The Apprentice

Friday morning I walked into Jakob’s office with the acquisition file under my arm and the week’s work already arranged in my head.

He was on a call when I entered. He glanced up, ended it with two short words, and nodded at the chair across from his desk.

“Impressions.”

I sat, opened the folder, and gave them to him without polish. The second proposal was the weakest—over-reliant on a single market, debt structure that shifted risk onto the buyer, growth numbers that only worked if everything went perfectly. The third had cleaner bones but a leadership team that had already failed once in a similar space. I told him which one I would kill, which one I would watch, and which numbers I didn’t trust.

Jakob listened in silence. When I finished he leaned back, fingers steepled, and studied me for a long moment.

“You’ve been here five days.”

“Yes.”

“Most people take a month to see half of that.”

I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to need one. He closed the folder, set it aside, and pulled another set of documents toward him.

“From now on you sit in on the Monday strategy meetings. Not just observe—prepare. I want your notes the night before.”

It wasn’t praise. It was a door opening wider.

“Understood.”

The rest of the day moved faster. Jakob kept me close—walking me through departments, letting me listen while he dismantled a vendor contract on a call, asking for my read on a junior analyst who was trying too hard to impress him. I gave him short, clean answers. He started using my name more when he spoke to other people about me. The shift was quiet, but I noticed it. I was no longer just the girl he had brought in. I was becoming useful.

Between meetings I mapped what I saw. Two soft spots had already shown themselves: a regional acquisitions manager who delayed paperwork whenever pressure increased, and a quiet inconsistency in how certain inter-company loans were being recorded. Nothing I could use yet. Just cracks. I filed them.

Owen texted twice during the afternoon. Once with a photo of the espresso machine in the staff kitchen and the caption still better than the one at home. Once with a longer message about how Jakob used to make him sit in the corner of meetings when he was sixteen and refuse to explain anything until Owen asked the right questions. I answered both. Soft. Warm enough. Each reply kept the door open. Each piece he offered settled into the growing collection of things I knew about the way this family worked.

On my way downstairs to pick up a file, Damon appeared near the elevators, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting. His eyes moved over me, then toward the private offices behind me.

“Hi, gorgeous. Settling in?” he asked, wearing that same smile that always gave me the ick.

I didn’t answer. I rolled my eyes and started walking toward the other elevator.

“Careful tiger,” he said.

I stopped.

He pushed away from the wall. “My father doesn’t let people this close unless he thinks they’re useful.”

His gaze held mine for a second longer. “I wonder what he sees in you.” Then he stepped aside.

I walked away without answering. It was barely a warning. But I filed it away.

By late afternoon the floor had thinned. Most people left early on Fridays. I was packing the last of the files Jakob had given me when Owen messaged again.

STILL DOWNSTAIRS. RIDE HOME?

I found him in the quiet hallway near the private elevators. The building felt different after hours—carpet mute, lights lowered, the air conditioning louder than the voices that usually filled it. He pushed off the wall when he saw me, hands in his pockets, that same careful hope still sitting in his expression.

“Long week?” he asked.

“Yes, but productive.”

We walked toward the elevator. The corridor was empty. Halfway there I stopped, turned, and looked at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

I let a small hesitation show, just enough for him to notice.

“Who does your father actually trust?”

Owen frowned. “Trust? What do you mean?”

“At the company. Everyone seems to listen to him, but that doesn’t mean he trusts them.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “My father doesn’t trust easily. But there are few people he actually listens to.”

“Who?”

His expression changed slightly. I gave him a small smile.

“I’m trying to understand the world I’ve walked into.”

That was only partly a lie. I needed to know who stood closest to Jakob. Who had access. Who could influence him. Who might notice if I started asking the wrong questions.

Owen looked at me for another moment before answering.

“Just a handful of them.”

He was telling me things already, but I needed names. If I wanted Owen to keep telling me things—about Jakob, about the company, about the family—I needed him to believe there was something between us worth protecting.

Trust wasn’t always built through honesty. Sometimes it was built through giving someone exactly what they wanted to believe.

And I could already see the hesitation returning to his face. If I pushed too hard, he’d start thinking instead of talking.

I needed him distracted.

I stepped closer than necessary. Close enough that he had to tip his chin down to hold my eyes. Close enough that I could smell his skin under the cologne.

“Tell me their names,” I said softly.

“There are three people he listens to…”

His breath caught as I lifted my hand and placed it flat on his chest. His heartbeat was already moving too fast. I let my palm slide down, slow, over the front of his shirt, until my fingers reached his belt. Then lower.

He was hard. Fully.

I looked up at him, letting my expression soften, and cupped him through the fabric, feeling the thick shape of him jump against my hand. His eyes slammed shut. He swallowed hard. His chest rising faster now, then a rough sound left his throat.

“Rhea—”

I stroked him once, deliberately, watching the way his jaw flexed and his hands stayed locked at his sides like he was afraid to reach for me. His hips shifted forward into my palm before he could stop them.

I kept my voice soft.

“We should take this slow.”

His eyes opened, dark and wrecked. “You’re killing me.”

“I know.”

I gave him one more slow press of my fingers, felt him throb against my hand, then stepped back and let go.

He stayed braced against the wall, breathing hard, the outline of his cock still obvious against his trousers. I smoothed my blouse, picked up my bag, and pressed the elevator button.

When the doors opened I glanced back once. Owen hadn’t moved.

I stepped inside and let the doors close between us.

The ride down was silent. My palm still tingled. I flexed my fingers once and forced the sensation away. Useful. That was all it was allowed to be.

Outside, the evening air was cool. I walked toward the car and kept my face calm.

I had spent five days inside the company. Five days opening Owen wider.

Both were working.

I just hadn’t expected the residual heat under my own skin to linger this long and follow me all the way home.