Wedding Games

Encounter with a Mysterious Stranger

I shuffle to the back of the elevator, trying to steer clear of the newcomer as he steps in beside me. Tears are still streaming down my cheeks, and I hurriedly wipe them away, praying that by some miracle he’s getting off on the next floor.

In my peripheral vision I see a lightly tanned hand press the button for the basement car park.

Just my luck.

We’re on the thirty-second floor, so I’m going to be stuck with this guy for a while. So much for dropping my mask of composure and crying alone in the privacy of an empty elevator.

I sniffle slightly, holding back the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes as the elevator begins its descent.

It might just be my imagination, but it’s as if I can feel his cool, curious gaze alight upon me.

I clutch my artwork and portfolio case tight against my chest and stare stubbornly at my feet, avoiding eye contact.

His faint cologne reminds me of the forest near the little town where I grew up. Deep and woodsy, without being overwhelming - the fresh green scents of oak leaves, moss, fresh rain.

My curiosity piqued, I glance up and steal a sneak peek of the mysterious guy standing next to me in the elevator’s reflective mirrored wall.

I meant to only look for a second, but the moment I catch sight of him I can’t look away.

I study the man in the reflection, my heart fluttering faster and faster in my chest the longer I stare at him. He’s tall, lean and athletically-built, dressed in a smart grey suit, white shirt and black tie with a sun-kissed tan and tousled brunette hair. His features are chiselled and model-perfect, the epitome of male beauty - and for a moment I think he must be some Hollywood actor. But if that were the case, I’d surely recognize him.

His bright green eyes watch me carefully as I avert my gaze.

He looks around my own age - maybe a few years over - but no older than thirty.

What’s he doing here at WhiteStar Gaming Studios?

He definitely doesn’t work here - that’s for sure. There’s no way I wouldn't have noticed him by now.

Still, something about his achingly handsome face, and the elegant muscular physique which even a formal suit can’t hide … and those bright green eyes the colour of spring leaves…

He feels familiar. Eerily familiar…

That’s it!

I suppress a quick smile of triumph as I realise who he looks like.

This guy is a dead-ringer for the lead playable character in that new combat game… what’s it called? Combat of Heroes? Tournament of Heroes? Something like that.

It’s made by a rival studio, whose name escapes me at the moment. It could be TrueStar Digital or GoGame Studios… or even WIC, aka Winsworth Interactive Company. The dark horse of the game development industry - notorious for its meteoric expansion into AI and robotics, with quite a few hostile competitor takeovers in the process.

It figures that I’d be attracted to a guy who strongly resembles the lead character in a video game. I have a bad habit of developing crushes on men who aren’t exactly real (starting with the white-haired anime half-demon Inuyasha at the tender age of twelve - still my first love).

I look up and catch a quick glimpse of my reflection in the elevator’s mirrored walls. Thankfully, I look halfway presentable today. I dressed nicer than I usually would, in preparation for my disastrous meeting with HR - swapping my customary outfit of jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt for an elegant black suit and block-heeled pumps instead.

My dark blonde hair is braided and pinned up in a neat bun, and I wore my more expensive pair of glasses with the thinner frames which always feel so delicate that I’m scared I’ll break them, but apparently suit the shape of my face better (according to my roommate, Kerry). All of that is fine - but it’s the state of my face that ruins everything.

My usually fair complexion is an angry blotchy red from crying, only a shade lighter than my puffy red swollen hazel eyes. I considered wearing makeup for today’s meeting, and now I’m so glad I didn’t. Having watery running-mascara panda eyes would really complete the whole “bedraggled damsel in distress” look right now.

I feel the stranger’s cool green eyes on me in the reflection, and for a moment our eyes meet, before I quickly avert my gaze.

Go faster, stupid elevator, I think to myself.

I look up to the floor display screen, biting my lip impatiently as it reads 15… 14… 13...

“Are y -” the man begins to speak - a deep, husky, smooth and sensual voice, exactly what I would have imagined for him - but he never gets to complete the sentence.

At that moment the entire elevator comes to a screeching halt, and I feel myself jolted forward as a loud metallic groaning reverberates through the shivering air.

I’m flung across the elevator into the arms of the handsome stranger just as the lights flicker out.

I suppress a shriek of dismay, tripping myself up as I attempt to scramble away across the floor from the guy just as the lights flicker back on.

I land on my butt, and for a moment I just sit there dazed, my humiliation now complete.

The elevator is still - neither moving up nor down - and I realise with a dreadful certainty what this means.

We’re stuck. Together.

“Are you ok?” The man asks, walking over to me and helping me to my feet.

Looking down to avoid eye contact lest he see my puffy-eyed post-crying face, I’m momentarily puzzled to see my precious artwork lying all over the elevator floor.

The vicious jolt when we came to a sudden stop must have sent my drawing papers flying out of my hands.

Ignoring his question, I bend down and begin gathering them up, and I’m surprised when he hands me a few with a warm smile.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“No problem,” he says. “I guess I’ll try to contact the powers that be.”

