CHAPTER 8: THE FIRST DAY

Maya

Monday morning, my alarm goes off at 5:30 AM—too early, but I’d set it anyway, determined to be the first one in the office. I roll out of bed, my muscles still sore from dancing in heels at the party, and shuffle to the kitchen to make coffee. The apartment is too quiet. My dad usually calls on Sunday nights, but his number hasn’t popped up on my phone in three days. I push the thought down and focus on pouring hot water over the grounds.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m showered, dressed in a black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse, conservative, professional, nothing like the red dress from the party. Chloe’s gifts are sitting by the door: a sleek black laptop bag and a paper bag with a note taped to it—For when you need to look sharp but feel comfortable. Trust me. Inside are a pair of black flats that look like they cost more than my rent, and a silk scarf with tiny red flowers woven into the fabric.

I tie the scarf around my neck, then grab my bag and head out the door. The subway is packed, everyone heading to work, faces buried in phones or newspapers, the air thick with coffee breath and perfume. I stand in the corner, holding onto the pole, and try not to think about what’s waiting for me at the end of the line.

Apex Industries looms over the street when I step out of the subway station—glass and steel, twenty-five stories high, with the company logo etched into every window pane. The lobby is even more impressive than the party was—marble floors, walls of living plants, a reception desk that looks like it’s carved from a single block of white granite. A woman in a navy suit is sitting behind it, typing away at her computer.

“Can I help you?” she asks without looking up.

“I’m Maya Wilson,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “I’m starting my internship today, I am assigned to the Executive Marketing Team.”

She finally looks up, her eyes scanning a screen before lighting up with a smile. “Ms. Wilson! We’ve been expecting you. Mr. Davenport left instructions, he wants you to go straight to the executive floor when you arrive. I’ll call up and let them know you’re on your way.”

She picks up the phone, speaking in low, professional tones. I take the time to look around, everything here feels expensive, intentional. The chairs in the waiting area are leather and steel, the art on the walls looks like it belongs in a museum, even the pens on the reception desk are engraved with the company logo. This is a world of power and money a world I’ve only ever looked at from the outside.

“Mr. Davenport is ready for you,” the receptionist says, setting the phone down. “Take the elevator to the twenty-third floor, when you get out, turn left. His office is the last one on the right.”

I thank her and head toward the elevators…there are three of them, all chrome and glass, with buttons that light up when you touch them. The ride up is silent, the elevator gliding smoothly through the building like it’s floating on air. When the doors slide open on the twenty-third floor, I step out into a hallway that’s nothing like the lobby. Here it's quieter, darker, with dark wood doors lining both sides. The only sound is the soft hum of computers and the distant tap of a keyboard.

I walk slowly down the hall, my flats silent on the carpet. Every door has a name plate: Chief Financial Officer, Director of Operations, Head of Legal. They all sound so important, so far removed from my life as a graduate student living in a tiny apartment with a leaky faucet.

I stop at the last door on the right. The name plate reads simply: PHILIP DAVENPORT – CEO.

My hand hovers over the doorknob—cold steel, heavy. I take a deep breath, straighten my blouse one last time, and turn it.

The office is huge, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city, a massive dark wood desk that looks like it could seat ten people, bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes and framed photos. Philip is sitting behind the desk, typing away at his computer, but he looks up the moment I walk in. His eyes scan me from head to toe, taking in the scarf, the blouse, the flat and something in his expression shifts, just for a second.

“Ms. Wilson,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “Thank you for being on time. Please, have a seat.”

I sit down in one of the chairs across from his desk…leather, comfortable, but I sit up straight anyway. He closes his laptop and leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. The woodsy scent of his cologne fills the air, and I have to fight not to lean forward, to breathe it in deeper.

“Before we begin,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine. “I want to make something clear. Your internship here is based on your qualifications, nothing more. I reviewed your application myself, and you’re one of the most promising candidates we had this year. But that doesn’t mean the rules don’t apply to you. You will be held to the same standards as every other member of my team. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I say, though my voice comes out a little weaker than I intend.

“Good.” He picks up a folder from his desk and slides it across to me. “This has everything you need to know; your schedule, your assignments, the company handbook. You’ll be reporting directly to me for the first two weeks, then you’ll be assigned to a senior marketing manager. I expect you to be prepared for every meeting, to meet every deadline, and to keep confidential information… confidential.”

I open the folder, inside it are printed schedules, contact lists, and a thick packet of company policies. My eyes scan the first page—Confidentiality Agreement: All employees and interns must agree not to disclose any information related to company operations, clients, or personnel.

“I’ve already signed the agreement,” I say. “It was part of the internship application.”

“I know. I just wanted to be sure you remembered what it says.” He stands up, walking around the desk to lean against it, close enough that I can see the veins in his hands, the way his shirt sleeves are rolled up just above his elbows. “I meant what I said at the party, Maya. I know you’re angry. I know you think I’m the enemy. But we’re going to be working closely together for the next three months. I need you to be able to trust me.”

I stand up too, the chair scraping against the floor. “Trust is earned, Mr. Davenport. Not given.”

He smiles then—a small, tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Fair enough. But let’s start with honesty, at least. Can you manage that?”

Before I can answer, there’s a knock at the door. It opens before he can say come in, and Ethan leans against the frame, grinning like he owns the place. He’s in jeans and a faded band t-shirt, paint under his fingernails again, he looks completely out of place in the polished executive office.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, his eyes landing on me. “But I was in the building and I thought I’d stop by. Bring you a welcome gift.”

He holds up a small paper bag, inside is a cup of coffee, steam rising from the lid. “I asked for your usual…oat milk latte with extra cinnamon. Figured you’d need it on your first day.”

I look from Ethan to Philip, his jaw is tight again, his eyes dark with something I can’t name. I take the coffee from Ethan’s hand, my fingers brushing his for just a second.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice quiet.

Ethan grins, then looks at Philip. “You mind if I steal her for five minutes? I want to show her where the good coffee machine is hidden. Trust me, you don’t want to drink the stuff from the break room.”

Philip doesn’t answer at first, just looks at me, his eyes dark and intense. Then he nods once, slowly. “Five minutes. Then she has work to do.”

Ethan grabs my arm, pulling me toward the door. As we pass Philip, I look back over my shoulder. He’s watching us, his hands clenched at his sides and for the first time, I see it clearly. The anger, the want, the dangerous edge of something I'm still trying to figure out.

We step out into the hallway, and Ethan lets go of my arm. “He’s going to kill me,” he says, laughing. “But you looked like you needed a break. And you definitely need better coffee than whatever he’s got in his office.”

I take a sip of the latte, it’s perfect, just the way I like it. “How did you know?”

“Your mom mentioned it once,” he says, leading me toward the elevator. “She said you only drink oat milk because regular milk makes you break out. And you always add extra cinnamon because you think it makes you smarter.”

I stop walking, looking at him. “She talks about me?”

“All the time,” he says, his voice soft. “Let’s go… I’ll show you the good stuff. And then we’ll get you back before your boss has an aneurysm.”