Chapter 13
Assignments came next. Our task? Collaborative interview projects-real ones. Assigned pairs, real
responsibilities.
The coordinator read off names:
“Jason and Leah.”
“Mark and Trina.”
Then she looked down at the clipboard, frowned a little, and said, “Amelia, I’ll have something for you to start
with.”
She handed me a thick stack of paper. Transcripts. “Just proofreading for now, but we’ll loop you in once more
interviews roll in.”
“Of course,” I said, smiling while swallowing my disappointment.
I wasn’t looped in. I was sidelined.
Everyone else got to sit in on interviews, take notes, build questions. I got red pen duty and a seat in the corner.
It didn’t take long to realize why. They didn’t think I was capable. Maybe because I was wolfless. Maybe because I didn’t show up with a polished, nepotistic pedigree.
Either way, they didn’t say it out loud. They just smiled politely while handing me their busywork.
Eventually, the project shifted focus-we were prepping for a high-profile interview with King Richard
himself, and interns were asked to help with the event setup.
That was how I ended up placing name placards at the press table while Richard stood just twenty feet away,
answering questions with a poise I couldn’t stop staring at.
I’d seen interviews before, but I’d never seen this. The behind-the-scenes version. There was no teleprompter,
no notes. Reporters asked hard questions and he answered them like he’d known they were coming before they
opened their mouths.
Every quote was crisp. Every deflection surgical.
I should have been arranging chairs.
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Chapter 15
Instead, I pulled out my notebook and started writing. Notes, observations, question formats, patterns. It was during a short break between segments-reporters buzzing quietly, Richard off to the side refilling his water. I was scribbling furiously when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.
“You misspelled ‘infrastructure,”” the voice said.
I froze, of course it was him.
I turned slowly, already knowing who it would be.
Richard was standing just behind my shoulder, his eyes flicking over my notebook.
“Your analysis isn’t bad,” he said casually. “But look into the South Ridge amendments. Similar topic.
Disastrous execution.”
I nodded. “Thank you. I will.”
He didn’t smile. Just nodded and walked away.
I sat there stunned for a full thirty seconds before forcing myself back to work.
That afternoon, the interns were treated to a team lunch-Richard joining. The supervisor called it a
celebration of “a successful campaign kick-off.”
We all filed into a long private dining room. I ended up seated right next to Richard. I hadn’t planned it-I wouldn’t have dared. And it was eating away at me. We hadn’t said a single word to each other that wasn’t strictly business since the morning after the ball, and now we were shoulder to shoulder, pretending nothing
had ever happened. I could feel the tension in every inch of my body, but I wasn’t going to be the one to break
the silence.
The supervisor raised a glass. “To fresh minds and fierce loyalty.”
A waiter poured white wine into each of our glasses. I hesitated. I hadn’t touched alcohol since that night. My
hand was halfway to the glass when I saw his.
Richard reached out and slid my glass gently away. Not harsh, not obvious. Just… decisive.
“Alcohol has no place in professional settings,” he said, voice neutral but clear. “We’ve seen how some get…
restless when intoxicated.”
A few people blinked. Someone chuckled awkwardly. Jason furrowed his brow.
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But I knew what he meant, and I knew exactly who he said it for.