He leans past me to press a button at the bottom of the panel engraved with the words “PUSH FOR HELP.”

Moments later, the intercom light comes on and a sleepy-sounding voice fills the elevator, weak and crackling like static from an old radio.

“Hello?” The voice crackles through the speaker. “This is Burt from maintenance speaking. Can I help you with something?”

“We’re stuck in here,” the man says. “In this elevator, I mean. It broke down just as we passed the 13th floor. Can you send someone to get us out?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other side, and then the distant crackly voice is back.

“We’re sending someone now,” the voice says. “It’ll take at least thirty minutes for him to get there if traffic’s ok, and after that… well, I don’t know how long it’s gonna be to actually get the damn thing moving again. Hope you don’t have anywhere important to be.”

There’s a clicking sound and the intercom light goes off, ending the conversation.

“Traffic’s horrible at this time of day,” the man says, running one hand through his unruly brunette hair with a wry smile. “I guess we might as well get comfortable. I’m Oliver, by the way.”

“Valerie,” I say, finally giving up my pathetic attempts to hide from this attractive stranger.

“You work here?” Oliver asks.

“Yes-” I start to say, before correcting myself. “Or, I mean, no. Not anymore.”

He nods, his green eyes seeming to assess the situation and understanding the reason for my puffy red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

“Anyway, I bet you wish you’d just waited for another elevator, rather than jumping into mine,” I say, trying to steer the conversation in any other direction than the one involving my reasons for now being an ex-employee of WhiteStar Gaming Studios.

He shrugs and smiles again, an amused crooked grin like he’s laughing at some private thought.

“You’re an artist?” He asks, ignoring my prickly demeanour. “I couldn’t help noticing your artwork after you dropped it… it’s really good. Brilliant, actually.”

“Thanks,” I say, blushing at the unexpected compliment. I’ve only shown the concept art for Ghosts of Paris to a handful of people, and although the feedback has been glowing from each and every single one of them, it’s on another level to be complimented by this gorgeous stranger.

“You captured the soul of Paris to perfection,” he says. “Do you go often?”

“To Paris?” I ask incredulously.

He nods, and I have to bite back bitter laughter.

“Travelling to far flung overseas cities isn’t exactly an affordable luxury on a junior concept artist’s salary,” I say ruefully. “I do want to see it someday though. Especially the Louvre. And Notre Dame Cathedral and Champs Elysées, and obviously the Eiffel Tower...”

Why am I telling him all this?

I feel a hot flush of furious red embarrassment creeping up over my cheeks again, and I look away, hoping that my blushing isn’t too obvious.

Ah, the curse of having too-pale, impossible-to-tan skin. Any time I get even slightly flustered I end up looking like a tomato.

“You’ll see them,” he says with a warm smile, and there’s something in his eyes…

A flicker of something like curiosity.

“Who’s the ghostly Belle Époque lady in green?” He asks, and although I already know exactly who he’s referring to, he clarifies. “The one standing in front of the Eiffel Tower in your artwork.”

“Dame Vêtue de Vert,” I explain, “or, the Green Clad Lady, in English. She’s a phantom, rumoured to haunt the streets surrounding the tower on lonely moonlit nights. One of the big bads in my ga-”

Game.

I stop myself speaking just in time.

Why on earth am I telling this stranger about my game? For all I know, he could have been visiting WhiteStar today from one of the big ad agencies, the guy in charge of advertising that steaming pile of knockoff s**t, Spectre Hunt: Paris. He could be from one of the big game distributors, or even the Game Standards Rating Board, although he’s way too-well dressed for that.

Only one way to find out...

“And what brings you to WhiteStar Gaming Studios today, Oliver?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a moment, bringing his hand up to his jawline and running his fingers along it thoughtfully.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost wistful.

“I came here to take control of my destiny,” he says.

Well that’s a weird answer. I sure didn’t expect him to say that.

I’m about to ask him what he means, when the intercom light flickers on and the familiar crackly voice fills the elevator.

“Good news, folks!” The voice says. “The elevator company was able to fix the old tin can remotely - you can thank your lucky stars it was an electrical issue and not mechanical, or you’d be hanging in there for hours. They’re busy resetting the circuit now. You’ll be moving again in no time.”

As he says this, the elevator shudders for just a moment - not strongly enough to knock me off my feet again - and then it’s moving smoothly down, the numbers on the floor screen showing 12… 11… 10…

“Lucky break,” I say.

When I glance over in Oliver’s direction, I’m surprised to see a look of disappointment on his face.

And if I’m really honest with myself, I guess I’m the tiniest bit disappointed too.

I like this guy, I realise with a pang deep in my chest. And that’s a problem.

The elevator chimes as we reach the ground floor, and the doors slide open.

“This is me,” I say, rushing away as quickly as I can without even turning around. “Bye!”

I hurry out of the elevator doors and leave him standing there, determined not to regret my decision.

I won’t let myself get hurt again. Not after him…

And that’s final.