The nametag felt like a cheap sticker slapped onto a priceless piece of art. Alexandria Sterling, it read, followed by the humiliating title: Intern.
Alex yanked at the collar of her ill-fitting, off-the-rack blouse—a far cry from the custom silks she usually favored—and smoothed the non-designer black slacks. Even the clunky, budget-friendly laptop bag felt heavy and alien on her shoulder. Her father, the CEO of Sterling Enterprises, had insisted on this "ground-up experience." He wanted her to understand the company beyond the mahogany and champagne of the executive suites. He wanted her to be Just Another Intern.
The elevator doors whispered open on the 23rd floor, the Marketing hub, and Alex stepped into the bright, buzzing reality of middle management. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and industrial carpet cleaner. It was loud, chaotic, and fundamentally wrong for the woman who normally ran the entire floor below this one.
She found the breakroom—a fluorescent-lit sanctuary of apathy—and tried to wrestle with the coffee machine, which looked like it required a complicated mathematical equation just to dispense a lukewarm beverage.
"You have to press 'brew' and 'large cup' at the same time, otherwise it gives you that sad, brown trickle," a voice snapped from behind her, laced with an efficient impatience that somehow wasn't rude, just… factual.
Alex jumped, spinning around.
Standing there was a woman with a braid that looked capable of mooring a small boat, dressed in a sharp black blazer over a vibrant turquoise shirt. Her eyes, an intense hazel, were fixed not on Alex, but on the coffee machine itself, as if it had personally offended her.
"Thanks," Alex muttered, feeling instantly underdressed and clumsy.
The woman sighed, reached past Alex, and executed the two-button sequence with machine-like precision. "It's a metaphor for this company, really," she continued, not looking at Alex. "We have the budget for a top-of-the-line machine, but they buy this piece of junk that requires twice the effort for half the result. Just like they bought that god-awful font for the new Q3 rollout. Did you see it? It looks like Comic Sans' corporate cousin."
Alex stared, completely speechless. This woman was loudly criticizing one of her family's most expensive recent branding decisions—directly to the person responsible for signing off on it. The audacity was mesmerizing.
The woman finally turned, and her sharp gaze met Alex's. A slow, slight smile touched her lips, instantly softening her whole face. "Sorry. Monday morning caffeine rant. You must be one of the new batch of sacrificial lambs." She held out a hand, firm and professional. "Maya Rodriguez. Project Coordinator. And you're...?"
"Alex," she managed, shaking the hand, her heart doing a nervous stutter-step. "Just Alex."
Maya leaned against the counter, surveying Alex's slightly panicked expression with an amused tilt of her head. "Welcome to the trenches, Alex. Don't worry, I'll teach you how to hack the coffee machine. It's the most important skill you'll learn here."