Chapter 4: First Day of Bullying

The alarm clock on my nightstand didn't just beep; it sounded like a literal siren for my own execution. 5:45 AM.

I rolled out of the silk sheets—which felt way too smooth and expensive, like they were making fun of my dry, New York skin—and stood in the middle of a walk-in closet the size of my old apartment. My eyes landed on the dark floral dress hanging there. I reached for it, my fingers just brushing the fabric, before William’s voice hissed in my head: Take this off and burn it.

I pulled out a stiff charcoal blazer and a crisp white shirt from my suitcase instead. It was professional, uncomfortable, and felt like wearing a suit of armor.

By 6:55 AM, I was standing in the grand hallway. The marble floors were polished so bright I could see my own nervous face reflecting back at me. I checked my watch. 6:58.

"Punctual. That’s a new one for your family."

William was leaning against the doorway of the study, a silver espresso cup in one hand and a leather briefcase in the other. He was wearing a navy suit that looked like it had been painted on him, his tie perfectly straight. He didn’t look tired at all. He looked like he’d already conquered three countries before breakfast.

"I told you I work," I said, grabbing my bag. "I don’t need a lecture on being on time."

He walked toward me, slow and steady. He stopped just inches away, and that scent of sandalwood and cold rain hit me again, even stronger in the morning air. He looked me up and down, his eyes stopping at my plain white collar.

"Better," he murmured, his voice low. "But the shoes are a total disaster. We’ll have to fix that."

"My shoes are fine."

"Your shoes are for a waitress, Isabel. You’re an intern at Sterling Global now. Try to keep up."

He turned and headed for the door without waiting for me to say anything. I followed him out to a black Bentley idling in the driveway. The ride into London was basically a tomb of silence. He spent the whole forty minutes staring at a tablet, his thumb scrolling through graphs with a cold, robotic focus. He didn't give me a tour. He didn't tell me what to do. He just existed in his own bubble of power, leaving me feeling like I couldn't breathe.

When we pulled up to the Sterling Global headquarters—a massive glass tower that looked like it was stabbing the clouds—my stomach did a slow, sick flip.

"Follow me. And keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise," William said as the door was opened for him.

The lobby was a blur of shiny steel and stone. Security guards actually bowed their heads as he passed, and assistants scrambled out of his way like he was carrying the plague. We stepped into a private elevator. The doors slid shut, trapping us in a tiny, mirrored box.

I caught his reflection. He was watching me through the glass, his gaze heavy and hard to read.

"Scared?" he asked softly.

"Nervous," I corrected, lifting my chin. "There's a difference."

"Good. Nervous keeps you sharp. Scared gets you fired."

The doors opened on the 50th floor. The office was wide open, minimalist, and terrifyingly quiet. A woman with her hair pulled back so tight it looked painful stood at a desk. She looked up, her eyes flicking from William to me with instant, sharp dislike.

"Sophia," William said, not even slowing down as he headed toward his corner office. "This is Isabel Mayfield. She’s the new intern."

Sophia’s gaze raked over me, landing on my scuffed heels. "The... stepdaughter?"

She spat the word out like it was bitter. William paused at his office door, his hand on the handle. He didn't even look back at me.

"She’s an intern, Sophia. Treat her like one. Give her the backlog from the Manchester merger. I want the physical audits checked by the end of the day."

Sophia’s lips curled into a mean, predator-like smile. "Of course, William."

He disappeared into his office, the heavy glass door clicking shut. Sophia turned back to me, her expression turning cold and triumphant. She reached under her desk and hauled up a stack of heavy cardboard boxes, slamming them onto a small, cramped desk in the corner, far away from the windows.

"These are the paper invoices and entries for the last three years of the Manchester acquisition," she said, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Most of this is already on the computer, but William wants a manual check to make sure it's 'accurate.' It’s about four thousand pages."

I looked at the mountain of paper. "By the end of the day?"

"In this building, we don't ask for extra time, Miss Mayfield." She stepped closer, her perfume way too sweet and heavy. "And just so we're clear? I’ve seen girls like you come and go. You think because your mother wore the right dress to the right party, you belong here? You don't. You’re a charity case in a borrowed suit. Now, get to work."

I sat down. The chair was uncomfortable. The desk was dusty. And the mountain of paper felt like a grave I was supposed to dig.

I didn't look at the office door. I didn't look at the view of London. I just picked up the first page and started to read.

Five hours later, my eyes were burning. I hadn't had water. I hadn't had lunch. Every time I looked up, I could see William through the glass of his office. He was on the phone, leaning back in his leather chair, looking like the king of the world. He never once looked my way.

By 6:00 PM, the office started to empty out. The lights dimmed automatically, leaving me in a small pool of light at my desk. My fingers were stained with ink, and my head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice.

A shadow fell over my desk.

I looked up. William was standing there, his coat over his arm, looking just as perfect as he had at 7:00 AM. He looked at the stacks of paper I’d organized, then at the dark circles under my eyes.

"You're still here," he noted.

"I'm not finished," I said, my voice sounding scratchy.

He stepped closer, reaching down to pick up one of the ledgers I’d been working on. He flipped through it, his eyes scanning my neat, precise notes in the margins.

"Sophia gave you this to break you," he said quietly. "It’s dead data. It doesn't even matter."

I felt a surge of hot, stinging anger. "Then why did you let her give it to me?"

William dropped the ledger back onto the desk. He leaned over, planting his hands on the wood, bringing his face level with mine. The office was empty. The silence was absolute.

"Because I wanted to see if you’d quit," he whispered. "I wanted to see if you’d run back to your mother and cry about how mean the big, bad billionaires are."

"I don't quit," I hissed, leaning in until our noses were almost touching.

His gaze dropped to my lips again, and this time, he didn't look away. The tension from the kitchen the night before was back, ten times stronger, vibrating in the air between us. He reached out, his thumb catching a smudge of ink on my cheek. He didn't wipe it away; he just smeared it, his skin rough and warm against mine.

"You're a mess, Isabel," he murmured, his voice dropping to that dangerous, velvet sound. "Ink on your face. Cheap suit. Exhausted eyes."

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over my skin.

"And you're the only thing in this entire building that isn't fake."

He pulled away suddenly, the cold air rushing in to fill the space he’d left.

"Go home. The car is waiting downstairs. And Isabel?"

I looked up, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Wear the floral dress tomorrow," he said, a dark, unreadable look in his eyes. "I want to see if you'll actually defy me twice."