On my first day at Sterling Group, I arrived early dressed in a sharp, grey, professional outfit that echoes mother's style.
The day began not with a bang, but with a carefully orchestrated whisper. Diana's office was a monument to beige minimalism, a stark contrast to my father's warm, wood-paneled sanctuary down the hall.
"Elara, darling, welcome!" she greeted me, her smile a perfect blend of warmth and professional distance. "I'm so thrilled to have you here. We're going to start you off gently. I don't want you to feel overwhelmed on your very first day."
"Of course, Ms. Diana. I appreciate you looking out for me," I replied, my own smile just as polished.
She gestured to a small, isolated desk outside her office. "We'll get you set up here. To help you understand the foundation of our PR archives, I'd love for you to start by cross-referencing our media clippings from the last decade with our digital database. It's a bit tedious, but it's how I learned the business—from the ground up."
It was a masterstroke. A task that was impossibly dull, seemingly educational, and completely isolating. It would keep me buried in paper, away from live projects, and far from anyone who might talk to me. In my first life, I would have seen it as a nurturing gesture.
Now, I saw the bars of a gilded cage.
"It sounds like a perfect way to get oriented," I said, my tone dripping with grateful enthusiasm.
I spent the morning in the silent, dusty corporate library, surrounded by towering shelves of binders. My fingers grew smudged with old newsprint, but my mind was sharp and clear. While my hands sorted articles about long-forgotten product launches, my eyes were photographing everything.
I "accidentally" pulled the wrong binder—the one containing confidential personnel performance reviews from five years ago. I "stumbled" across the archived financial projections for a division Diana would later claim was always a loss-maker. I was a ghost in the machine, absorbing its secrets while appearing to do mindless busywork.
During my sanctioned breaks, I didn't hide at my desk. I wandered to the coffee station on the executive floor, making polite, slightly awed small talk with the senior assistants. I remembered their names from my past life, asking after their families. I was the humble, curious heiress, not a threat. I was building a network in the places Diana deemed beneath her notice.
The real test came that afternoon. Diana called a meeting for her PR team to brainstorm the new campaign for "Sterling Essence," our flagship line of luxury perfumes.
"The data suggests the younger market finds us… staid," Diana announced, clicking to a slide filled with vibrant, chaotic graphics. "We need to pivot. Make it accessible, relatable. We're thinking a campaign focused on 'everyday luxury'—influencers, social media challenges, a complete packaging overhaul to something brighter, more mass-market."
I sat in the corner, a silent observer. This was it. The beginning of the brand dilution that had eroded our core customer base and devalued the company, making it easier for her and Liam to swallow whole.
The junior staff nodded, eager to please. The senior members looked uneasy but stayed silent.
Diana's gaze swept the room. "Any initial thoughts?"
There was a murmur of assent. Then, I slowly raised my hand.
All eyes turned to me. Diana's smile was patronizing. "Yes, Elara? A question from our intern?"
"It's a very dynamic concept, Ms. Sterling," I began, my voice respectful and clear. "It certainly grabs attention." I paused, letting the compliment hang before delivering the subtle knife. "I was just thinking about the Hamilton brand loyalty report from last quarter that daddy… that Mr. Sterling was reviewing. It highlighted that our core demographic—women aged 45 and above—account for over seventy percent of our recurring revenue. I was just wondering, have we run the analytics on how this shift in messaging might impact their perception of the brand's exclusivity?"
The room went utterly silent. A junior analyst dropped a pen. The sound was like a gunshot.
I had exposed the fatal flaw in Diana's plan with a simple, data-driven inquiry, framed not as a challenge, but as a curious learning point.
Diana's smile didn't just tighten; it became a rigid, painted-on line. The warmth in her eyes evaporated, replaced by a glacial chill. She had underestimated me.
"A… an excellent point, Elara," she said, her voice strained. "Of course, we'll be conducting extensive market testing. We would never alienate our core customers." She quickly steered the conversation away, but the damage was done.
The senior staff members were now looking at me with newfound interest, not just as the boss's daughter, but as someone with a sharp mind. The seed of doubt in Diana's judgment was sown.
As the meeting adjourned, Diana placed a hand on my shoulder. Her grip was firm.
