C6

“Intern!” a sharp voice calls out behind her.

Maribel turns slowly to face Sloane, who has followed her out to the courtyard steps. “What is it now?”

“You are fortunate I am not filing a formal compliance report against you for being in the executive wing.”

“I did not even ask to—”

“Save it,” Sloane cuts her off, stepping down to match her level. “Consider this your final warning. Stay away from Keaton, stay away from the executive dining room, and stay away from the board suites. You are a graduate intern here on a conditional grant. Remember your place, or I will ensure the registrar terminates your placement personally.”

Maribel nods, wanting nothing more than to put distance between them. “Fine. It won't happen again.”

Sloane glares at her, her posture rigid with cold satisfaction. “It better not.”

She turns on her heel and glides back into the warmth of the executive building. Maribel quickens her pace, heading straight for the graduate intern quarters before the outer gates are locked for the night.

The dorm room is silent when she arrives, her roommates already asleep in their modest beds. She climbs beneath her thin blanket, her mind spinning with the rapid events of the day. This is her new reality, where corporate status defines every interaction, and open disdain is handed out without hesitation. She has always been self-reliant; she does not need the approval of the Sterling Executive Institute to succeed.

Yet, as she closes her eyes, her thoughts drift back to Keaton—his steady presence, his defensive stance against Sloane, and the touch of his hand against her cheek. She rests her fingers where his palm had been just hours before and lets herself drift off to sleep.

The first session of the morning is the high-stakes Corporate Strategy seminar at the Sterling Business Academy. Maribel considers whether she can request an exemption, knowing how severely out of her depth she will be alongside legacy students. She gets ready in haste, trying to blend into the sea of perfectly tailored young professionals rushing to make the morning briefing. Having missed her introductory orientation yesterday, the last thing she wants is to draw unwanted attention.

She braids her dark hair neatly over one shoulder, letting it rest against her dark lapel. Stepping toward the small wall mirror, she checks her appearance, briefly imagining how different her life would be if she had chosen a standard corporate track. She could have attended a local state university, living an ordinary life where no one measured her family's net worth or treated her like an intruder.

She wears a simple black pencil skirt, clean leather flats, and the mandatory grey intern jacket designated for basic-tier candidates.

She checks her phone under the pillow for a reply from her mother, but there is still no message. Puzzled by the lack of response, she resolves to make a direct call later in the evening. Hiding the device back beneath her pillow, she slips out of the room.

Maribel makes her way to the communal cafeteria—a vast, clinical hall featuring three long wooden tables reserved for lower-tier entry candidates. Tessa Whitmore waves her over frantically from a middle table where she sits with Maisie Langford.

“Grab something before the hot stations close!” Maisie says quickly, pulling out a chair.

All that remains at the server counter is a bowl of thin vegetable broth and a dry roll. Maribel carries her tray back to the table and sits down in silence, slowly stirring the lukewarm soup.

“We heard what happened at the executive suite yesterday!” Tessa blurts out, leaning across the table.

“Tessa!” Maisie scolds, nudging her sharply. “Maybe she does not want to rehash it.”

“I really wouldn’t,” Maribel says, lifting a small spoonful to her lips.

“Everyone is talking about how you know Keaton Waverly,” Tessa continues, undeterred by the rebuke. “I cannot believe you are on first-name terms with the heir to Waverly Enterprises. What is he actually like?”

Maribel keeps her tone strictly neutral. “Normal. Keaton had plenty of friends before he was admitted to the executive track.”

“You need to keep your head down, Belle,” Maisie says, her expression turning serious. “You do not understand how much influence Sloane Everhart and her circle hold over the placement committee.”

“I learned that firsthand yesterday,” Maribel replies quietly. “I certainly am not looking for trouble.”

“Good, because trouble here means losing your grant,” Maisie warns just as a sharp brass bell chimes through the hall, signaling the start of the morning block.

The room immediately floods with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. Maribel leaves half her broth untouched as she stands up.

“First module,” Maisie says, checking her schedule pad.

“Right,” Maribel sighs. “Is attendance mandatory for entry interns? I do not even have access to the primary market terminals yet. What good will sitting in an advanced strategy seminar do for me?”

“The senior advisors use the first session to assign mentorship tracks,” Tessa explains as they walk out. “I heard a rumor that an intern from last year was reassigned to a junior associate desk after showing potential during the case study.”

Maribel’s interest spikes. A real chance to move up from the bottom tier? If she can prove her grasp of market analytics, perhaps she will not be doomed to remain an outcast in the program.

Maisie fills her in on the unwritten rules as they navigate the manicured stone walkways leading toward the Sterling Corporate District. The list of warnings is long: never contradict a Senior Corporate Advisor, never speak during a trade presentation unless called upon, and execute every directive without delay. All advisors are former operations heads—strict, unforgiving figures selected specifically for their ability to pressure-test candidates under intense stress.

