Page 9 of Selfish Suit (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #1)

THE INTERN

IVY

S omehow, I manage to survive my first day without catching a felony charge for assaulting Mr. Sutton.

I even smiled when I brought him two cups of coffee and didn’t utter an “I hate you” when he complained that I didn’t bring him a spoon to stir it with.

However, fifteen minutes into this morning, and I’m considering calling in a bomb threat.

“I told you that at this level, ‘on time’ is late, and ‘early’ means ‘on time.’” Tracey hasn’t stopped critiquing me since I stepped off the elevator. “Today is a pre-pitch day, and everything runs twenty minutes earlier than usual.”

There’s no use in asking her why.

I stuff my cell phone into the desk drawer.

“The catering team is serving breakfast and lunch at the meeting today, so we don’t have to worry about Mr. Sutton’s coffee—but!

” She wags a finger in the air before pointing to a golden bull-shaped vase in the hallway.

“That’s where I stuff extra packets of the custom honey and mint that he prefers, just in case the catering team doesn’t bring enough. ”

“Um, okay…”

“That’s your cue to go over there and get them.” She snaps her fingers. “Get six of each and get used to carrying them in your purse at all times. At. All. Times.”

I walk over to the vase and lift it, expecting to see “packets,” but they’re mini glass jars.

The moment I’ve stuffed them into my purse, Tracey is looping her arm in mine and pulling me into the elevator.

We ride down to a place with a gold-plated sign that announces “Executive Wing” when the doors open.

The floor reveals another personality disorder in this building. It’s a warehouse space with exposed brick walls and concrete floors.

Boxes marked with “decor” and “client dress-up materials” line the walls, and banners from previous successful campaigns hang from the steel-beamed ceiling.

In the center of it all sits a conference room enclosed in sleek black glass.

Mr. Sutton appears out of nowhere, so I trail behind—clutching his blue notebook against my own.

The moment we enter the room, the creative staff stands to their feet.

“Good afternoon, sir.” “Hello, Mr. Sutton.” “It’s a pleasure to see you today, sir.”

The greetings come in quick succession, but Mr. Sutton only nods and takes his seat at the head of the table.

I wait for everyone to retake their seats and realize there’s no chair for me.

Perfect…

Mr. Sutton nods once, and Tracey gestures for me to open his notebook.

“Take notes for him,” she says. “Very detailed notes.”

“You were serious about him not taking his own?”

“Ivy…” She glares at me, and I click my pen as someone dims the lights.

A tall guy in a navy button-down shirt takes the lead, flipping through slides on the wall-sized screen to reveal today’s client.

Skittles: Taste the rainbow. Bring back a sweet era.

“Ah.” He picks up a huge vase of Skittles candies from the floor and passes them around. “Our client wants us to design a campaign to make people fall in love with this candy again, and when I’m done showing you what we’ve done, I think you’ll be confident in us sharing this with them.”

I steal a few bags from the jar and watch.

He and his assistant break out six-foot glittery mood boards and early concept visuals.

There’s a lot of talk about summer pop-up shops and high-level immersion, but every few moments, he mentions an expense that makes me nearly choke.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand for the initial digital campaign…”

“Eighty-six thousand for the research and development for Gen-Z…”

“One hundred fifty thousand to capture millennials with our standard streamlining approach.”

“Enough bloated words.” Mr. Sutton suddenly interrupts him. “What are we doing with tone?”

The room stiffens, and the lead guy straightens. “Confident. Elevated. With a hint of edge.”

Mr. Sutton raises a brow. “Define ‘edge.’”

“Slightly less polished than the Chrysler campaign,” the guy replies. “More modern. But still aspirational.”

“Hmmm.” Mr. Sutton nods. “Continue.”

The room exhales, and the presentation rolls on for another forty minutes.

“Okay.” Mr. Sutton waves his hand. “Take lunch. All of you. Except Ivy. You stay. You too, Marcus.”

