Joining My Husband’s Company as an Intern

Today was my first day at work as an intern in my husband Evan Grant’s company.

I stood by the front desk, about to head over to the HR department to check in, when a woman in a high-end designer suit barged in, slamming a Marriage Certificate onto the counter.

“A new intern? No wonder you’re so clueless!”

“Holding that document so high, are you trying to hide your face or just in my way? Put it down! Stand properly with your hands at your sides!”

Following intern protocol, I lowered my head slightly and spoke in a calm, neutral tone:

“Hello, how may I help you?”

That single “Hello” seemed to ignite her fury.

She stopped in front of me, her voice sharp:

“What’s going on? Does the HR department just hire anyone now?”

She pointed to my name badge.

“Look at my certificate, then look at your badge. What makes you think you have the right to speak to me? Call me Mrs. Grant!”

The intern standing next to me paled and quickly tugged my sleeve, bending forward first:

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grant! She’s new and doesn’t know the rules. Please don’t be angry!”

The woman snorted and rolled her eyes before striding into Evan’s private office.

The intern whispered to me:

“That’s Vivian Moore, Mr. Grant’s First Love. Don’t mess with her. If she whispers a word to him, our entire internship could be over.”

I was a bit surprised. Evan only had one marriage certificate, which should have been safely locked in our apartment’s safe.

So why would he allow this woman, Vivian, to wave a fake certificate around and strut through his company?

I pushed down my doubts. Right now, completing my internship tasks and observing Evan’s management style was my top priority. This was also a chance to see just how arrogant this self-proclaimed Mrs. Grant could be under his indulgence.

...

By lunch, Vivian had already called the internal line directly to the HR department.

I answered, and her sharp voice came through the receiver:

“Bring me a hand-brewed coffee, Blue Mountain No. 1, water at 185 degrees Fahrenheit, and have it in my office immediately.”

I hurried to the pantry, but hand-grinding the coffee beans took time. A five-minute delay was enough.

By the time I carried the coffee to her, she waved her hand violently:

“Is your HR department dead? Look at the time! My perfect tasting window has been missed by five whole minutes! Do you know how much the flavor suffers with this temperature difference?

“If it ruins my mood, are you ready to take responsibility?”

All eyes in the HR department turned to me.

Although Vivian looked immaculate and dressed perfectly, her cutting tone made everyone uncomfortable.

I forced myself to stay professional:

“Ms. Moore, I’m very sorry, but hand-brewed coffee does take time.”