Chapter 3: The Trap of Power
The clock above Weston Group's open office ticked past 6:30 a.m., cutting through the faint hum of idle computers. Mia Carter's elbows dug into her desk, forehead in one hand, as she stared at the expense report—red-rimmed eyes burning from an all-nighter fueled by bitter office coffee. Her father's voice echoed in her head: "This internship is our chance to escape the diner, Mia. We can't work 16-hour days forever." The memory tightened her throat. She couldn't fail—not when their future depended on her proving herself in this cold skyscraper.
She'd fixed the critical miscalculation that had earned her Elena Harris's wrath the day before—a faded "5" on a crumpled receipt that she'd initially misread as a "3," throwing off the entire department's quarterly budget. Her fingers trembled as she clicked through the spreadsheet, cross-referencing every number with the original documents she'd fished out of a dusty storage closet at 2 a.m. The office had been empty then, save for the security guard's distant footsteps and the chill of the air conditioner, which made her threadbare sweater feel useless. Now, as the first employees trickled in, their heels clicking on the polished floor, Mia printed the revised report, its pages still warm from the printer as she smoothed them out, her hands brushing away the faint smudges of fatigue on her cheeks.
Elena's office door was already open when Mia approached at 7:15 a.m. The senior manager sat behind her massive mahogany desk, sipping a latte and scrolling through emails, her red lips pressed into a permanent scowl. Mia's heart thudded against her ribs as she knocked softly. "Ms. Harris? I've revised the expense report. I fixed the miscalculation and double-checked all the figures," she said, holding out the report with both hands.
Elena didn't look up, waving a manicured hand toward a document stack. "Set it there," her voice as cold as the lobby's marble countertop. Mia hesitated, hoping for a glance of acknowledgment, but Elena kept typing furiously. With a quiet sigh, she set the report down and retreated, sneakers squeaking softly.
Back at her cramped, sun-starved workstation, unease gnawed at Mia. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through receipt photos to cross-reference again line by line. By 9 a.m., her shoulders were stiff, her stomach growling—she'd skipped breakfast—but she didn't stop until she'd retyped blurry sections, adjusted formatting to Elena's preference, and highlighted key figures. This time, there would be no mistakes.
She approached Elena's office again, more determined. "I've refined the report—clarified entries and adjusted formatting," she said, placing the new copy on top. Elena paused, flicking her eyes to Mia before flipping through the pages, thumb brushing the highlights. Mia held her breath until Elena closed the report and said flatly, "Fine." A wave of relief nearly made her sway. "Thank you, Ms. Harris," she murmured, hurrying back to her desk to sink into her rickety chair, allowing herself a brief, exhausted respite.
By noon, the office hummed with suffocating activity. Mia was sorting old employee files when polished leather shoes clicked beside her desk. Her stomach dropped—standing there was a man in his late forties, wearing an expensive tailored navy suit. His neatly combed black hair and sharp, calculating dark eyes roamed over her slowly, making her skin crawl. A faint Japanese accent colored his smooth voice: "Mia Carter?"
Standing beside her desk was a man in his late forties, wearing a tailored navy suit that looked expensive enough to cover her parents' diner rent for a month. His black hair was combed back so neatly it looked painted on, and his dark eyes—sharp and calculating—roamed over her in a slow, lingering gaze that made her skin crawl. A faint Japanese accent colored his words as he spoke, his voice smooth and low, like silk over stone. "Mia Carter?"
"Ichiro Watanabe, Head of Human Resources," he said, extending a hand. His palm was dry and firm, his grip lingering a beat too long. Mia pulled her hand back as soon as she could, folding it behind her back to hide the slight tremor. "I'm conducting routine check-ins with new interns," he explained, leaning against the edge of her desk. His body was angled toward her, closing off the small space between them, and the faint scent of sandalwood cologne drifted over her, overwhelming and cloying.
"Ms. Harris is demanding—hard for interns to keep up," he said, fake sympathy in his voice. "I'm doing my best, learning a lot despite the challenges," Mia replied steadily.
"I'm doing my best, Mr. Watanabe," Mia replied, keeping her voice steady. "I'm learning a lot, even if it's challenging."
Watanabe chuckled, the sound not reaching his eyes. "'Best' isn't enough here," he whispered. "I oversee all intern evaluations—decide who gets full-time, who's let go. Your future is in my hands." Mia's breath caught. "I'll keep working hard to prove I deserve this," she said tightly.
Mia's breath caught in her throat. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She'd heard whispers about office politics at Weston Group, but she'd never expected to be confronted with it so directly. "I appreciate you letting me know, sir," she said, her voice tight. "I'll keep working hard to prove I deserve to be here."
