The airport doors slid open, and the first thing that hit me wasn't the smell of jet fuel or the sticky heat... it was the thought, I really came back for this.
Not "for the company," not "for the family legacy." Just… this. The game.
A man in a black suit was standing in plain sight, holding a sign with my initials: M.R.K. He looked so stiff I almost felt bad for him. Almost.
"Mr. Kingsley," he said, bowing slightly. "Your father sent me to drive you to the office."
I gave him a once-over. Driver, clean suit, probably already briefed that I'm allergic to small talk. "Thanks," I said, taking the keys from his hand. "But I'll drive myself."
He blinked. "Sir?"
I slid a crisp bill into his palm. "Get yourself an Uber. Have a day off. Or don't. I don't care."
By the time he opened his mouth, I was already in the driver's seat, pulling out into traffic. My phone rang — Dad.
"Maxwell," his voice came through, as formal as ever. "Don't make a scene today."
"Me?" I switched lanes without signaling. "I'm practically invisible."
"You're there to learn the ropes, not to undermine them," he warned.
"Dad, relax. I'll be a model employee."
That earned me silence. We both knew that was never going to happen.
---
The building was impossible to miss. Twenty stories of steel and glass stabbing at the sky, framed by landscaping that looked like it was maintained by gardeners with PhDs. The kind of place people walked into with their backs a little straighter, like the shine from the lobby floor could rub off on them.
I parked out front. Someone in a navy uniform rushed toward the car like I'd just pulled up in a tank. Valet. I tossed him the keys and stepped inside.
The air-conditioning hit me like a wall. Cold, expensive, sterilized. The reception desk was carved from marble and behind it, two receptionists in matching smiles and matching suits greeted me like I'd just joined a cult.
"Welcome to Harrington & Co.," one of them chirped.
Harrington & Co. — the flagship of the Kingsley Group. My father's pride, my grandfather's empire, my future headache.
I handed over my ID. The one with my name neatly printed under my photo. The name read M.K. Reid. No Kingsley, no clue. Thank you, Dad.
The receptionist swiped it through the reader, and the gate clicked open.
"Third floor, Mr. Reid," she said, voice full of that corporate sugar. "Human Resources will be expecting you."
Human Resources. Just hearing it made me want to chew glass.
I studied Business Administration and Finance at Oxford. I could build them a working financial model for their entire fiscal year in under an hour, but sure, let's start with HR orientation like I'm some clueless intern who thinks "net profit" is a kind of fishing term.
I stepped into the elevator with a cluster of employees in identical business attire. They avoided eye contact like it was policy. I didn't mind. Gave me more time to look them over.
Shiny shoes, stiff collars, plastic ID cards swinging from lanyards, all of them here to climb a ladder I already owned.
I wasn't here to climb. I was here to watch. To learn. To see how many rungs I could knock out before anyone noticed.
---
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open. My game had just begun.
I stepped into a bright conference room already half-filled with nervous-looking twenty-somethings. Designer handbags and overpriced watches were practically part of the dress code. My father had been right — most of them were politicians' kids or trust fund brats here to "gain experience" while avoiding anything that resembled actual work.
The room went quiet. Not because of me, yet... but because she walked in.
Sleek black pencil skirt, white blouse buttoned up just enough to keep it professional, and a pair of heels that clicked with the kind of authority you couldn't fake.
"Good morning," she said, placing a folder on the table. "For those of you who don't know, I'm Victoria Hale, Chief Operating Officer of Kingsley-Harrington & Co."
Her voice was smooth but carried a weight that made a few people straighten in their seats. Mine included, though for… different reasons.
She didn't smile, not once. "It's company policy that I handle this briefing personally. Mostly because some of you are the children of board members and high-ranking officials. That means there's a lot of pressure to make this… internship work."
She paused, letting her gaze sweep across the room like she was sizing us up. When her eyes landed on me, I didn't look away. She didn't either.
"But let me be perfectly clear," she continued. "If any of you mess up my work, I don't care whose name is on your family's building — I will make sure your time here becomes the worst decision you've ever made."
Her tone didn't rise. It didn't need to.
The room was dead silent.
And me? I was already thinking this internship might be more fun than I'd expected.
---
To be continued...