No Backing down

The ride home was a silent, suffocating blur. The moment the car stilled, I bolted out fervently needing the scalding spray of a shower to scrub away the office grime and the lingering weight of William’s presence.

For a few minutes, the steam let me forget the marble Mansion I now lived in.

An hour later, a soft knock signaled the arrival of Mrs. Higgins the Housekeeper . She brought a shimmering blue silk dress as a gift from my mother for tonight’s formal dinner.

Sliding into it, the fabric felt like a cold, expensive second skin. It wasn't to my taste at all but I wore it just to make her happy. I had to keep the appearance of a united family just because I needed this internship opportunity to fund my law degree.

**

Downstairs, the dining room was an arena of clinking silverware and my mother’s strained, melodic laughter. I picked at a piece of sea bass that tasted like ash, the silk blue dress tightening around my ribs with every shallow breath.

"You're very quiet, Isabel," Arthur noted, his kindness booming through the tension. "William, are you working her too hard already?"

William didn't look up from his crystal glass.

"She’s learning the pace. Sterling Global doesn’t slow down for anyone."

"She’s always been a hardworking girl," Mom interjected, her eyes silently begging me to play the part of the grateful debutante. "Back in Brooklyn New York —"

"Brooklyn is a world away from here, Sarah," William interrupted. His voice dropped an octave as his gaze finally lifted, dragging slowly from my throat to my eyes. "Isn't it, Isabel?"

"A lifetime away," I managed, my pulse thrumming a frantic rhythm as I forced a small smile.

When the second dessert ended, I vanished. I took the stairs two at a time, I badly needed to shed this costume and find Isabel Mayfield again my real self. I was halfway down the dim hallway of the rooms when a hand erupted from the shadows.

A firm grip latched onto my arm, hauling me backward into a darkened doorway. I gasped to scream, but a palm clamped over my mouth, smelling of cedar and expensive soap.

"Shh," William hissed against my ear.

He pressed me into the cold stone wall, with his body his chest was a solid wall, heavy with heat against mine. A sliver of moonlight caught the hard line of his jaw. He retracted his hand but stayed inches away, pinning me with his shadow.

"Let go," I whispered.

"You look ridiculous in this dress," he murmured, the vibration of his voice sending a jolt down my spine.

"It’s a costume, just like the one your mother is wearing. You're here for the money, aren't you? My mother spent twenty years building this wealth and name while yours was likely scouting her next wedding ring to pawn."

"You don't know a thing about us," I snapped, shoving against his chest. It was like trying to move a mountain.

"I know exactly what you are." He moved his hand to the side of my neck, his thumb pressing firmly into the sensitive skin behind my ear. "A Mayfield. All grit and gold-digging ambition. You think you can sit in my mother’s chair and inherit a life you didn't earn?"

"I’m not trying to inherit anything!"

"Then why stay? Why are you here?"

He leaned in until our breaths mingled, his eyes burning with a focused, icy loathing.

"I’m supposed to hate you, Isabel. And I do. Every time I see you at my table, it’s a reminder of how easily my father is played. I’m going to make this supposed internship so miserable that you pack your thrift-store clothes and run back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

"Is that a threat?" I challenged, my breath hitching.

"It’s a promise." His voice dropped to a dangerous, slow whisper. "I’m going to watch you fail. No amount of silk can hide what you really are. You don't belong here."

He simply stared at me with a hard, unforgiving intensity before stepping back into the darkness.

"Don't be late tomorrow," he added, his mask of professional coldness snapping back into place. "And find better shoes. You're embarrassing the firm."

I made it to my room and fumbled with the tiny buttons. They felt like traps. As the dress hit the floor, I stepped out of it as if it were on fire, yanking on my oversized college hoodie and faded leggings my comfort wear.

I stared at the girl in the mirror.

My eyes were bright with fury and a spark of something electric I refused to name. I am supposed to leave to put an end to this constant humiliation but I can't. I can't keep working for pennies. This internship pays more.

The next morning, I arrived fifteen minutes early in a sharp thrifted blazer and heels I’d polished to a lethal shine. I bypassed the intern pool and headed straight for the executive suite.

The glass doors hissed open. William’s assistant, Maria: A woman who looked carved from ice barely glanced up.

"He’s in a meeting. Wait in the library."

"Actually," I said, my voice steady and projected, "Mr. Sterling told me not to be late. I have the merger data. I’ll wait in his office."

I pushed past her before she could object.

His office was massive, overlooking a river and smelling of power. I sat in the guest chair, opened my tablet, and waited.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open. William entered, flanked by men in dark, expensive suits. He stopped dead when he saw me sitting there, legs crossed, looking like I owned the space. The men behind him faltered.

"William? Is there a problem?" one asked.

William’s eyes locked onto mine. The hatred was there, but so was a flicker of genuine surprise. "No problem," he rumbled, gesturing for them to leave.

Once the door clicked shut, he dropped his briefcase. He didn't sit. He stalked around the mahogany desk until he towered over me.

"I thought I told you that you don't belong here."

"You told me not to be late," I shot back, standing up so we were eye-to-eye. "I’m here to work. You can hate me all you want, but I will be the best intern this firm has ever seen. If you want me gone, fire me for my work—not my name or my mother's."

He leaned in, his shadow swallowing me whole. "You think a blazer and a tone make us equals? You’re playing a game you don't understand, Isabel."

"Then teach me the rules," I challenged. "Unless you’re afraid I’ll learn them too well."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. The tension was so thick I expected the windows to shatter. "Fine," he whispered. His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to my eyes.

"A press meeting starts in an hour. You’re handling the crisis questions. If a single journalist leaves with a bad headline, you’re out. No excuses. No family favors."

"Deal," I said.

As I turned to go, his voice caught me at the door. "Isabel?"

I paused, hand on the handle.

"The shoes are better," he said, his voice returning to its professional chill. "But don't get comfortable.

The floor is still slippery."