~Karla Pov~
The office looks shinier than usual when I step in—maybe it's the sunlight bouncing off the polished floors, or maybe it's just my own nerves, glinting at the edges.
I clutch my laptop tighter to my chest as I head toward the 28th floor. Another day. Another battle.
Tessa's gone; the apartment was eerily silent this morning, and I couldn't even finish my toast because my stomach's already tied in knots.
Today I'm leading my first task.
A small task—but still. Mine.
The elevator doors slide open and I step into the buzz of Vale & Co.
Marketing is already half full. Claudia waves me over with a distracted gesture, a phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek as she scrolls through something on her iPad.
"Print concepts for the Winterwell microsite—those are yours," she says, holding out a folder. "Coordinate with Leo and the design assistant. I want mockups by EOD. Don't wait for direction—own it."
I nod quickly, adrenaline kicking in.
"I'm on it."
It's not a presentation. It's not a meeting. But it's something.
My name is attached to this.
Leo meets me by the design table with a half-finished latte and a smirk that borders on condescending. "You sure you've got the bandwidth, intern?"
I return the smirk with a sweet voice I don't feel: "Well, Leo, I did lead the concept your boss picked over your senior team's, so…"
He shuts up.
I dive in, organizing the layout grids, checking image rights, jotting down notes about copy spacing, keeping everything tight and on-message. Two hours pass before I even blink.
I'm halfway through adjusting the tone in one of the testimonial captions when I feel a shift in the room.
The energy pulls taut, like gravity changing direction.
And then I hear his voice.
"Smith."
I look up.
Dominic Vale.
Standing behind me in a gray suit so sharp it could be considered a weapon. Arms crossed. Eyebrows drawn together like someone offended his entire family lineage.
My heart taps uncomfortably against my ribs.
"Yes?" I say, too formal, too fast.
He steps closer, eyes skimming the layout on the screen in front of me.
"You left the brand hierarchy off the first mockup."
I blink. "It's a preliminary layout. I was planning to add that after we finalize the flow."
"That's not how we work here," he says. His voice isn't loud—it doesn't need to be. It slices clean. "You don't wait to do things right until later. If your name's on it, it's final. Always."
The room around me is silent. Leo is watching. Claudia looks up from her call, frowning faintly.
I swallow. "Understood."
He stares at me a moment longer, like he's trying to decide if I'll break or bite back.
I do neither.
He turns to walk away, but just before he disappears into his glass office, he adds without looking over his shoulder:
"You don't need to impress me, Karla. Impress the client. That's what you're here for."
The door shuts behind him.
And just like that, I feel like I've been dunked in ice water.
I sit back in my chair, heat rising in my face—not from embarrassment, but from the sharp sting of his tone.
I'm not sure if he's trying to challenge me or crush me. But either way, I won't fold.
He might run this empire, but he doesn't own me.
And if he thinks that was enough to scare me off?
He hasn't seen what I'm capable of yet.
By the time the clock hits 1:12 PM, my head's pounding from too many open tabs and not enough food.
I slip away from the team and head to the small café tucked behind the second floor's glass-walled lounge—a quieter corner of the building most of the executives don't bother with.
The space smells like burnt espresso and ambition. No music, just the occasional hiss from the milk steamer and murmured conversations between assistants and junior staff. The kind of place where people go to recharge or disappear for ten minutes without being missed.
I step up to the counter and glance at the menu like I haven't already memorized it.
A small black coffee: $2.75
I can swing that.
Barely.
"Small drip, please," I say to the barista, avoiding eye contact. My voice is softer here. Smaller.
"Room for milk?"
"No thanks."
Milk is for people who aren't counting quarters later.
I take the cup, wrap both hands around the warmth, and settle into a small corner booth by the window. I've got my laptop open, but I'm not working. Not really. Just staring through the glass at the sidewalk far below where strangers move like they have somewhere better to be.
My stomach growls, loud and embarrassing in the silence.
I ignore it.
Lunch isn't in the budget today. Not with books still to buy. Not with rent looming. Not with everything.
Most of the interns leave to grab poke bowls or overpriced salads from that trendy place across the street. Even Leo walked out flashing his corporate card like a weapon. Meanwhile, I'm nursing a lukewarm cup of caffeine and praying no one notices how often I skip meals.
I sip slowly.
Try to focus.
Try to hold onto the pride I felt this morning before Dominic Vale decided to crush me with ten words and a stare cold enough to ruin steel.
And still, despite everything, despite how small I feel right now…
I'm here.
Working.
Fighting.
Proving I belong in this building, even if I have to do it on an empty stomach.
I scroll through the campaign file again, making quiet notes. Fixing what he pointed out. Perfecting the rough edges. Because this idea matters. Because I matter.
Because I didn't move across the world and start over just to fall apart over one rude CEO
I'm still sitting in the corner of the café, nursing the last sip of my small coffee like it's some sort of reward I don't deserve.
Laptop screen open. Campaign notes blinking at me.
I'm trying to focus, but I can still feel Dominic Vale's voice in my head, clipped and cold:
"If your name's on it, it's final."
God. Who even says things like that?
I sigh and shut my laptop gently, forehead resting in my hand.
That's when I hear footsteps approaching and stop just in front of my table.
"Hey," a voice says. Soft. Kind of unsure.
I glance up.
It's one of the other interns—I've seen him in a few of the onboarding meetings. Quiet guy. Round glasses. Always wears button-downs like he's trying to convince people he belongs here. Like the rest of us.
He gives me a small wave, then rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry to interrupt, I just—uh, wanted to say…"
He pauses, then smiles awkwardly.
"That was pretty brave. What you said during the pitch yesterday. And the way you handled… well, him."
I blink. "Dominic?"
He nods, half-laughing. "Yeah. The guy scares me more than my entire semester finals combined."
I smile without meaning to. "Yeah, he's intense."
"No one ever talks back or defends themselves the way you did. Most people just shrink when he walks in."
I shake my head, fingers tightening around my empty cup. "I didn't even say much."
"You didn't have to," he says. "You stood there. You held your ground. That was enough."
I pause, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Liam, Digital ads team."
"Well… thanks, Liam," I say softly. "I wasn't sure anyone even noticed."
He shrugs. "People notice. They just don't say anything."
There's something in his eyes—genuine, respectful. Not admiration. Not flattery. Just… acknowledgment. And in a place like this, that feels like oxygen.
"I'll, uh, let you get back to work," Liam says, backing up a step. "Just—thought you should know."
And with that, he heads back toward the elevators, coffee in hand.
I watch him go, then glance back at my screen.
Maybe I didn't come here to impress Dominic.
But I guess I'm not invisible either.
And maybe that's a start.