Chapter 7: New Tasks

I couldn’t bring myself to respond to Damien. 

What will i even say to him…I'm just an intern having fantasies. 

The weekend went by and it was Monday. The birds chiming as usual. 

A quick reminder of what Richard D Morgan my new supervisor said to me.

“I’ll be assigning you to a new project,” he said suddenly. 

My stomach flipped. “Wait, what, why?” 

“Because you impressed me. And because I need someone I can trust. Cassandra tells me you’re diligent, careful, and not easily intimidated.” 

Cassandra talks about me? 

“What’s the project?” I asked cautiously. 

His eyes met mine, steady and unreadable. “You’ll be working with me. Directly.” 

I nearly choked on a cherry tomato. “With…you? Like, shadowing you?” 

“Not shadowing. Collaborating,” he corrected. “Yes, that’s the word.” 

“But I’m just an intern…” 

“You won’t be after today.” 

My head spun. “Does Cassandra know?” 

“She will.” 

That was how it began: my unexpected assignment to work directly under Richard D. Morgan, the man whose name carried the kind of weight that silenced rooms. 

And in Roth Enterprise a company that touched everything from healthcare to publishing his word was law. 

Roth Enterprise wasn’t just a company. It was an empire. 

Most people only knew it as a billion-dollar investor in medical technology, but inside its glass towers, it was more than that. 

It sponsored start-ups, molding them into industry giants. It shifted markets through stocks and crypto investments, its analysts pulling invisible strings across the globe. It owned hospitals, private clinics, and research facilities that spanned continents. And in a strange twist, it had even branched into publishing, producing novels that topped international bestseller lists. 

It was everywhere finance, healthcare, literature and yet somehow seamless, as if every division fed into the same machine. 

And Richard wasn’t just a cog in that machine. He was one of the men who kept it running. 

So when he said, You’ll be working with me directly, the weight of it was more than a project assignment. It was an invitation to step closer to the fire that powered the whole empire. 

His office reflected that. 

It wasn’t gaudy or flamboyant; Roth Enterprise didn’t flaunt power with gold-plated furniture. Instead, the room radiated a quieter authority. The walls were lined with shelves of reports and journals, neat and color-coded. A sleek screen on one wall displayed market tickers stocks, cryptocurrencies, shifting numbers rolling in real-time. 

Pinned between them were framed covers of medical publications with Roth Enterprise’s name on them, their titles bold and clinical: The Future of Immunotherapy, Biotech and Beyond, The Global Health Index. 

And in the corner, almost out of place, stood a tall glass case filled with first-edition novels proof of the company’s literary reach. 

I stood frozen the first time I entered, notebook clutched like a shield. 

Richard glanced up from his desk. “You’re early.” 

“Better than late,” I mumbled, sliding into the chair opposite. 

“Good. Let’s begin.” 

The first week nearly broke me. 

He was relentless. 

Every morning, he had me review detailed reports not just in medicine, but in investments, publishing forecasts, even stock portfolios. He expected me to understand how Roth’s medical breakthroughs influenced its hospitals, how those hospitals influenced its reports, how those reports influenced investors, and how investors influenced the global markets. 

It was like trying to hold an ocean in my hands. 

And Richard didn’t tolerate sloppy thinking. 

One afternoon, after I stumbled through an explanation about a stock correlation, he cut me off. 

“Again,” he said flatly. 

My cheeks burned. “Sir, I ” 

“Again. With clarity this time.” 

I swallowed hard and started over, voice shaking, but sharper. When I finished, he gave the smallest nod. 

That nod carried more weight than any praise. 

Despite his strictness, there were moments small, fleeting where the mask slipped. 

Late one evening, while I combed through medical expenditure reports, I caught him standing by the glass wall, looking down at the city lights. His reflection seemed distant, older somehow. 

“Do you ever go home before midnight?” I asked softly, half-joking. 

He didn’t look at me. “Home is overrated when the company is this size.” 

Something about the way he said it lodged in my chest. Not pride loneliness. 

The second week, something shifted. 

We were reviewing a proposal from Roth’s publishing branch a novel intended to spotlight medical ethics in fiction. I hesitated before offering my thoughts. 

“It’s too heavy,” I said finally. “Readers want a story, not a lecture. If the point is to make people think, you can’t lose them in the jargon.” 

I expected him to dismiss me. Instead, he leaned back, studying me. 

“Go on.” 

Nervously, I explained how subtlety would work better threading ethical dilemmas into a character-driven plot. 

He was silent for a long moment. Then: “You may be right.” 

I blinked. Richard D. Morgan had just said I was right. 

From then on, he started asking my opinion more often. Not just about data, but about strategy, about tone, about how Roth Enterprise should appear to the outside world. 

Each time, my voice grew steadier. 

By the third week, the office no longer felt like a lion’s den. It still carried weight, but it was a weight I was learning to stand under. 

And Richard himself…was not what I expected. 

He was still strict, yes. Still exacting. But he wasn’t cruel. 

He pushed because he believed standards mattered. Because in a company this vast, one careless report, one unchecked number, could ripple outward and cost millions or lives. 

And beneath the severity, I caught glimpses of something else. 

The way his hand lingered for half a second on the glass case of novels, as if remembering something.

The photo frame on his desk that always stayed face down, never explained.

The way his voice softened, barely, when he said, “Competence has nothing to do with titles.” 

He was a fortress. But even fortresses had doors, if you knew where to look. 

One night, we stayed late preparing a presentation for the board. I was cross-eyed from graphs when I muttered, “How do you keep all these divisions straight? Hospitals, stocks, crypto, novels…it’s insane.” 

Richard’s pen stilled. 

“It’s not about keeping them straight,” he said quietly. “It’s about seeing the connections. The hospitals give us credibility. The reports give us authority. The stocks and crypto give us leverage. The novels…give us reach. Together, they make Roth untouchable.” 

I shivered. Not from fear though a little of that lingered but from awe. 

For the first time, I understood why people called Roth Enterprise an empire. 

And why working with Richard wasn’t just an assignment. It was initiation. 

By the end of the month, I noticed a change in myself. 

I no longer flinched when he pushed back on my ideas. I argued back carefully, with evidence and sometimes, he conceded. 

The silence between us wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was space. Space to think, to grow, to prove myself. 

Walking out of the office one evening, I realized something that made me stop in my tracks. 

This wasn’t about surviving the internship anymore. 

It wasn’t about Cassandra’s petty remarks or about feeling invisible. 

It was about stepping into a world bigger than anything I’d imagined. 

And Richard D. Morgan stern, sharp, endlessly demanding was the one teaching me now.