POV CATRIONA
I didn't take this internship to be noticed.
I took it because law school isn't cheap.
Tuition doesn't care about pride. Or sleep. Or how many hours you spend pretending you're not intimidated by a man who built an empire before he turned thirty-five.
My name is Catriona Agreste.
Future attorney.
Current intern.
Every late night filing contracts at Reid Capital is another brick toward the courtroom I intend to dominate.
Which is why standing inside Shawn Reid's private office feels dangerously off-plan.
"Miss Agreste."
His voice is smooth. Precise. A man who negotiates billion-peso deals without raising his pulse.
"Close the door."
I do.
Because I need this job.
Because my scholarship covers only half.
Because my mother already sacrificed enough.
He doesn't look at me immediately. He finishes reviewing a document first — as if I'm a detail, not a disruption.
"You rewrote the acquisition proposal I rejected."
"Yes."
No apology.
Timidity doesn't pay tuition.
"Why?"
Because recommendation letters matter. Because judges won't care how scared I was. Because I refuse to be average.
But what I say is:
"Because it was legally vulnerable."
His pen stops.
"Explain."
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs, but my voice stays level.
"Clause fourteen exposes the firm to liability if minority shareholders challenge disclosure timing. It's aggressive. You don't prefer reckless exposure. You prefer controlled risk."
Silence.
Thick. Evaluating.
He stands.
Slowly.
"You're an intern."
"I'm a law student."
"First year."
"Yes."
"And you believe you understand my strategy?"
I hold his gaze.
"I understand leverage."
That does it.
Not anger.
Not offense.
Interest.
He moves around the desk, stopping close enough that I feel the heat of him — but he doesn't touch me.
Control radiates from him. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Deliberate.
"Why are you really here, Catriona?"
Not in this office.
In this building where ambition smells like polished wood and silent power.
"To finance my law degree," I say. "And to learn from the best."
Calculated honesty.
"You think I'm the best?"
"I think you don't lose."
A faint smile curves his mouth.
"I lose," he says quietly. "I just don't do it publicly."
That shouldn't feel intimate.
But it does.
"You're not here for admiration," he continues. "You're here for advancement."
"Yes."
"And what happens when advancement requires compromise?"
My spine straightens.
"I don't compromise my future."
The air shifts.
There it is.
The first real move in a game neither of us admitted we were playing.
He studies me again — recalculating.
"Be here tomorrow at eight."
"For work?"
His gaze lowers, then returns to mine.
"For opportunity."
My pulse stumbles.
Opportunity is a dangerous word in the hands of a man like Shawn Reid.
"I don't mix business with vulnerability," I say carefully.
His expression darkens — intrigued.
"Good," he replies. "Because I don't tolerate weakness."
I walk out shaken.
Not because he intimidated me.
But because he saw me.
Not just the intern.
Not just the scholarship student.
He saw ambition.
And men like Shawn Reid don't ignore ambition.
They test it.
The terrifying part?
I don't know if I'm preparing for a courtroom battle—
Or walking into one.