C4

Maribel Westbrook stared down at the concrete floor of the Operations Division. Fifteen entry-level interns shared the cramped lower-level dorm, a stark contrast to the towering, gilded glass structures of the Sterling Executive Institute. Maribel occupied the top bunk, with Tessa Whitmore claims the lower mattress. A sprawling central lounge separated their quarters from the male junior executives' wing.

Earlier that morning, Maisie Langford had warned her about keeping her personal items secure. The unranked recruits were unmonitored, and petty theft ran rampant across the lower corporate tiers. With no space left in the communal lockers, Maribel had no choice but to shove her small duffel bag beneath the metal bed frame. Her mobile phone remained firmly tucked into her skirt pocket—an asset she could not afford to lose before the administration inevitably restricted her personal communications. She had sent a brief text to her mother, Colette Westbrook, the night before to confirm her arrival, but no reply had come through.

A thick morning fog blanketed the athletic track perimeter. Maribel adjusted the collar of her oversized brown corporate blouse, smoothing down the flowy skirt that hung a few inches shorter than standard dress code. Breakfast at the central dining hall was reserved for upper-tier personnel; the unranked recruits were relegated to a small service annex near the Sterling Estate.

Having lagged behind the rest of the cohort, Maribel hurried across the paved pathway, her shoes kicking up loose gravel. Punctuality had never been her strength, but navigating the cutthroat corporate hierarchy required immediate discipline.

"Decided to skip breakfast?" Keaton Waverly’s deep voice cut through the damp air.

Unlike the crisp suits worn by executive board members, Keaton wore a tailored dark grey track set.

"I was just heading to the annex," Maribel said, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.

Keaton pulled his hand from his pocket and glanced at his silver watch. "You are thirty minutes late. The service line closed ten minutes ago."

Maribel sighed. "In that case, I will skip it and head straight to the orientation briefing."

Keaton barked out a short, quiet laugh, falling into step beside her and placing a casual, commanding arm over her shoulder. "Come on."

Maribel looked up, acutely aware of his imposing frame and broad shoulders. "Where are you taking me, Keaton?"

"To the executive dining hall," he replied smoothly. "You cannot manage a twelve-hour administrative shift on an empty stomach. The afternoon break is not until two."

"Two o'clock?" Maribel pressed a hand to her stomach.

"Exactly. But I will handle it," Keaton said, a faint smirk touching his lips.

For a brief second, the tension between them eased, recalling the familiar camaraderie of their younger years before the Westbrook debt collapsed. Maribel brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, attempting to ignore the reality of their vast structural gap.

"I suppose I should express my gratitude, Senior Executive Waverly," she said, taking a swift step sideways to create distance.

Keaton scowled playfully. "You forgot to bow."

"That is never going to happen."

"Most recruits take corporate penalties very seriously, Maribel."

"Not yours," she retorted.

"You are going to be severe trouble, Belle," Keaton said softly, his tone shifting into a lower, darker register.

They arrived at the main executive cafeteria, a massive glass structure situated directly behind the primary administrative tower. Inside, hundreds of high-ranking corporate associates and senior analysts filled the marble floor. Maribel paused at the threshold, glancing down at her plain intern shirt.

"I should just check the lower annex," Maribel murmured, taking a step back. "I do not belong in the executive dining hall."

Keaton reached out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist with unyielding strength as he pulled her forward. "No. We are going inside."

"Keaton, please. I am not hungry anymore."

Keaton’s eyes narrowed. "I can tell you are lying."

"I am completely out of place in there," Maribel whispered, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Every associate in that room is waiting for an excuse to write up a compliance violation."

Sensing her hesitation, Keaton unzipped his heavy grey hoodie, stripped it off, and draped it over her shoulders. "Put this on. It covers the intern badge."

Maribel pulled the massive garment over her head. The sleeves engulfed her hands, the hem falling past her hips, but it successfully obscured her low-tier uniform.

They walked inside together, Maribel keeping half a step behind his broad shadow. Conversations died down as executive eyes tracked their entry. Keaton guided her to a central executive booth, placing a hand on her shoulder and pushing her gently into the leather seat.

"Should I go to the service counter?" she asked.

Keaton sat directly across from her. "We are served at the table, Belle."

"Must be nice living on the executive floor," she said dryly.

Before Keaton could answer, a junior associate wearing a dark navy blazer with the gamma distinction pin approached the table and bowed slightly. "Senior Executive Waverly, Mr. Prescott is requesting your presence in the board room immediately. It is urgent."

Keaton leaned across the table, his breath warm against her cheek as he spoke in a low, dangerous whisper. "Do not react."

Maribel froze, her pulse spiking. "What?"

"I mean it, Belle. Do not react to anything until I get back. I will be quick."

