~Karla's Pov~
I'm late.
Of course I'm late.
I blame the MTA, my phone's broken GPS, and my complete lack of New York street smarts. Also, the fact that I barely slept.
By the time I reach Vale & Co., I'm panting, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, and silently cursing the heels I thought were a good idea. The building is all glass and arrogance, stretching into the clouds like it knows it owns the sky.
Interns don't usually get to start at firms like this. I know that. But I aced the interview, and I think part of me just got lucky. Or maybe it was Aunt Evelyn watching over me.
I don't have time to be grateful; I'm already late for orientation.
I bolt across the marble lobby, barely skimming the security guard's instructions, and dive into the elevator just as the doors begin to close.
And slam directly into someone.
Coffee sloshes. My phone drops. I catch my bag before it falls, but not my dignity.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"
A strong hand steadies me. I look up.
And freeze.
He's tall. Broad shoulders. A tailored charcoal suit, black shirt, no tie. His jawline could cut glass, and his eyes, icy blue, are studying me like I'm a riddle he doesn't have time to solve.
"It's fine," he says, brushing the spot on his sleeve where a few drops of my latte landed. "You okay?"
"Y-Yeah. Just running late."
"Clearly."
He bends down, picks up my phone, and hands it to me. "First day?"
I nod, cheeks burning.
He says nothing else. Just turns toward the elevator buttons and presses 36 without asking.
I sneak a glance at him. He doesn't look at me again.
The silence stretches all the way up.
The doors open.
He steps out, then pauses. Looks back.
"For future reference," he says, voice smooth as marble, "the express elevators are faster. Right side of the lobby."
Then he disappears down the hall.
And I just stand there like an idiot, heart thumping, clutching a coffee-stained bag and wondering what the hell that was.
When I check in at the front desk of the marketing department, the receptionist barely looks up.
"Intern orientation started ten minutes ago. Conference Room 2."
I nod and slip inside as quietly as I can.
At the head of the table is a woman in heels that cost more than my rent, droning on about company policies. Everyone else is taking notes. I slide into a seat in the back.
I make it through the next hour without embarrassing myself again—until the door swings open one last time.
And in walks the man from the elevator.
My throat tightens.
Everyone straightens. Even the polished woman at the front stops mid-sentence.
"Mr. Vale," she says, smiling tightly.
Mr. Vale.
Dominic Vale.
I almost laugh. Of course.
He walks to the head of the room, confident, unreadable, and completely untouchable.
"Carry on," he says, folding his arms as his gaze sweeps the room.
And lingers, for just a moment—on me.
Dominic Vale doesn't even blink.
His gaze glides past me like I'm invisible, like we didn't just share a tense, awkward, and coffee-splattered elevator ride five minutes ago. Like I'm not the same girl who nearly body-slammed him on the way up.
He leans against the conference table with the kind of calm authority that makes everyone in the room sit up straighter.
"We expect nothing but excellence here," he says, tone sharp, clipped. "That includes interns. If you're here for hand-holding or coffee-fetching clichés, leave now. This company doesn't have time for dead weight."
No one moves. A few people swallow hard. I stare at the notepad in front of me, the pen trembling slightly in my grip.
"And if you're late again," he adds, eyes locking—briefly—onto mine, "don't bother coming back."
The room goes still.
My stomach twists. Seriously?
I showed up two minutes late and now I'm being publicly humiliated?
My throat burns with the effort it takes not to speak. Not to bite back with something sharp. He said nothing in the elevator, just handed me my phone with that cold little smirk like he was doing me a favor.
Now he's acting like we've never met. Like I'm just some faceless nobody.
I scoff quietly to myself, not even realizing I've done it out loud.
How can he just be twenty-six and own everything? The company, the room, the people… even the air feels like it answers to him.
He must've inherited it all. That has to be it.
No one builds empires that fast. Not unless they're born with gold cufflinks in their mouth and a building named after their last name before they hit puberty.
God, he's insufferable.
"Something funny, intern?" he says, without looking up from the folder in his hand.
My spine straightens.
"No, sir."
He raises an eyebrow at my tone, and something flickers behind his eyes—like amusement or maybe annoyance.
He lets it go.
The woman running the orientation clears her throat, her cheeks pink, and continues explaining departmental divisions. I barely hear her. My focus is stuck on Dominic Vale, who is now flipping through papers like nothing happened. Like he didn't just put me in my place with a room full of strangers watching.
What a jerk.
What a powerful, ridiculously attractive, cold-blooded, arrogant jerk.
When the session ends, he's already gone.
Of course.
I trail behind the other interns as we're led through the glossy hallways of Vale & Co. Marketing. Everything is pristine—glass walls, black matte accents, high-end everything. The place looks like it came out of a billionaire's Pinterest board.
We pass by offices full of well-dressed people who don't look up, and I wonder how long it'll take before I blend in… or disappear.
Eventually, we're shown to our workstations—tiny desks grouped into a corner of the open-concept floor.
"This is where you'll be shadowing your assigned teams," the coordinator says. "Some of you will work with the creative leads, others in strategy. You'll rotate every few weeks."
As she lists names, I pull out my phone and glance down at the wallpaper—an old photo of me and Aunt Evelyn in the garden back home. She's smiling, holding up a cup of tea like she's toasting the future.
I'm here, Aunt Evelyn. I'm doing it.
Even if I have to do it under the thumb of a man who clearly thinks I'm disposable.
I square my shoulders, slide my phone away, and sit down.
Let Dominic Vale act like he owns the city.
I'm not here to impress him.
I'm here to survive it.