another. He’s on the threshold. I’m in the lift. He’s trembling, still gulping, and the sweat is relentless.

And then I hear a loud sound from the stairwell, followed by William’s colourful curse, and I do what instinct tells me and yank Miller into the lift before smashing the button for the second floor and throwing my arms around his gasping body, immersing him in our thing.

The frantic pace of his heart beating in his chest must be verging on dangerous. I’m looking over his shoulders to the hallway as it slowly disappears with the closing of the doors, and the last thing I see before we’re alone in the terrifying box is William and Gregory stepping into sight, both watching quietly as Miller and I vanish from view. I smile at them through my sadness.

It wouldn’t be a surprise if the ferocity of his heartbeat hitting my chest leaves bruises. It’s relentless, no matter how hard I squeeze him. My attempts to calm him are fruitless. All I need to do is concentrate on keeping him upright until we reach the second floor, which right now is easy. He’s rigid as I watch the digital monitor tick down through the floors, each number seeming to take aeons to appear. We’re in slow motion. Everything seems to be in slow motion.

Everything except Miller’s breathing and heart rate.

I feel him jerk under my hold, and I attempt to pull away but get nowhere. I can’t let go of him, not for anything, and I’m suddenly panicked by the potential difficulty of getting him out of the lift once it stops. ‘Miller?’ I whisper, low and calm. It’s a vain attempt to fool him into believing that I’m composed. I’m far from it. He doesn’t respond and I take another glimpse at the floor indicator.

‘Miller, we’re nearly out,’ I say, pushing into him to force him to step away until his back is at the doors. The judder of the lift when it stops makes me jump, and Miller lets out a weak whimper as he pushes against me. ‘Miller, we’re here.’ I struggle against his fierce resistance, hearing the doors begin to open. It’s only now I consider the possibility of them waiting for us on the other side of the doors, and panic flares, my body stiffening as the doors begin to open. What if they are? What will I do? What will they do? My breathing pattern changes, catching up with Miller’s as I peek over his shoulders, my feet beginning to ache from staying on my tiptoes.

The doors open fully, revealing nothing but an empty hallway, and I try to listen for any signs of life.

Nothing.

Pushing against Miller’s dead weight, I get nowhere in my urgent need to shift him. How will he be once we’re out of this box? I haven’t got time to coax him out of this lift, let alone the building.

‘Miller, please,’ I beg, swallowing down the lump of desperation in my throat. ‘The doors are open.’ He remains frozen, stuck to me, and tears of panic begin to overwhelm my eyes. ‘Miller,’ I whisper, my shaky voice tarnished with defeat. They’ll be on their way back down soon.

She’s holding him. A chime sounds and the doors begin to close again. I don’t have time to shout for Miller to get out. He seems to jump to life, the sound of the doors closing undoubtedly the cause, and his body flies back as if someone has launched him from a cannon. I hold my breath as I watch him. He’s drenched, his hair stuck to his head and his eyes wide with fear. And he’s still shaking.

Not knowing what else to do, I reach down to retrieve the bag and move to the threshold of the lift, all the while keeping my worried eyes on him as he looks around him, familiarising himself with his surroundings. And it’s like the shattered pieces of my world suddenly fuse, bringing hope crashing back into our reality, as the mask falls, wiping away every shred of fear, and Miller Hart is back.

He flicks empty eyes up and down my body, catching sight of the bag, and it’s gone from my grasp in the blink of an eye. Then my hand is claimed and I’m out of the lift just as quickly. He breaks into a run, forcing my little legs to sprint in order to keep up with him, and he glances back every few seconds to check on me and for anything behind us.

‘You okay?’ he asks, no signs of exertion showing.

I, however, have misplaced the adrenalin that was fuelling me. Maybe my conscience has registered Miller’s resurrection and wants to relieve me of the pressure to hold things together. I don’t know, but exhaustion is taking hold and my emotions are screaming for release. But not here. I can’t lose it here. I nod, keeping up my pace so I don’t hinder our escape. Showing mild concern on his perfect face, he throws the bag up to his shoulder as we near the fire exit and releases my hand, his body charging at full speed into the door. It crashes open loudly, and the daylight beyond attacks my eyes, making me wince.

‘Take my hand, Olivia,’ he demands urgently.

I seize it, allowing him to pull me down the fire escape and onto the side street. A car horn blares immediately, and I spot William’s driver holding the back door open. We dodge cars, trucks and taxis, most honking their horn in annoyance, as we weave through the busy London traffic, charging to William’s car.

‘In.’ He gives a curt nod to the driver and takes over his hold of the door as he barks his order at me and throws the bag in. I waste no time, flinging myself onto the back seat, Miller following behind. The driver is up front before I know it and screeching off down the road, his madcap driving skills alarming me. He’s an expert, dipping and weaving through the traffic with ease and coolness.

And then the enormity of what has just happened hits me like the wickedest of tornados and I cry. I bury my face in my palms and break down, so many thoughts whirling through my poor, overwrought mind – some reasonable, like I need to call Nan. What about Nan? And some unreasonable thoughts like where did this man learn to drive so capably? And does William need these types of driving skills?

‘My gorgeous girl.’ His strong palm wraps around my nape and tugs me over to him, pulling me onto his lap and securing me in his arms so my soggy cheek is buried in his chest. I cry relentlessly, jerking in his hold, unable and unwilling to even try and avert it any longer. The last half-hour has taken everything out of me. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispers. ‘Please don’t cry.’

My fists clutch the material of his T-shirt at his pecs until my hands ache and I’ve cried rivers of confused, gut-twisting tears. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Somewhere,’ he answers, wrestling me from his chest to find my eyes. ‘Someplace where we can lose ourselves in each other with no interruptions or interference.’

I can barely see him through the pools of tears blurring my vision, but I can feel him and hear him. It’s good enough. ‘Nan.’

‘She’ll be taken care of. You don’t need to worry yourself with that.’

‘By William?’ I blurt, thinking all kinds of shit will hit the fan if William rocks up to Nan’s. Jesus, she’ll go mental!