The room scatters without protest. Marcus—the lead pitch guy—stays seated, clearly irritated.

I stay too, heart hammering in my throat.

Mr. Sutton speaks before the door even clicks shut.

“What do you think, Miss Locke?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You were quiet and didn’t attempt to interrupt Marcus’s presentation at all,” he says. “I assume that means you’ve got thoughts.”

“Isn’t she an intern?” Marcus asks, looking unimpressed with my presence. “Like, the super problematic one?”

“Not anymore.” Mr. Sutton looks at me. “Do you have any thoughts?”

“I think everything looked good,” I say carefully. “But… it feels a bit hollow. Like a luxury brand wrapped in a fast-food wrapper.”

Marcus laughs.

“Oh, great,” he says, leaning back. “Let’s take branding advice from the girl who cost us the Costco campaign.”

“I didn’t cost you that campaign.”

“You showed up late, spoke out of turn, and then you embarrassed our team in front of a mid-tier client and got flagged three times before we even locked the second round of ad testing.” He rolls his eyes.

I glance at Mr. Sutton, hoping he’ll intervene, but he doesn’t.

“But hey, maybe you’re right.” Marcus is still going. “Maybe we should burn down months of hard work because you feel like it’s hollow. Maybe Skittles would much rather hear about that than things we’ve actually worked on.”

Heat burns behind my eyes, and I stand to my feet.

“Thanks for the feedback, Marcus,” I say. “My opinion still stands.”

“That’s all it is.” He glares at me. “A useless opinion .”

I storm out of the room, heels hitting the concrete floor harder than I mean to. I make a straight line for the elevator bank, every step fueled by humiliation and fury. I jab the button and keep my eyes on the numbers.

No one follows.

Good.

The doors open and I step inside.

I press L for lobby and lean against the back wall, breathing hard.

Just before the doors seal shut—Mr. Sutton steps in.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, voice low but sharp.

“Going home,” I snap. “You dismissed everyone else, so I assume that now includes me.”

“I dismissed you for lunch,” he says, stepping closer. “Not the day.”

“Well,” I say, matching his tone, “you failed to mention my new position came with a side of dealing with another selfish suit, so I’ll go ahead and cut my losses now.”

I press the ‘lobby’ button again as if that’ll make the elevator move faster.

“I still expect a check for my ill-wanted contribution today,” I add, lifting my chin. “That’s enough money to cover a few bills.”

“Cut the shit.” He hits the emergency stop button, and the elevator jerks to a halt between floors.

I suck in a breath as he turns toward me and places his hands on the panels above my head.

“You don’t strike me as the sensitive type,” he says. “And yet here you are—ready to throw away an opportunity because someone talked to you the way you recently talked to me.”

“I’m not the sensitive type…” I pause. “But I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“By him or by me?”

“What?”

“I don’t understand why you’re letting Marcus get to you so easily.” He ignores my previous question. “Did he bruise your ego?”

“No.” I glare at him. “And for what it’s worth, that wasn’t a bruise. That was a full-blown hit job.”

“And?” he says evenly. “I have a feeling that you would’ve cut him off a lot sooner if it had been me.”

“I would never disrespect you in front of other staff members.”

“So that’s just something you’ll keep doing in private ?

” he says, stepping even closer. “I actually expect you to contribute in marketing meetings when you’re not doing the assistant tasks.

I didn’t give the promotion for you to stand there like wallpaper, and I would’ve really appreciated you stopping that catastrophe long before they got halfway through the slides. ”

“Oh…” My pulse hammers.

The silence between us feels too loud, the elevator too small.

“I want you back upstairs in twenty minutes,” he says, quiet and lethal. “Clear your head, grow thicker skin, and if all else fails, just pretend like you’re talking to me… in private.”

He reaches past me and presses the button to restart the elevator.

“Oh, and,” he adds, glancing sideways as the doors begin to open. “No—I won’t be giving you a check for your work today.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll need to earn it first.”