Early morning sunlight had just spilled over the roof of Weston Group when Mia Carter, fresh out of State University, stood at the lobby entrance clutching a slightly crumpled internship registration form. Her fingers trembled not from stage fright, but from excitement that thumped in her chest like a small drum, impossible to contain. The warmth of home still lingered in her nose from an hour ago: the crisp clink of plates in her parents' small diner, the rich aroma of fried eggs mingling with cooking fumes; her mother, wiping grease off her apron, tucked a paper-wrapped breakfast sandwich into her hand, pride glowing in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. "Go on, honey, don't be late." Her palm pressed lightly on Mia's shoulder, still warm from wiping the stove. Her father, who was wiping the counter, paused, slipped a few crumpled bills into her palm, his gruff voice softening: "Do your best and stay focused. We've got you at home."
Early morning sunlight had just spilled over the roof of Weston Group when Mia Carter, fresh out of State University, stood at the lobby entrance clutching a crumpled internship registration form. Her fingers trembled not from fear, but from overwhelming excitement that thumped in her chest like a small drum, impossible to contain. The warmth of home still lingered in her nose from an hour ago: the clink of plates in her parents' small diner, the rich aroma of fried eggs mingling with cooking fumes; her mother, wiping grease off her apron, tucked a paper-wrapped breakfast sandwich into her hand, pride glowing in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. "Go on, honey, don't be late." Her palm pressed lightly on Mia's shoulder, still warm from wiping the stove. Her father, who was wiping the counter, paused, slipped a few crumpled bills into her palm, his gruff voice softening: "Do your best, but don't worry. We've got you at home."
Mia nodded vigorously, hurried out the door, and tucked the sandwich into her bag—its weight was almost negligible, yet it felt like she was carrying all the hope in the world. She had replayed this day a hundred times in her mind: walking into a gleaming office building, proving she was more than just a girl who belonged in the greasy back kitchen of her parents' diner. The light blue shirt she wore was faded from washes, but her mother had ironed it repeatedly by lamplight the night before, its edges still crisp; the straps of her canvas bag were frayed, and she subconsciously pulled the bag behind her. But excitement overshadowed all that. Her eyes were fixed solely on the glass skyscraper in front of her, where sunlight glinted so brightly it made her squint, as if holding countless hopes.
She tilted her head back slightly, her neck aching before she could see the top. The glass curtain wall was spotlessly clean—nothing like the faded, curled sign of her parents' diner or the cramped little space where you could barely turn around. It was like two entirely different worlds. She took a deep breath; the air was fresher than the greasy fumes in the diner, but her nervousness thumped harder in her chest. She lifted her foot and walked into the lobby, the sole of her sneakers scraping against the polished marble floor with a faint "squeak" that stood out sharply in the silence. Men in suits hurried past, the rustle of their leather briefcases and murmur of their conversations brushing past her ears—no one spared her a glance. Mia didn't mind. Her parents' smiles played in her head, and that silent trust was more reassuring than anything. She lifted her hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her shoulders tensing involuntarily as she walked up to the front desk. Her voice trembled a little, but it was clear and bright: "Hello, I'm Mia Carter. Today's my first day as an administrative intern."
The receptionist's gaze swept over her like a cold breeze, lingering on her shirt and canvas bag before she pointed a finger at Elevator 3. "23rd floor, ask for Elena Harris." The elevator was so quiet she could hear her own breathing. Mia couldn't help but smooth down her slightly frizzy ponytail with her fingertips. As soon as the elevator doors slid open, a sharp voice cut through the office chatter: "Mia Carter?" She spun around abruptly and saw a woman in a dark suit standing there—her suit fit perfectly, no wrinkles in sight, her short hair styled neatly, and her red lipstick making her face look cold. This was her supervisor, Elena Harris, head of the Administrative Department. The woman glanced her up and down, her brows furrowed. "The new intern? Follow me." The crisp tap-tap of her high heels echoed ahead, hitting Mia's heart like little hammers. She hurried to keep up, afraid of falling behind.
Elena led her to the farthest corner of the office, squeezed between a dusty shelf and an old printer. The file folders on the shelf were covered in dust, and the printer's case was yellowed—clearly, it had been there for years. There was no computer here, just a chipped desk piled with discarded paper clips and scrap paper. Before Mia could say a word, a stack of files slammed down on the desk with a "thud," sending bits of scrap paper flying off the edge. People nearby looked up, hidden smiles in their eyes; they glanced at her once, then looked back down, their gazes stinging like needles on her back. "Sort these five years of employee files by department and year, and deliver them to the storage room by the end of the day," Elena said in a cold, flat voice, then turned and walked away.
