Chapter Seven

Scarlett’s POV

I furrowed my brows in confusion, unconsciously rubbing the spot he had gripped me.

The crisp navy blue of his suit disappeared as he rounded the corner, the air in the room suddenly becoming lighter.

What exactly was his problem?

I scratched my head absentmindedly, a fake cough breaking me out of my reverie.

The guard awkwardly scratched his head, his other hand holding the steel doors open for me.

I gasped softly, red creeping up my cheeks as I offered him a small smile.

The elevator dinged again, the doors sliding open to reveal another floor.

I craned my neck, admiring the architecture of this place.

The floors were lined with polished hardwood, the floors so clear, the bulbs above reflected their light.

The cream colored walls were lined with paintings and certificates, big redwood doors lining the winding corridor.

The guard gestured for me to keep walking, his brown eyes sparkling under the passage lights.

We rounded a corner, winding steps coming into view as he led me up the dim stairway.

We walked slowly, the rug underfoot soft to the touch, muffling our footsteps.

We reached the landing, the guard pointing towards a room at the end of the corridor.

I squeezed twenty dollars into his hands, his calloused fingers wrapping around the dollar bill.

He offered me a small smile, his gap teeth reminding me of my roommate back at school.

He quickly turned around, disappearing down the stairs.

I glanced at the door, swallowing thickly as I shakily headed towards it, anxiety closing up my throat.

I pushed it open, relief flooding me as I realised it was just an office.

The room was empty save for an oak desk at a corner,  a file cabinet at the far west end, an office chair and a potted plant.

I opened the curtains, noticing the room smelt faintly of lemon zest and lavender.

I dropped my purse on the desk, settling into the chair as I noticed pieces of paper peeking out from one of my drawers.

The intercom on my desk beeped, my hands to my chest as a man's voice spoke up.

“I'm assuming you're the new intern?”

“Y-yeah, how did you know I was already here?” I asked, popping the door open and glancing down the corridor.

“Ah, she's got jokes I see,” the voice drawled, Texan accent faint but perceivable.

“Oh right, you have no idea who's talking, do you?” he chuckled, dissipating a bit of tension as he did so.

“I'm Mr Blackwood’s P.A. Most of your communication with each other will be through me–

“Why would an intern be communicating with the CEO if you don't mind me asking?”

A dramatic sigh was heard on the other end, “You were assigned management, color me surprised. I know,” keyboard clacked on the other end, his voice distant as I pulled out the papers from my drawers.

“Management?”

“Yup.”

“But–”

“Look, sweetie. I really don't have the time for this, and I'm not even trying to be mean. I'll assume you've seen the work on your desk?”

“Ye–” he continued, not waiting for me to finish.

“Get to that first, Mr Blackwood needs it on his desk before eleven…eleven? Nope, make that ten,”

“But I–

The intercom buzzed, the room descending into silence once more as I sighed, glazing over the sheets

••••

I knocked on the large door, a muffled “come in” on the other side urging me to push it open.

My legs felt like jelly as I craned my neck into the room, “Come in, come in,” he repeated, setting his glass of water down softly, gesturing at me.

I forced my legs to move, clutching the file to my chest with each step I took.

“Here,” I said, placing them on his desk as I shrunk into myself, feeling unusually self conscious under his gaze.

Like I was being undressed by his eyes, like he could see the innermost core of my soul.

He leaned back in his chair like he owned the damn place

Technically, he kind of does.

He picked it up, taking his sweet time as he flipped through it, blue eyes scanning each sheet carefully, calculatedly.

He placed it on the desk, silent sitting between us, thickening the air in the spacious office.

I fiddled with my thumbs, the soles of his suede shoes clicking against the black tiles as he rounded the table, leaning against it.

I keep my eyes on the data sheet in front of me, feeling his eyes bore into the center of my head.

“Scarlett,” he says slowly, like he’s testing my name again, feeling the way it rolls off his tongue, “you’re assuming the user journey starts at engagement. That’s a rookie assumption.”

Heat flares in my chest. “It starts at exposure, yes, but engagement is where value perception begins. That’s where we-”

He cuts in. “Not if your exposure leaves a bitter first impression. Your campaign’s too sleek. It feels manipulative.”

Is he trying to tell me how to do my job?

My jaw clenches. I know what he’s doing. He doesn’t argue to understand, he argues to challenge. To push.

I swallow thickly, stabbing the sheet on the desk with my index.

“I disagree,” I say calmly. “It’s strategic. Emotional hooks aren’t manipulation, they’re resonance.”

The edges of his lips turn up ever so slightly, "This model you used," he said, gesturing towards a spreadsheet printout, "It's smart. But you didn't factor in Q2's carryover."

I inhaled slowly through my nose. "I did. Page three, cell D28."

He bent slightly, eyes glossing over the crisp sheets, then back to me. A quiet smirk curved at the corner of his mouth. Not smug…worse.

He was impressed.

"Right. You did,” he finally said, air thick between us.

"You said you wanted these sheets before ten. Here they are.”

I didn’t wait for his reply. I needed air. Distance. A wall I could actually lean on.

I stepped out of the office, heart drumming in my ear as I heard him shuffle around on the other side of the door.

What the actual fuck have I gotten myself into?