Maribel nodded slowly as Keaton stood and walked toward the administrative elevators with the junior associate.

The moment Keaton vanished through the glass doors, the surrounding tables erupted into hushed, sharp exchanges.

"Who does an unranked intern think she is, sitting at Executive Waverly's table?" a voice hissed from two booths over.

A kitchen staff member in a blue service uniform approached with a silver tray laden with fresh breakfast options. Before she reached the table, Sloane Everhart intercepted her, whispering a cold directive that caused the server to turn around immediately.

Sloane turned toward Maribel, flanked by Briar Kensington, whose icy blue eyes and pale silver hair gave her an unyielding, aristocratic air.

"Look what wandered into the executive dining room," Sloane sneered, stopping at the edge of the booth. "Are you lost, intern?"

Maribel held her ground, lifting her chin. "I arrived with Keaton."

A sudden wave of hostility rolled off Sloane. "He should know that defaulted debt liabilities like you do not belong in this building. You are a compliance risk."

Maribel stood up slowly, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "I am leaving."

Briar Kensington stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she looked closely at the oversized fleece. "Wait. Sloane, isn't that Keaton's personal track jacket?"

Sloane’s face contorted with rage. "Take it off right now."

"Not in the middle of the dining hall," Maribel said coldly.

"Take it off, Westbrook," Sloane demanded, her voice rising to draw the entire room's attention. "Or I will have security cite you for theft of executive property."

Maribel unzipped the hoodie, pulled it over her head, and dropped it onto the table. Whispers rippled through the cafeteria as her plain intern uniform was exposed.

Sloane stepped into her personal space, her sharp acrylic nails digging forcefully into Maribel's chin, forcing her head up. "Disrespectful little parasite. Security, escort this intern to the Operations Division for immediate manual labor."

The Operations Division basement was a cavernous, poorly lit maintenance sector that reeled of industrial solvent and stale air. Junior executives and security personnel utilized the floor for physical training and equipment storage.

Sloane’s security detail had dumped Maribel in the center of the facility, handing her a worn wooden broom with orders to clear the heavy industrial debris spanning the concrete floor.

"It helps if you bend over lower, intern," a junior associate called out from the weight training rack, prompting laughter from his peers.

"In your dreams," Maribel muttered, dragging the stiff bristles across the dusty floor.

A tall, lean junior executive with dark hair and bronze skin, Beckett Rowley, stepped away from the training equipment and circled her. "Where did they find this one?"

A bulkier executive with dirty blond hair, Corbin Prescott, cracked his knuckles and stepped into her path. "Fresh meat. It has been a while since we disciplined a defaulted legacy recruit."

Maribel stepped back, tightening her grip on the broom handle. "I am here to clear this floor. Stand back."

"I am going to teach you how we respect hierarchy here, pretty thing," Corbin said, reaching out a heavy hand to grab her collar.

Maribel slapped his hand away with the wooden handle. "Do not touch me."

"You little compliance failure," Corbin growled, his face twisting in anger. He lunged forward, grabbing at her arms.

Using the basic self-defense drills her mother had forced her to take after the estate collapsed, Maribel drove the thick base of the broom handle directly into the side of Corbin's jaw. The force shattered his balance; he stumbled backward over an iron weight plate and hit the concrete floor hard.

The surrounding nine junior executives went completely silent.

Beckett Rowley’s eyes narrowed to slits. "You just assaulted a senior associate, intern."

Corbin scrambled to his feet, blood dripping from his lip, and lunged with a sharp metal filing tool he pulled from a workbench. Maribel ducked sideways, but the jagged edge sliced deep across her upper arm. Pain flared hot and white through her shoulder as the sharp metal tore through her sleeve.

She swung the broom handle again, catching Corbin across the bridge of his nose, but Beckett stepped in, grabbing the wooden pole and snapping it across his knee.

"Enough," a cold, authoritative voice boomed across the concrete floor.

Maddox Sterling stepped out from the shadows of the mezzanine stairwell.

Beckett instantly dropped the broken wood and stepped back. "Mr. Sterling. She assaulted Prescott."

Maddox walked down the concrete steps, his sharp grey eyes scanning the scene. He looked at Corbin, who was holding his bleeding nose on the floor, and then at Maribel, who was clutching her bleeding arm, her face pale.

"I saw the entire exchange, Rowley," Maddox said smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his dark tailored suit. "Prescott engaged an unranked intern with physical force and lost."

Maribel’s vision blurred at the edges, the blood loss and exhaustion catching up to her instantly. "Who are you?" she whispered, her knees buckling.

Before she hit the concrete, Maddox stepped forward and caught her seamlessly against his chest, hoisting her into his arms.

"Who cut her?" Maddox demanded, his tone dropping into a deadly whisper as he looked down at the dark red stain spreading across her cardigan.