Mia twisted the strap of her canvas bag between her fingers, her mouth dry and sticky. "Ms. Harris, could I get a list of departments? It would help me avoid mistakes." Elena waved her hand impatiently, as if shooing a fly. "Figure it out yourself. Weston doesn't waste time coddling interns who need hand-holding." Mia bit her lip until it hurt, her cheeks burning, but she mustered up the courage to persist: "With a department list, I could work faster—"
A sharp sneer cut through the silence, drawing more eyes. "Prove your worth first, then you can negotiate." Elena leaned in closer, her strong perfume mixing with a cold air that made Mia almost gasp for breath. "Put that shabby bag away—it looks unprofessional." Her voice dropped, laced with menace. "Weston doesn't keep dead weight. If you can't hack it, leave now." The sound of her high heels faded into the distance. Mia stuffed her canvas bag under the desk, pulled out a wobbly chair, and sat down. She opened the top file—the paper was yellowed, the handwriting blurred as if covered in fog, and several pages were missing corners. She flipped through a few more: some had the wrong department labels, others were stained with smudges, all of them a jumbled mess. A dull ache spread across her shoulders, but she bit her lip and bowed her head again. For her parents, she couldn't give up.
She buried herself in the files all morning, her eyes squinting almost shut as she struggled to make out the department names. People walked past her, slowing down to murmur comments under their breath: "Looks like a student" "Definitely here to do the grunt work." Their words hit her like small stones. The initial excitement faded away, leaving only exhaustion. By noon, her stomach rumbled. She suddenly remembered she'd wolfed down the sandwich on the subway that morning, not even tasting it. She pulled out the bills her father had given her and walked to the break room. The lights here were harsh and bright, the metal countertops polished until they reflected her shadow—nothing like the oily tile floor of her parents' diner kitchen. It was like two different planets.
Mia's eyes were immediately drawn to the coffee machine in the middle of the counter. Its chrome body glinted coldly, a row of buttons glowing with soft blue light. People next to it pressed the buttons lightly with their fingertips, and a rich coffee aroma filled the air. She stood at the door for a long time, her feet feeling heavy as lead—usually, she drank either the bitter pot coffee from her parents' diner or cheap instant coffee in packets. She'd only ever seen a machine like this in movies.
Curiosity overcame her shyness. She took a small step forward, her eyes fixed on the buttons, her heart racing: Which button do I press first for espresso? How do I use the milk frother without boiling over the milk? Her fingertip lifted involuntarily, hovering just an inch above the "Cappuccino" button. Suddenly, she felt a gaze on her. She looked up sharply and saw a woman next to her staring at her, a faint smile on her lips—not a kind one. The woman turned back to murmur something to her colleague. Mia couldn't hear what they were saying, but her cheeks burned instantly, and she pulled her hand back as if it had been burned. It felt like dozens of eyes were on her—curious, contemptuous. She froze, panic washing over her. She didn't even know how to use the machine; she couldn't even make a simple cup of coffee. The people around her operated it so smoothly, as if the machine were an extension of their own bodies. The sign on the water tank that read "Interns Prohibited" in red ink hit her like a slap in the face.
Mia turned and fled, her footsteps quick with urgency. All her initial excitement was gone, replaced by a tight, suffocating humiliation. She ran to the farthest corner of the break room, where there was an unlabeled shelf with a few packs of instant coffee—the only thing she recognized, the only thing she felt "allowed" to take. She tore open a pack, poured the brown powder into a thin paper cup, filled it with tap water, and stirred it with a plastic spoon that bent as soon as she pressed it. A harsh artificial bitter smell filled the air, clashing miserably with the lingering aroma of fresh coffee. She leaned against the cold wall, staring at the tips of her sneakers. Her parents' proud smiles faded in her mind. This wasn't the new life she'd dreamed of. There was no joy of belonging—only a sharp sense of alienation. She was an outsider, a lost child in a world where everyone else knew the rules except her. If she couldn't even figure out a coffee machine, how could she ever stand her ground here? She took a sip of the coffee; the warm liquid slid down her throat, but it did nothing to chase away the cold embarrassment in her heart. She couldn't let her parents down, but at this moment, the gap between her parents' small diner and this gleaming skyscraper felt like an uncrossable river.
Her mind was filled with the jumbled files. Without a department list, she was terrified of sorting them wrong. She was afraid of disappointing Elena, even more afraid of letting her parents down. Mia turned around restlessly, wanting to find a quiet place to eat a few bites of granola bar. Suddenly, her shoulder crashed into something hard. The paper cup in her hand flew out, hot coffee splashing in a brown arc through the air and soaking the other person's jacket. The cup hit the tile floor with a "clink," and the remaining coffee splashed up, burning her ankles through her thin socks.
She stumbled back, tripping over a loose floor tile. She grabbed the edge of the counter frantically to steady herself, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out of her throat. "Oh my god... I'm so sorry! Truly sorry!" She babbled her apologies, her voice trembling uncontrollably as she fumbled through her canvas bag for the crumpled pack of tissues. Her hands were shaking so badly that half the tissues fell to the floor. She hurried to kneel down and pick them up, her knees hitting the tile with a painful thud. But her cheeks were hotter than her knees—this was so much worse than spilling a milkshake in the diner. A milkshake could be wiped up, but this jacket looked expensive, way beyond what her family could afford. One mistake here, and she could lose this internship.
