~Karla's Pov~
My alarm buzzes at 5:00 AM, but I'm already awake.
I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, blanket wrapped around me like armor. The air in the room is soft and still, touched with the faint scent of last night's stir-fry and Tessa's shampoo drifting from the hallway.
Today's the day.
The Winterwell pitch.
My first real idea. My first real shot at being seen.
I get up, wash my face, and stare at my reflection for a few seconds longer than usual. My eyes look tired but clear. Steady. I tie my hair back into a clean, low bun—professional but not trying too hard—and swipe on some tinted lip balm.
No smudged eyeliner. No extra layers to hide behind today.
I dress in all black: slim-cut pants, a tucked-in blouse, and my favorite pointed flats. Comfortable. Sharp. A little armor goes a long way.
The apartment is quiet. Tessa's still asleep, tangled up in a blanket on the couch like a purring cat in hibernation. I leave her a sticky note on the fridge—"Wish me luck. Don't burn anything."
Then I step out into the city.
The morning air is cool, fresh, and buzzing just beneath the surface. Even the sound of traffic feels... distant. Like background noise to something bigger.
Today, I'm not running.
Today, I'm walking in on purpose.
Vale & Co. is colder than usual.
Or maybe that's just me.
I keep my head down as I ride the elevator to the 28th floor, laptop in hand, pulse in my throat. The walk to the conference room feels longer than usual. My flats tap against the marble floor like a countdown.
When I enter, the team is already there. Claudia nods at me from the front. A few of the interns smile—tight, unsure. A senior designer scrolls lazily through his tablet.
And at the head of the table sits Dominic Vale.
Black tailored suit. Crisp white shirt. No tie. Eyes as unreadable as ever.
He's not speaking. Not smiling. Not even acknowledging me as I connect my laptop to the projector.
Just watching.
With that serious, carved-from-stone face like he's waiting to crush whatever I'm about to say.
I clear my throat, fingers trembling slightly as I click to the first slide.
Winterwell Campaign—Raw Luxury
Presented by: Karla Smith, Intern—Digital Marketing
I take a breath.
"I wanted to focus on what people really connect to right now: transparency. But not just visually—emotionally. This isn't just skincare. This is a statement. About owning the skin you're in. About redefining luxury to mean something honest."
Slide after slide, I walk them through the idea.
Unfiltered portraits. Real customer stories. A tagline that cuts through the noise:
'Luxury Is Letting Them See You.'
The silence in the room feels like a vacuum.
Until—
Claudia leans forward, brow furrowed in thought. "That's actually... smart. Striking."
Another voice adds, "The hashtag campaign potential is strong. And those concept mockups? Clean, but bold."
But I can feel it—every cell in my body waiting for his reaction.
Dominic hasn't said a word.
Still watching me.
Still stone.
Then finally, after what feels like a full minute of silence, he speaks:
"Where'd you get this tagline?"
I blink. "I came up with it last night. It just—felt right. Like what the brand was missing."
He nods once, slow.
"That's because it is."
My heart stutters.
He closes the portfolio in front of him. "It's not just right—it's better than what our senior team pitched last week."
A ripple of surprise moves through the room.
Dominic looks around, his voice clipped but clear.
"I want this concept on the board for client review next Monday. Karla, you'll work with Claudia's team to build out full digital storyboards by Friday."
I blink. "Wait, me? I thought—"
"You pitched it. You own it."
Just like that, he stands and walks out of the room, leaving a wake of stunned faces behind him.
My palms are sweating.
I feel like I just walked through fire.
But somewhere inside all the nerves and adrenaline…
I think I might be smiling.
By noon, I'm surrounded by color palettes, ad mockups, concept boards, and three empty coffee cups.
Claudia's team works fast—sharpened by experience, polished by pressure. They toss around terms like "brand intimacy" and "emotional authenticity" like it's just another Tuesday. Which, I guess, it is.
Except for me.
This feels like the first time in weeks I'm doing something that matters.
Claudia calls me over to her screen. "Karla, these concept layouts—did you have a vision for how you'd integrate user stories?"
I nod, sliding beside her. "Yes. I was thinking we could feature two kinds of content: short, raw testimonials and full-story reels. One catches attention, the other keeps it."
She taps her pen on her lip, studying the layout.
"Not bad," she mutters. Then, louder, "I want this built out in Canva or Figma—nothing too polished yet. Let's test flow before we perfect the aesthetics. Can you lead that?"
"Sure," I say, before I can talk myself out of it.
My inbox is already filling with questions. Messages. Slack pings. Files dropping into shared drives. No one's treating me like an intern anymore.
They're treating me like a teammate.
It's overwhelming, but it's also… thrilling.
I grab my laptop and head toward the quiet hallway near the design wing, where the lighting's soft and my head can stop spinning for a minute.
And that's when I almost run straight into him.
Dominic Vale.
He's holding a cup of black coffee, standing alone near the large floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall. The light catches on his jawline, which is annoyingly perfect, and his expression is unreadable—until he sees me.
I freeze. My mouth opens slightly, unsure whether to speak or run.
He breaks the silence first.
"You handled the meeting better than some of our paid consultants."
I blink. "I—thank you."
He nods, gaze flicking toward the window. "They underestimate fresh voices. Happens all the time."
His tone is quieter than usual. Less sharp. Almost reflective.
I try not to stare at the way his brow creases as he speaks, like there's something behind his carefully constructed exterior. Something heavier than he lets on.
Then he adds, "Just make sure you're ready when they stop underestimating you."
My chest tightens a little. "Because they start expecting you to be perfect?"
He glances at me. Our eyes lock.
"No. Because they start trying to tear you down."
A beat passes between us.
Just long enough to feel something shift—just slightly.
Then, like flipping a switch, he straightens, coffee in hand, CEO expression firmly back in place.
"Good work today, Smith."
And he walks away.
Leaving me standing in the quiet hallway, not quite sure what just happened, but knowing it meant something.