Chapter 1The Abused Intern Is The Heiress

I didn't want any special treatment, so I hid my identity to intern at my family’s own company. Instead of an easy ride, I ended up with a manager who made it her personal mission to make my life living hell.

I tried to keep my head down, believing that taking the high road was the smartest play. But she only took my silence as permission to push harder.

She stole credit for my work, and when that wasn’t enough, she accused me of trying to sleep with the CEO.

Eventually, the weight of the lie became too much, and I let the truth slip. "He’s my brother," I said, my voice steady. "I’m not sleeping with him."

She didn't even blink. She just sneered, her face twisted in disgust.

"You’re just a cheap girl trying to climb the ladder on your back. Who do you think you’re fooling?" she mocked. "If Mr. Herman is really your brother, why don't you call him down here? Ask him to come fire me!"

I looked down at my shoes, a quiet, cold smile spreading across my face.

"If that’s what you want, Tina."

* * *

"Vanguard Solutions Annual Marketing Campaign. Lead Strategists—Tina Davis, Reynold Croft."

I stared at the black-and-white lettering projected onto the conference room screen, feeling a sudden, deep chill in my chest.

I had spent three consecutive all-nighters pulling this proposal together. Every single slide, from the exhaustive demographic research to the competitor analysis, was built on data I had personally compiled. I could still feel the phantom ache in my lower back from sitting at my desk until sunrise.

And now, my name had been completely erased. In its place sat the names of my manager, Tina, and the marketing director, Reynold.

"This is incredibly thorough work. The feedback from the Vanguard team has been stellar," Reynold said from the head of the long mahogany table, nodding with a rare, satisfied smile. "Tina, excellent job. I know you and your team worked around the clock to get this across the finish line."

Tina smiled warmly, wrapping both hands around her fresh latte. "Thank you, Reynold. It was a grind, but we wanted to make sure it was up to Herman standards."

She looked poised, professional, and entirely humble—as if she had actually been the one drinking stale coffee at 4:00 AM while staring at Excel spreadsheets.

I sat in the dim corner of the room, my hands clenched so tightly under the table that my nails bit into my palms, leaving pale crescents.

As the meeting adjourned, my colleagues began to filter out, chatting in low, relaxed tones.

Someone tapped Tina on the shoulder. "Great presentation, Tina."

"Thanks so much," she replied, her voice sweet. But as her gaze drifted over the crowd and landed on me, her expression shifted. The corner of her mouth ticked upward in a small, deliberate smirk.

The message was clear.

"What are you going to do about it?"

I didn't say a word. I waited until the room cleared, sat back down at my desk, and quietly copied the original document history and the version logs onto a flash drive. Then, clutching the printed draft of the proposal, I walked straight into Tina’s office.

She was leaning back in her ergonomic chair, scrolling through her phone, a half-empty cup of Starbucks sitting on her neat desk.

When the door clicked shut, she didn’t even bother to look up.

"Tina, the Vanguard proposal was my work," I said, laying the papers gently on her desk. "Why isn't my name on the final deck?"

Tina slowly lowered her phone. She spared a brief, dismissive glance at the papers, letting out a soft, sharp laugh.

"You're an intern, Fiona. The manager taking credit for the department’s output is just how corporate America works." She leaned back, crossing her legs. "Besides, I edited several pages myself."

"You edited the formatting, not the content," I said, keeping my eyes locked on hers. "I gathered the metrics. I built the strategy from scratch. You adjusted the paragraph spacing."

The lazy amusement drained from Tina’s face.

She snatched the folder off her desk and flung it directly at my face.

The white sheets of paper scattered, fluttering through the air like wounded birds before settling in a messy heap on the carpet.

"Who do you think you are?" she hissed, standing up so she could tower over me. "You are an intern. Your job is to fetch coffee, organize folders, and shut up. Don't start thinking you're actually important."

I knelt down, carefully picking up each sheet of paper, smoothing out the bent corners before stacking them back together.

"It’s my work," I said, standing back up. "I have a right to be credited."

"Rights?" Tina mocked, stepping closer until the heavy, suffocating scent of her expensive perfume filled my nose. She tapped her manicured finger sharply against my shoulder. "Let me make this simple for you, little girl. I run this department. If I say you wrote it, you wrote it. If I say you didn't, it never happened."

I tightened my grip on the papers, keeping my breath even.

"You can deny me the credit, Tina. But you can't pretend it's yours."

Tina’s eyes narrowed into slits. The corporate facade was entirely gone now, replaced by a cold, quiet venom.

"You want to keep pushing this? I can easily make sure you don't get the credit hours for this internship. Try graduating or landing a decent entry-level job when I write 'refuses to follow basic instruction' on your final review."

My chest rose and fell, but I forced myself to stay quiet.

Seeing my silence, Tina assumed she had won. She sat back down, picking up her lukewarm coffee.

"That's what I thought. Get out, and close the door behind you."

I stood there for a beat longer.

"I wrote the proposal," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but entirely steady. "And I'm not going to let this go."

Tina’s hand froze mid-air. She set the cup down with a hard click, her tone dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"Get the hell out of my office."

In the hallway, a few coworkers had their heads bowed, pretending to be utterly absorbed in their monitors. No one looked up. No one met my eye.

I stood by the glass partition, holding my crumpled pages.

"Go ahead and steal the credit, Tina," I thought. "You can erase my name from the slides, but you can't delete the digital footprint."