Silence fell over the basement floor.

"Who cut her?" Maddox barked, his voice echoing off the concrete walls.

"She is just a defaulted intern, Maddox," Corbin spat from the floor. "Throw her out to the perimeter gates. Her family line is bankrupt anyway."

"I will handle your disciplinary hearing later, Prescott," Maddox said coldly.

Turning on his heel, Maddox carried Maribel out of the Operations Division. Rather than heading to the low-tier medical clinic at the campus perimeter, he carried her directly toward the high-security Sterling Estate towers.

Upstairs in his private executive suite, Maddox laid her down on the dark leather sofa. He retrieved an emergency trauma kit from his desk, quickly cutting away the torn sleeve of her blouse to expose the deep laceration. Applying a military-grade styptic agent and tight sterile bandages, he bound the wound firmly.

As he finished securing the dressing, his heavy suite door was thrown open. Keaton Waverly stood in the doorway, his eyes flashing with raw fury as he took in the scene.

"Get away from her, Maddox," Keaton commanded, his voice laced with absolute authority.

"Control your temper, Waverly," Maddox replied calmly, standing up and closing the trauma kit.

Keaton strode across the room, kneeling beside the sofa to check Maribel's pulse and examining the fresh bandage on her arm. He turned a lethal glare onto Maddox. "What happened to her?"

"Ask your fiancee," Maddox said dryly, folding his arms. "Sloane had her dumped in the Operations Division. Prescott decided to use a box cutter on her."

Keaton’s jaw clenched tightly. "Gabriella... Maribel," he corrected himself, running a hand over his face.

"You seem exceptionally invested in an unranked intern, Keaton," Maddox observed, his grey eyes calculating. "Does the board know you are harboring a defaulted Westbrook heir in your private division?"

"She is under Waverly Global jurisdiction," Keaton said flatly. He leaned down, placing one arm behind Maribel’s back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her gently into his arms.

"She cannot stay in your suite without triggering an executive audit," Maddox warned.

"I am moving her to my private office residential quarters," Keaton said, turning toward the doorway. "Keep your associates away from her, Maddox."

Keaton carried Maribel through the private executive corridor. In his arms, she stirred slightly, clutching his dark lapel as her breathing stabilized.

Later that evening, in the exclusive lounge of the Sterling Executive Building, the senior executive team gathered over drinks.

Briar Kensington swirled the ice in her glass, looking over at Sloane Everhart. "Did you hear that Keaton personally intervened in the Operations Division this afternoon?"

Sloane snapped her cocktail napkin in half. "He is risking his entire board seat for a girl whose family owes four hundred million dollars to the Sterling Group."

"The Westbrook debt is substantial," Maddox said smoothly, joining the group and setting his glass on the marble bar. "Conrad Sterling is preparing to finalize the asset seizure of Westbrook Heights by the end of the week."

Sloane stood up, her diamond ring catching the dim lighting. "Maribel Westbrook is an administrative liability. If she remains on this campus, I will ensure her contract is terminated by the executive committee."

"Careful, Sloane," Maddox said with a slight, dangerous smile. "Keaton just absorbed the Westbrook debt into the Waverly holding account. If you push her out, you push him straight into a corporate breach."

Sloane turned and swept out of the lounge, her heels clicking angrily against the polished floor.

Back in the quiet confines of the Waverly private office, Maribel opened her eyes. The room was dark, illuminated only by the soft glow of the city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. She was resting on a plush sofa, a thick wool blanket draped over her shoulders, her arm neatly bandaged.

Keaton sat at his glass desk across the room, reviewing illuminated financial documents on a tablet.

"You should be resting, Miss Westbrook," Keaton said without looking up from his screen.

Maribel sat up slowly, the dull ache in her arm reminding her of the basement. "You brought me here."

"I brought you here because you continue to cause administrative chaos on my floor," Keaton said, setting the tablet down and walking over to stand beside the window.

"Sloane tried to destroy my record," Maribel said, her voice steady despite her fatigue. "And your associates attacked me."

Keaton turned to face her, his expression cold, unreadable, and intensely focused. "And you broke a senior associate's jaw with a broomstick. You are surprisingly resilient for a ruined heir."

"I am trying to survive your corporate institute, Keaton."

Keaton stepped closer, his shadow falling over her as he leaned down, placing both hands on the armrests of the sofa, trapping her in place.

"You will do more than survive it, Belle," he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "You are going to follow every rule I set, address me formally in front of the board, and stay exactly where I can see you."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sleek, encrypted glass keycard, dropping it into her lap.

"That opens the private executive elevator," Keaton said softly, his fingers brushing against hers. "Your shift starts at six o'clock tomorrow morning. Do not be late."