C8

“Who cares how sharp she is?” another associate scoffs. “She has zero family backing and no trust fund. It’s not like anyone in the upper tier is going to offer her a real junior partnership.”

“Yeah, who wants a partner without capital? Imagine trying to introduce a scholarship girl to the board at the annual gala.”

A hot wave of shame burns through Maribel’s chest, turning her cheeks a fiery red. She grips the edge of the laundry basket so hard her knuckles turn white. Is that all she is to these people? A temporary amusement? A charity case destined to be discarded the moment the semester ends?

She leaves the basket outside the lounge door and quickly steps out into the cool evening air of the central courtyard, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She refuses to let them fall. She didn't work her entire life to reach the Sterling Executive Institute just to be written off as a corporate footnote.

“Hey, what’s going on with you?” Maisie Langford asks, catching up to her near the edge of the graduate courtyard.

Maribel wipes her face furiously, keeping her head down. “Nothing.”

“Don't give me that,” Maisie says, stepping into her path. “You look like you’re about to burn the building down. Did one of the associates say something to you?”

Maribel swallows the lump in her throat, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. “They’re right, aren't they? It doesn't matter how well I perform on the stress tests. Without legacy status or capital, I’m never going to get a real placement here.”

Maisie sighs, her expression softening into genuine sympathy. “Don't listen to those arrogant bastards, Belle. But if you really want to force the board to take you seriously, you need access to the primary market archives.”

Maribel blinks, looking up. “The primary archives? Those are locked to basic-tier interns.”

“Not if you go to the Silvercrest Private Vault,” Maisie whispers, leaning in close and checking over her shoulder. “It’s hidden beneath the main administrative wing. It holds the unredacted historical transaction ledgers and raw market data from the last twenty years. If you analyze those, you can predict the board's portfolio moves before they even announce them.”

“Is that even legal?” Maribel asks, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest.

“It’s strictly off-limits to anyone below senior executive status,” Maisie admits with a sharp shrug. “Which means if you get caught, you’re expelled on the spot. But if you want a real edge against people like Sloane Everhart, that’s where it is.”

Maribel doesn't hesitate. Her survival at the institute depends on leverage, and the Silvercrest Private Vault is the only place she can find it.

Twenty minutes later, Maribel slips past the secondary security desk, her heart hammering against her ribs as she navigates the dimly lit, carpeted corridors beneath the administrative building. The air grows cold and damp as she descends the narrow concrete staircase leading deeper underground.

She reaches a heavy steel door marked with a glowing digital keycard scanner. To her shock, the heavy lock is already disengaged, the heavy metal door resting open by a fraction of an inch.

Pushing the door open silently, Maribel steps into a vast, climate-controlled vault lined with glowing server racks and glass-encased archive terminals. At the center of the room sits a deep, illuminated glass pool designed to cool the primary server mainframe, its crystal-clear water rippling quietly under the blue ambient lighting.

Before Maribel can locate the primary data terminal, a sudden splash echoes through the quiet vault.

She gasped, pulling back against a solid display frame as a figure breaks the surface of the cooling pool.

A man pushes his dripping dark hair back from his face, gripping the edge of the polished marble basin as he pulls himself smoothly out of the water. He wears only dark athletic shorts, his broad shoulders, sculpted chest, and rock-hard abs gleaming under the harsh blue light of the server arrays.

Maribel’s breath hitches in her throat as the man stands to his full height, wiping the water from his eyes.

It is Maddox Sterling.

Maddox freezes, his icy blue eyes locking directly onto hers through the dim light of the vault.

“You?” Maddox’s deep, husky voice reverberates off the high concrete walls, sending an involuntary shiver straight down Maribel’s spine. “What the hell are you doing down here, Miss Westbrook?”

Maribel’s mind goes completely blank as she stares at the water dripping down the dangerous, athletic contours of his torso. “I… I took a wrong turn.”

Maddox marches toward her with long, predatory strides, blocking her entire view of the room as he stops bare inches away from her. The intense heat radiating from his skin clashes violently with the chill of the underground vault.

“Graduate interns are strictly prohibited from entering the administrative vaults,” he says, his tone dark and demanding. “Are you actively trying to get yourself expelled?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was looking for the corporate library?” she stammers, backing up until her shoulder blades hit the cold frame of an archive rack.

Maddox leans in closer, placing one hand on the rack right beside her head, trapping her within his immediate space. “Bad luck seems to follow you everywhere you go, Belle. Or perhaps you just enjoy breaking institute policy.”

Maribel’s breath hitches as his gaze drops briefly to her lips before snapping back to her eyes. The raw, possessive intensity in his face is suffocating, making her palms sweat against the cold metal behind her back.

Before Maddox can speak again, heavy footsteps echo down the concrete corridor outside the vault.

“Maddox!” Keaton’s voice barks through the open doorway.

Maddox doesn't pull back immediately. He slowly turns his head, his jaw clenching as Keaton steps into the illuminated vault, his eyes widening in shock as he sees Maribel pinned against the archive rack.

“What is she doing down here?” Keaton demands, his voice rising sharply as he strides across the room and grabs Maribel by the arm, pulling her away from Maddox’s immediate proximity. “Did you order her down here, Maddox?”

“Of course not,” Maddox snaps, straightening to his full height without a hint of hesitation. “I was trying to figure out why your little intern is wandering around restricted server rooms in the middle of the night.”

Keaton glares at the managing director, his grip on Maribel’s arm tightening possessively. “She got lost. She’s leaving with me right now.”

“Keep her on a leash, Waverly,” Maddox says, his voice cold and flat as he reaches for a towel resting on a nearby console. “If I catch her in the private archives again, not even your family’s board shares will save her from a formal termination.”

“Stay away from her, Maddox,” Keaton warns, his tone dropping into a dangerous, protective register. “She isn't one of your corporate associates. You don't get to play games with her.”

Maddox lets out a short, humorless laugh as he dries his shoulders. “I have zero interest in playing games with an entry-level intern. Take her back to the graduate wing where she belongs.”

Keaton doesn't wait for another word. He turns and ushers Maribel swiftly out of the vault, his hand firmly anchored to her waist until they reach the main courtyard above.

The crisp night air hits Maribel’s face, but her mind is still spinning from the suffocating encounter in the vault.

“What were you thinking going down there?” Keaton snaps, turning to face her under the soft glow of the courtyard lanterns. “That vault is reserved for senior board members!”

“I was looking for the historical market ledgers,” Maribel says quietly, looking away from his intense gaze. “I need a way to prove my value to the placement committee.”

Keaton lets out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “You don't need to prove anything to them, Belle. Just stay out of Maddox Sterling’s way. He runs this entire institute, and if he decides you’re a liability, he will destroy your career before it even starts.”

Maribel looks back toward the dark glass facade of the administrative building, feeling the phantom burn of Maddox’s icy blue eyes lingering against her skin.

“He won't destroy me,” Maribel murmurs, her voice steadying with sudden, fierce resolve. “Because I’m going to make sure he can’t.”

Keaton stares at her for a long moment, a subtle, troubled frown touching his lips before he reaches out and takes her hand, pulling her toward the path leading to the graduate quarters.

“Come on,” Keaton says softly. “Let’s get you back before security locks the outer gates.”

As they walk across the silent stone courtyard, Maribel glances down at her phone tucked inside her jacket pocket. A bright notification flashes across the black screen—a direct message from an unknown corporate network address.

She slips the phone out, her heart skipping a beat as she reads the single line of text displayed on the screen:

“Be in the Managing Director’s executive suite tomorrow at 0600 sharp. We need to discuss your compliance file, Miss Westbrook.”