C9

Maribel Westbrook adjusts the stiff collar of her grey intern jacket, trying to ignore the pulsing headache that has been hammering behind her eyes since yesterday. The high-stakes exchange between Keaton Waverly and Maddox Sterling in the administrative vaults still echoes through her mind. Maddox’s cold assertion that he would never mess with an entry-level candidate without legacy standing should have felt like a relief. It should have pushed her to blend back into the background. Instead, it felt like a sharp, calculated dismissal from the man who controls the entire financial ecosystem of the Sterling Executive Institute.

She couldn't stop wondering about Keaton’s sudden leverage. When Keaton confronted Maddox, he had spoken about holding an structural advantage over the executive board. What did he mean? And what was the upcoming annual board review everyone kept discussing in hushed, nervous tones? She found her answers the moment she stepped into the central corporate pavilion the following morning.

The review season wasn't just an academic evaluation. It was a high-stakes, ruthless corporate survival tournament where the junior tier prepared every analytical brief, managed every trade execution, and absorbed every loss so the legacy heirs could showcase their portfolio management skills to visiting venture capitalists.

“Why don't they have this kind of review process at the regional branches?” Maribel asks Maisie Langford as they haul heavy wooden crates of quarterly market ledgers down from the top floor of the administrative wing into the primary prep kitchen.

“Because this is the Sterling Business Academy,” Maisie replies, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead. “It’s designed to isolate the elite strategists and quietly eliminate the underperforming candidates before they ever reach the executive floor.”

Maribel swallows hard. “Like us?”

Maisie shoots her a sharp, warning glare. “Who are you calling an underperforming candidate?”

“I just mean... basic-tier interns don't exactly have the capital reserves to hedge against a massive short position.”

Maisie throws her head back and groans as they step out into the bright afternoon sun illuminating the central courtyard. Dozens of basic-tier interns are unpacking pristine glass displays and setting up financial terminals for the senior associate networking reception taking place that evening. The only upside to the relentless physical labor is that the entry-level staff are permitted to attend the cocktail hour, observe the high-level trade presentations, and clean up the corporate mess early the next morning.

“No, it’s not like that,” Maisie sighs. “Interns don't participate in the live market stress tests during board review... not unless a senior associate specifically sponsors them or challenges their placement.”

“That is a massive relief,” Maribel murmurs, setting her box down on a mahogany table. “At least there’s one disaster we don't have to navigate.”

“Don't celebrate too quickly. Let’s get these terminals calibrated so we can get out of here.”

By four in the afternoon, the stone courtyard is immaculate. The glass terminals glow with live market feeds, and the promotional displays overhang the manicured hedges. Maribel is ready to collapse from sheer physical exhaustion, her arm aching under her medical wrap.

It is then that she notices a group of senior executives stepping out from the private residence wing. They walk with the effortless authority of individuals who have never worried about rent, tuition, or market crashes. Among them is Maddox Sterling, wearing a deceptively casual white linen shirt and dark trousers. Looking at him instantly brings back the vivid memory of the administrative vault—his wet, athletic frame, the cool blue light of the server racks, and the suffocating intensity of his gaze.

Maribel quickly turns her head away before he catches her staring. What would have happened if Keaton hadn't interrupted them in the vault?

A sharp, deliberate footstep crunches on the gravel behind her. Suddenly, a stack of freshly organized market dossiers is kicked directly out of her hands, sending pages scattering across the damp grass.

“Hey!” Maribel snaps, her temper instantly flaring.

She finds herself face-to-face with a smirking Sloane Everhart.

Beside Sloane stands Briar Kensington, her sharp eyes tracking Maribel with icy disdain, alongside a third girl from their high-society circle. Maisie immediately drops her gaze to the floor, her shoulders tense with fear.

“Do you have a problem, intern?” Sloane asks, folding her manicured hands over her chest.

Maribel looks at the scattered financial documents that took her three hours to sort and verify. “We just finished organizing those files.”

Sloane laughs, a high, musical sound that carries across the quiet courtyard. “So? Do it again. It’s just paper, and it was only one stack that fell over.”

“If it’s so simple, why don't you organize it yourself?” Maribel says, her voice low and steady.

A collective gasp ripples through the surrounding interns. Maisie twitches beside her, frantically tugging at the edge of Maribel’s blazer.

“Maribel, don't,” Maisie mutters under her breath.

Too late.

“Since anyone can do it, a senior associate with your high-level qualifications shouldn't struggle with basic document organization,” Maribel adds, picking up a stray folder and holding it out toward Sloane.

Sloane doesn't take it. The folder falls from Maribel’s hand, hitting the grass between them. Sloane’s eyes darken into twin pools of pure malice.

“You want to see just how much authority a senior associate holds over your scholarship, Miss Westbrook?” Sloane sneers, stepping directly into Maribel’s personal space.

