Chapter 1Intern Thinks I Am Her Driver

The new intern started a month ago.

Every day since her orientation, she’d been hitching a ride in my car after work. I figured it was on my way home anyway, so I never made a fuss about it. I’ve always preferred to keep a low profile, and if a twenty-two-year-old needed a lift to the suburbs, I wasn't going to be the "mean boss" before she even knew who I was.

Then came two o'clock on a Sunday morning.

I was dead to the world, deep in the kind of sleep you only get when your phone is supposed to be on Do Not Disturb. But I’d left my emergency bypass on, and her call pierced through the silence.

When I answered, there was no "sorry to wake you" or "I’m in trouble." Instead, her voice was sharp, fueled by a cocktail of entitlement and cheap gin. She barked an order at me, telling me to get down to The Velvet Lounge—a high-end club downtown—to pick her up. Right now.

The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a slow-boiling heat in my chest. I asked her, as calmly as one can at 2:00 AM, if she’d lost her mind. I told her I wasn't her personal Uber driver and that calling a colleague at this hour was beyond unprofessional.

She didn't miss a beat. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Listen, honey," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "My cousin is the Head of HR. Taking me home isn't a chore; it’s a privilege if you want to keep your desk. If you don't show up in twenty minutes, I’ll have him pull your file Monday morning. You’ll be out on the street before lunch."

I sat up in bed, staring into the dark of my room, somewhere between disbelief and amusement. She really had no idea. She had no clue that the "desk" she was threatening was actually the mahogany one in the corner office.

She had no idea she was talking to the CEO.

* * *

When I didn't immediately cave, Brianna—that’s her name, Brianna King—let out a triumphant little hum.

"Scared now?" she taunted. "Good. Get moving. And stop at a 7-Eleven on the way. I want a hot vanilla latte, extra foam. Have it ready when I get in the car."

I leaned back against my headboard, a cold smile tugging at my lips. "A latte. Extra foam. Got it."

Brianna had joined the company through a mid-summer intake. I’d first crossed paths with her when I was coming back from a floor inspection at the warehouse. I was wearing my charcoal work jumpsuit, grease on my hands, looking more like a mechanic than a woman who owns three holding companies. We ended up in the elevator together. She’d wrinkled her nose, visibly recoiling from the "blue-collar" scent of ozone and machinery, and shuffled to the far corner of the car.

In this company, most people keep a respectful distance because they know my face. I assumed she was just another shy new hire.

The next day, as I was walking to my SUV in the parking lot, she didn't wait for an invite. She pulled open the passenger door, tossed her designer knock-off bag onto the leather, and sat down with a huff.

"You're the tech guy from the floor, right?" she asked, not even looking at me as she adjusted the visor mirror. "I saw you driving past Oakhaven yesterday. I live in the gated section at the front. It’s on your way. You can drop me off."

I was floored. I oversee fifteen subsidiaries and nearly ten thousand employees. In ten years of building this empire, no one had ever had the sheer audacity to speak to me like I was the help.

I opened my mouth to correct her, but she’d already snapped her seatbelt into place and started scrolling through her phone. "Let’s go, I have a dinner reservation. Don't go the long way."

I decided to play along. I wanted to see how deep this went. Was this just one bad apple, or was our culture rotting? I drove her home. When we pulled up to her curb, she didn't say thank you. She slammed the door so hard the chassis shook and walked away without a backward glance.

I told myself she was just young, maybe "professionally illiterate." But Brianna didn't stop.

Every single day, she was there. Waiting by my car. And every day, the demands grew:

"Pick me up at my curb tomorrow morning so I don't have to walk to the gate."

"I hate the smell of coffee. Even if it's your car, no caffeine while I’m inside."

"You were two minutes late coming down today. Don't let it happen again."

"These seats are too firm. Bring a sheepskin throw tomorrow."

"This gray color is so depressing. You should really get this wrapped in rose gold."

I’d spent weeks wondering how someone could be so shamelessly parasitic while maintaining an air of condescending superiority.

Now, with the 2:00 AM phone call, the puzzle pieces clicked. Her cousin was Rick Dalton, my Head of HR.

"Hello? Are you even listening?" Brianna’s voice snapped me back to the present. "Are you in the car yet?"

I yawned, long and loud into the receiver. "No. I’m going back to sleep. Call a cab, Brianna."

I hung up before she could scream.