A deep voice cut through her panic—no anger in it, but cold enough to make her freeze. "Watch where you're going." She slowly looked up, her breath catching in her throat. The man in front of her was tall, standing straight but relaxed, like a firmly rooted tree that kept the chaos around him at bay. He looked about her age, with neatly trimmed dark hair, a few stray strands lying smoothly on his forehead. His jaw was tight, and his deep brown eyes glanced at her briefly before falling on the coffee stain on his jacket. There was no anger in his gaze, only a faint look of annoyance, as if she were nothing more than a minor inconvenience who'd gotten in his way.
Mia's eyes fixed on his jacket, her heart sinking to the bottom of her stomach. Even soaked with coffee, the fabric looked high-quality—way out of her price range. She'd seen similar styles in department store windows, the price tags so high she'd dared not look too long—it would take her parents' diner months to earn that much. Her mind went blank: she lived in a small apartment with her parents, splitting the rent to keep the diner afloat; she ate leftover fries from the diner for meals and the cheapest granola bars for snacks. Now she'd ruined a luxury item, and the man might be an intern just like her. Was he also working hard to save money and make a life in this city? She'd not only ruined his day, but she might have cost him his job. She'd made such a fool of herself in front of someone her age, someone who should have understood her struggle.
Liam's gaze lingered on the coffee stain on his jacket for no more than two seconds before moving away. The Italian custom cashmere jacket was just something he'd grabbed casually from his closet—insignificant. The stain was ugly, but it wasn't worth his trouble. A quick call, and his personal dry cleaner would come pick it up. The cost was nothing more than a dollar to him. What annoyed him slightly was the chaos in front of him: the fallen paper cup, the girl's incoherent apologies, her frayed canvas bag and dusty sneakers—all of it sticking out like a sore thumb in the clean break room. He'd taken the internship at Weston only to comply with his family's wishes, to "experience the grassroots," and he had no intention of taking it seriously. He hated these little interruptions that disrupted his rhythm.
He didn't frown or get angry; he just stepped slightly to the side to avoid the water on the floor. His fingertips brushed casually over the jacket buttons, as light as if brushing away a speck of dust, and he took off the jacket. The white shirt underneath was custom-made by a top Savile Row tailor. A few drops of coffee had splashed on it, but he didn't care. He draped the jacket over his arm, not even thinking about the dry cleaning—his butler would take care of it. The girl held out a tissue, trembling. He glanced at it, picked one up between his thumb and forefinger, barely touching her hand, eager to end the awkwardness quickly. He said nothing, just dabbed lazily at the stain on his shirt, not bothering to be thorough. He wouldn't yell at her or ask for compensation—arguing with an embarrassed intern over something so trivial was a waste of time. He'd forget this little incident as soon as he walked away.
Mia watched as he threw the tissue into the trash can, then turned and walked into the private lounge of the break room. The door clicked shut softly, almost silently. She knelt on the floor, her chest tight with frustration—worse than if he'd yelled at her. He couldn't even be bothered to look at her again, as if she wasn't worth his anger. She'd not only ruined his jacket, but she'd made him see her as a nuisance, a clumsy fool. She wiped the coffee off the floor with trembling hands, scrubbing the tile until it shone, but her panic didn't fade. Would he tell Elena? Would Elena use this as an excuse to fire her? She couldn't go home and tell her parents she'd lost her internship because she'd spilled a cup of coffee.
She bowed her head and hurried back to her desk, her ponytail hanging down over her shoulders, blocking the stares of the people around her. Whispers buzzed in her ears like mosquitoes: "Clumsy idiot, can't even walk straight" "Dresses like that and still dares to intern here—so overconfident." She pretended not to hear, burying her face in the files, but the words stung like needles, making her eyes water.
The afternoon dragged on like a snail's pace. Mia kept sorting the files, but the pile seemed endless—documents with wrong labels popped up one after another. Her fingers went stiff and numb, her shoulders aching as if they would fall off. She mustered up the courage to ask a colleague next to her how to handle a file with missing pages. The colleague didn't even look up, waving her hand and saying, "Busy. Leave me alone."
People in the office gradually left, leaving her alone. Despair washed over her—she hadn't even finished half the files. Just as she reached for another document, a shadow fell across her desk. It was Elena.
Elena slammed a blank document on the desk, her voice as cold as ice. "Work overtime. Finish the office supplies expense report for last quarter and put it on my desk by 8 a.m. tomorrow." Mia's eyes widened. "But I haven't finished sorting these files yet, and I don't have the data for the report..." "Find it yourself," Elena sneered. "Weston's success isn't handed to anyone. Either prove you're worthy of being here, or pack your bags and leave."
The sound of Elena's high heels faded into the distance. The office was eerily quiet, with only the hum of the printer and the tick-tock of the clock. Mia sat frozen in her chair, staring at the blank document and the tall pile of files, chills running down her spine. She was trapped. Without data, how could she possibly finish both tasks? Thinking of her parents' smiles, tears welled up in her eyes. She quickly blinked them away. For the first time, she began to doubt herself: maybe she really wasn't good enough. Too poor, too inexperienced—she could never cross the gap of her background. She placed her hand on the blank document; the cold paper pricked her palm. This corner desk felt like a small cage. Could she ever escape?