"That was a very… astute observation," she said, her voice low. "But remember, dear, you're here to learn. It's best to observe in these meetings, not to interrupt the flow. I wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself by speaking out of turn."
The threat was veiled in concern, just like the menial tasks. Know your place.
I looked at her, my expression one of innocent contrition. "Of course, Ms. Diana. Thank you for the guidance. I'll be more careful."
But as I turned back to my mountain of binders, the cold smile was back. The wolf had just shown a single, sharp tooth. And the viper had felt the prick.
The office was no longer just a battlefield. It was a hunting ground. And I was just getting started.
The rest of my first week was a masterclass in subtle psychological warfare. Diana, the picture of professional grace, assigned me a relentless stream of menial tasks. I spent days cataloguing a decade's worth of press clippings, cross-referencing media contact lists that were already digitized, and fetching lattes with precisely two sugars and no foam.
I did it all without a flicker of complaint. I was the model intern: quiet, efficient, and invisible. But while my hands were sorting paper, my eyes and ears were absorbing everything. I noted which junior associates Diana snapped at, and which older executives she buttered up with excessive praise. I memorized the rhythms of the office, the unspoken hierarchies, the flow of information.
And all the while, a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. Each morning, each afternoon, I scoured Anya Petrova's column. Nothing. The silence was a roar in my ears. Had my email been a childish gambit, instantly dismissed? Was my first real move a complete failure?
By Friday, the strain was showing. My composure felt thin, stretched over a core of simmering frustration. During a lull, I escaped to the ground-floor café, a sleek, minimalist space filled with the low hum of business deals and espresso machines. I slumped into a secluded corner chair, cradling a black coffee I didn't really want, and stared out at the rain-slicked streets.
I was so lost in my thoughts I didn't see him approach.
"Internship not living up to the fantasy, Miss Sterling?"
The voice, low and familiar, sent a jolt through me. Kaelen Vancourt stood by my table, his imposing frame blocking out the world. Without waiting for an invitation, he took the seat opposite me.
"I… It's educational," I managed, my mind racing. What was he doing here?
His sharp gaze swept over me, missing nothing. "You look like you're waiting for a bomb to detonate. But the silence is unnerving you more than an explosion would."
He knew. Of course he knew. The realization was both terrifying and perversely thrilling.
I decided on blunt honesty. "I'm wondering why Anya Petrova hasn't published anything."
"A single whisper is just noise," he stated, his tone cool and didactic. "It's easily dismissed. Anya is a predator, not a scavenger. She doesn't pounce on scraps. She stalks her prey, gathers a dossier, and then strikes to kill in one, devastating blow."
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his presence shrinking the space between us to an intimate, conspiratorial distance. "You gave her a name and a vague accusation. What you didn't give her was a pattern. A single failed company is a misfortune. Two is a coincidence. Three..." He let the word hang, a promise of ruin. "That is a story. That is a career-making scoop."
As he spoke, he slid a plain, black USB drive across the polished tabletop. "Prima Designs was not Diana's first venture. There were two others. 'Lumiere Events' and 'Atelier Blanc.' The patterns of their failures—the quieted investors, the mysterious financial leaks—are remarkably consistent. All the documents are there."
I stared at the small device, understanding dawning. This wasn't a tip; it was a weapon of mass destruction.
"Let her settle in," Kaelen advised, his voice a near-whisper. "Let her feel secure, let her make her moves. Then, when she is most vulnerable, you hand the journalist not a rumor, but a narrative of calculated, repeated deceit. Revenge is a dish best served cold, Elara. But power is knowing when to strike, and when to simply sharpen the blade."
He made to leave, and the question I had been burning to ask finally broke free. "Why are you helping me?"
He paused, looking down at me. The intensity in his grey eyes was not kindness; it was calculation.
"Let's just say I have a problem that may soon require a very specific solution," he said, his tone utterly pragmatic. "A solution that, I suspect, a young woman with a grudge and a remarkable talent for strategic patience might be uniquely positioned to provide. Consider this an advance on a future… favor."
And with that, he was gone, melting back into the crowd of suits, leaving me with a racing heart, a weapon in my hand, and the chilling understanding that my war was now inextricably linked to his.