The strategy pavilion sits on the edge of the campus, adjacent to the Westbrook Woodland Reserve. A sprawling glass structure, it overlooks dense treelines that feel isolated from the rest of the manicured grounds. Inside, the candidates are organized strictly by firm affiliation. Maribel and Maisie join the small cluster representing the Westbrook regional branch. Out of nearly two hundred candidates enrolled at the academy, fewer than twenty belong to the regional internship pool.

A tall man wearing a dark charcoal suit and a slate-grey tie stands at the center podium, his hands resting flat against the polished wood. He scans the room with a cold, unyielding gaze.

“Is that Senior Advisor Cole?” Maribel whispers to Maisie.

Maisie nods silently, her posture stiffening.

Spencer Cole carries the hardened aura of an old-money corporate raider who spent decades restructuring failing conglomerates. His grey eyes are sharp, calculating, and completely void of warmth as he surveys the candidates standing before him.

“I do not need to remind you why you are in this room,” Advisor Cole begins, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet hall. “As entry-level interns, your current value to your respective firms is minimal. However, your managing directors expect you to make yourselves useful. That begins today with real-time portfolio stress testing. One by one, you will present your initial risk assessments under live market simulation. Though, I see we have been assigned an intern who has yet to even log into the main network terminal.”

A few muffled snickers rise from the back rows where the high-ranking legacy students sit. Maribel feels a hot flush of embarrassment creep up her neck, wishing she had chosen a seat further back instead of standing near the front of the pavilion.

“No matter,” Advisor Cole adds coldly. “Pressure often reveals whether a candidate possesses actual talent or merely took up space.”

Maribel swallows hard. “Chambers!” Cole barked suddenly, using her legal surname with sharp precision. “Front and center.”

She steps forward, maintaining a respectful distance from the podium. She steals a quick glance back at Maisie, who is wringing her hands nervously.

In the doorway of the pavilion, three figures enter quietly—Keaton Waverly, Maddox Sterling, and Corbin Prescott, the head of operations who had confronted her the day before. Corbin glares at her with obvious disdain, while Keaton offers a subtle, reassuring nod. Maribel forces herself to remain motionless, refusing to break eye contact with the advisor.

“Good,” Advisor Cole says smoothly. “Now we can begin. Waverly, since she is associated with your regional district, you will conduct the live stress test.”

“Wait, what is he supposed to do?” Maribel asks, her voice slipping out before she can filter it—violating another fundamental rule on Maisie’s list.

Advisor Cole steps back, replaced by Keaton, who walks up to the central terminal with an easy, confident stride.

“Well, Belle,” Keaton says, pulling up a complex financial model on the wall display. “A candidate’s true analytical skill comes out when the market turns hostile. Let us see how quickly you adapt.”

He begins inputting rapid short-position parameters into the system, spiking the volatility index to maximum levels on the board behind her. The simulated numbers drop rapidly into the red, placing immense pressure on her to recalculate the asset allocation on the spot.

Maribel steps up to the secondary interface, her fingers moving across the touch screen with sharp, instinctual precision. Rather than panicking under the simulated crash, she re-allocates the core equity holdings into high-yield short-term instruments, stabilizing the portfolio before the system forces a liquidating margin call.

The display flashes green, signaling a full recovery of the portfolio's core value.

The entire room goes silent.

Keaton lets out a low chuckle, leaning back against the terminal desk. “I could have told you this stress test wouldn't break her, Advisor Cole. Belle does not panic under market volatility.”

“Payback time,” Corbin Prescott mutters, stepping up to the secondary console.

In an instant, Corbin overrides the parameters, launching an aggressive, hostile takeover simulation designed to strip Maribel’s assigned firm of its voting stock within thirty seconds. The numbers cascade rapidly down the screen.

Maribel’s heart races, but she refuses to back down. With no physical assets left to leverage, she executes an emergency poison-pill defense through the system terminal, diluting the hostile shares and forcing Corbin’s automated acquisition bid into a legal deadlock.

The primary monitor chime sounds loudly, locking the transaction completely.

Corbin stares at the screen in disbelief, his hands hovering over the interface.

“Enough! Module concluded!” Advisor Cole snaps, shutting down the central simulation.

The surrounding interns stare at Maribel in utter shock. An entry-level intern had just blocked a senior operations lead in a live strategy test.

“Clear the room,” Cole commands sharply.

The candidates quickly file out, whispering among themselves as Corbin steps away from the terminal, his jaw tight with frustration. Keaton steps up beside Maribel, offering her a quick, proud smile before heading toward the exit.

As the pavilion empties, Maribel finds Maddox Sterling standing by the high glass windows. His icy blue eyes fix on her with absolute intensity, burning into her like the relentless heat of a thousand suns.