Every intern in the vicinity backs away, ducking their heads to avoid being collateral damage. Maribel refuses to look down. She has spent her entire life fighting for her academic standing, and she refuses to cower before a girl whose only achievement was being born into the Everhart banking fortune.

“You think you’re so clever because Keaton gives you the time of day,” Sloane spits, her voice cutting like a razor. “Let me remind you what you actually are in this institute.”

Sloane raises her hand and sharply shoves Maribel’s shoulder, using the full weight of her executive standing to humiliate her in front of the crowd. The sudden force catches Maribel off guard, her heels catching on the stone edge of the walkway. She hits the manicured lawn hard, the sharp impact jarring her injured forearm and sending a jolt of white-hot pain straight up her spine.

Maribel blinks past the sudden dizziness, looking up at the crowd. No one moves to help her. The basic-tier interns keep their eyes glued to the ground, terrified of facing Sloane’s wrath. Maddox stands near the edge of the pavilion, his arms crossed over his chest, his face an unreadable mask as he glares down at the scene. There are no allies for a girl without capital in the Sterling Corporate District.

“I’ll make sure the registrar revokes your housing grant by tomorrow morning!” Sloane snaps, taking another aggressive step toward her.

“Sloane! That’s enough!”

Keaton Waverly cuts through the crowd, his face pale with fury as he places himself directly between his fiancé and Maribel.

“Get away from her, Sloane,” Keaton growls, his voice laced with absolute authority.

“Don't you dare defend her in front of everyone, Keaton!” Sloane yells, her composure finally breaking. “You know how this looks to the board! It makes you look weak, and it makes me look like a fool! Step away from her right now!”

Keaton doesn't budge. He reaches down, grabbing Sloane firmly by the elbow to pull her away from the gathering crowd. “You and I are talking in private. Now.”

Sloane tries to wrench her arm free, but Keaton’s grip is unyielding as he drags her toward the private executive suites. Maribel watches them disappear into the main building, her vision swimming slightly from the jarring fall.

Tessa Whitmore rushes over, kneeling beside her on the grass. “We need to get her to the clinic.”

“No, don't,” Maisie stammers, pulling at Maribel’s other arm. “Belle, try to sit up.”

Maribel forces herself into a sitting position, the late afternoon sun blinding her as she tries to steady her breathing. The physical pain in her arm is nothing compared to the overwhelming wave of public degradation washing over her.

“That was a nasty fall,” Tessa says softly, inspecting Maribel’s wrist. “Sloane is out of her mind.”

“You shouldn't have provoked her, Belle,” Maisie whispers, her voice trembling. “You have to keep your head down if you want to survive here.”

“It isn't fair,” Maribel rasps, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Of course it isn't fair,” Maisie replies quietly. “Nothing in Westbrook Heights is fair. Just do what you have to do so you can keep your grant.”

“Tessa’s right, though,” Maisie adds. “You need to head back to the intern residence wing and rest off that pain before the evening reception begins.”

They help Maribel to her feet. Her legs are unsteady, her entire body aching from the physical toll of the last two days. As she begins the slow, humiliating walk back toward the residence wing, she catches sight of Sloane standing near the upper balcony, watching her with a cold, triumphant smile.

Maribel lowers her head, letting the bitter taste of defeat settle in her throat for now. She imagines a dozen ways to strip Sloane of her arrogance—exposing her family’s offshore holdings, sabotaging her trade portfolio, or locking her out of the primary terminal network during the live stress tests. But she forces those thoughts down. Survival comes first.

Reaching her modest dorm room, Maribel collapses onto her narrow cot. The room is silent, her roommates still out working their assigned shifts. She reaches under her flat pillow, pulling out her personal phone to check for any updates.

She hasn't heard from her mother, Colette Westbrook, since arriving at the Sterling Executive Institute two weeks ago. Colette had been ill before Maribel left, promising to call the moment her treatment plan was finalized at the regional hospital.

Maribel unlocks the screen and dials her mother’s number.

The line doesn't ring. Instead, an automated operator voice cuts in immediately: “We are sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

Maribel’s heart stops. She pulls the phone away, staring at the screen with wide, panicked eyes. Disconnected? That was impossible. She had paid the quarterly service bill herself before leaving Westbrook Heights.

She frantically redials the digits.

“We are sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected...”

A cold wave of dread floods Maribel’s veins, washing away the lingering pain in her arm. What had happened to her mother? Why would her line be cut off without notice?

Before she can process the sheer panic rising in her chest, her phone buzzes with an incoming notification from an encrypted internal corporate address.

Maribel swipes her thumb across the screen. It is an image file containing a scanned document—a formal medical debt transfer notice issued by Sterling Group Financial Services.

At the bottom of the page, stamped in bold red ink, is a third-party collections takeover order bearing a sharp, elegant signature: Maddox Sterling.

The attached text message below the document reads:

“Your mother’s private care facility account has been acquired by the Sterling Group restructuring division. If you wish to prevent an immediate discharge, report to my private office at the Sterling Estate in ten minutes, Miss Westbrook.”