Page 4 of Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1)

THE INTERN

IVY

“ O kay, here’s the rent for this week.” I hand a few twenties to my landlord’s son. “I’ll have next week’s fee to your dad when I get paid.”

“This isn’t how you pay rent, Ivy.” He groans. “It’s monthly, and I’m only thirteen years old…”

“And?” I shrug. “This is teaching you important adulting skills.”

“Are you really this afraid of my dad?”

Ever since he started cutting off my lights at six o’clock every day, yes. “No, I’m just—This is just easier. I’ll see you later.”

I bolt from the top floor and downstairs, groaning when I see that the front door that was promised months ago still isn’t there.

I make sure my unit’s door is double-locked, and that the fake dog-yell alarm still works when I jiggle the handle.

When I make it out to my car, I slide my key into the ignition, but it won’t give.

Someone stuck a paperclip inside while trying to steal it.

Ugh!

Pulling out my phone, I call my supervisor.

“Heya, heya, Miss Locke!” she answers in the middle of the first ring as usual. “Isn’t today a beautiful day to paint new campaigns?”

“Sure, Miss Fierro.” I slide a pen into the ignition, trying to free the clip. “I’m going to be late today.”

“Again?” She lets out a sigh. “What’s your excuse this time?”

“I’m just going to be late,” I say. I’ve finally learned that the excuse doesn’t really matter. “Late” is late, and she’s going to leave a note in my personnel file about it no matter what.

“You know, I’ve been very nice about not docking pay for all your infractions.”

How can you possibly deduct anything from ZERO? I keep finagling the pen.

“I truly believe that there is a deep lack of not only personal responsibility, but positivity in your life,” she says. “If you thought more positive thoughts and started listening to more motivational things, I think you’ll be promoted to paid status in no time.”

I bite my tongue; it’s too early for me to show any emotion, and the moment I do get promoted to paid status, I’m using it as leverage to get a job far away from Sutton International.

“Are you there, Miss Locke?” she asks. “Miss Locke?”

“Yeah, I’m here… I was just scrolling through YouTube to find a motivational playlist for my drive to work.”

“Excellent to hear!” She squeals. “I’ll let this lateness slide this time, but it’s pre-pitch season, so try to get here as fast as possible.”

“Will do.”

An hour they’re coated in tan brown plastic, and the manager claims it’s “so we won’t get distracted. ”

Personally, I think it’s because our Selfish Suit CEO doesn’t want to renovate our workspace to match the rest of headquarters.

Slipping into my cubicle, I plug in my laptop and flip through today’s pitch decks.

The second my laptop wakes up, my inbox pings.

I scroll past the usual calendar junk and corporate spam until one subject line makes my throat tighten:

Subject: Report to the executive floor to see me. Now.

The sender is Dominic Sutton.

Him.

I stare at it, reread it, then check the timestamp twice like maybe it’s a glitch.

There’s no way he remembered me…

I send the email straight to the trash without opening it; the ignore route works on bill collectors, so it should work on a billionaire CEO, too.

I return to my screen, click open a spreadsheet, and start typing numbers.

“Miss Locke?” Miss Fierro calls from across the room ten minutes later. “Miss Locke?”

Pretend she’s a bill collector. Pretend she’s a bill collector.

I pull a set of AirPods from my bag, but she manages to walk over before I can turn them on.

“Miss Locke.” She stands next to me. “Did you not hear me calling you?”

I say nothing.

“Mr. Sutton wants to see you in his office for a meeting on the executive floor. Now.”

The room falls silent for several seconds, then a sea of whispers follows.

“Is it okay if I finish my spreadsheet first?” I ask.

The look on her face answers my question.

There’s no use pretending this is a “meeting,” and there’s no use leaving anything behind.

Standing to my feet, I grab a cardboard box from the Nice Knowing You stack parked near the printers—a cheerful little tower reserved for interns who vanish midweek—and start clearing my desk.

I feel every set of eyes burning into my back as I cross the floor, one click of my heels at a time.

Please at least give me a severance check.