Watanabe's smile turned predatory. "Hard work is good, but cooperation helps," he said, brushing her hand as he grabbed a pen. Mia jerked back; he laughed. "I could make things easy—no more late nights, no Harris's nitpicking, a guaranteed full-time offer. Just trust me." The implication hung thick. "I want to earn my place on merit, no favors," Mia said firmly.
The implication hung in the air, thick and肮脏 (dirty). Mia's cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment. She'd never been spoken to like this before—like her dignity was a bargaining chip. "Thank you for the offer, Mr. Watanabe," she said, her voice firmer now. "But I want to earn my place here on my own merit. I don't need any special favors."
Watanabe's smile faded, eyes turning cold. "Don't be naive—hard work alone won't get you far," he snapped. "Think about my offer. I'll check in soon." As he left, his hand brushed her arm deliberately; she flinched. He glanced back, eyes warning.
Mia sank back, hands trembling. "Your future is in my hands" replayed in her mind. She wanted to report him, but Elena hated her, colleagues ignored her, and she couldn't drag Liam—who'd helped her access the finance folder the night before—into this.
Over the next two hours, Watanabe "checked in" twice more—dropping off onboarding forms with a lingering hand brush, then leaning in to "guide" her on filing, his breath fanning her ear. "Remember my offer, Mia—don't regret being stubborn," he murmured each time, voice dripping with innuendo.
By 3 p.m., Mia was on the verge of breakdown—head throbbing, hands shaking, her convenience store rice ball forgotten. She grabbed her water bottle and fled to the pantry, relieved to find it empty. She leaned against the counter, closing her eyes, the faint smell of coffee and leftover cookies briefly reminding her of home's warmth.
The pantry door closed softly behind her. Mia froze. She knew that sound. She knew who it was before she turned around.
"There you are," Watanabe said, voice low and menacing, blocking the door. The tiny pantry felt like a cage. "My offer is genuine—full-time, good pay, benefits to help your parents. Just say yes."
"I said no," Mia shouted, her fear turning to rage. "I want you to leave me alone. Now."
Watanabe smirked, stepping closer. He grabbed her arm, grip tight and painful. "Let go!" Mia screamed, pushing him hard in the chest. He stumbled, grip loosening; she yanked free, tripping backward and knocking over a milk carton. It spilled across the floor with a clatter.
"Let go of me!" Mia screamed. She raised her free hand and pushed him as hard as she could in the chest. Watanabe stumbled back, surprised by her strength, and his grip loosened just enough for her to yank her arm free. She stumbled backward, tripping over her own feet, and fell against the counter, knocking over a carton of milk. It spilled across the floor, the white liquid spreading like a stain as the carton clattered to the ground.
The pantry door swung open. Mia's heart leaped—maybe someone had heard her scream. But when she saw who it was, her hope turned to ice. Elena stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene: Watanabe rubbing his chest, Mia leaning against the counter, her breathing heavy, her arm red where Watanabe had grabbed her, and the spilled milk on the floor. "What the hell is going on here?" Elena snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"He grabbed me!" Mia cried, voice breaking. "He's been harassing me all day, offering a full-time job for 'cooperation.' I pushed him to escape!" Watanabe cut in, feigning innocence: "I followed her to check on her stress, offered help. She suddenly screamed and pushed me—I don't know what I did wrong."
Before Elena could respond, Watanabe cut in, his voice dripping with fake innocence. "That's not true, Ms. Harris. I was just checking in on Mia, making sure she was okay. She seemed stressed earlier, so I followed her to the pantry to ask if she needed help. Next thing I know, she's screaming and pushing me. I don't know what I did to upset her." He looked at Elena with a pained expression, like he was the victim.
"That's a lie!" Mia exclaimed. "He's lying! Ask anyone—ask the people who saw him lingering at my desk all day! Ask him about the things he said!"
"Enough!" Elena shouted, icy gaze fixed on Mia. "First a shoddy report, now attacking a department head? Unacceptable. I saw you push him—this attention-seeking behavior damages the company."
"He hurt me—look at my arm!" Mia said, holding up her red wrist. Elena glanced at it, then at Watanabe, who shook his head sadly. "I never touched her," he lied.
Elena glanced at Mia's arm, then back at Watanabe, who shook his head sadly. "I never touched her, Ms. Harris. I swear."
"I saw the whole thing," Elena scoffed. "Apologize to Mr. Watanabe now, or you're fired. And clean up this mess."
Tears streamed down Mia's face. "I'm not apologizing—I did nothing wrong. He harassed me."
"I'm not apologizing," she said, her voice shaking but firm. "I did nothing wrong. He harassed me."
"One more word, and you're terminated," Elena snapped, turning to leave. A crowd of colleagues lingered in the hallway, whispering cruelly: "Drama queen." "Attention-seeker." Watanabe mouthed "I told you so" before thanking Elena for her "fairness."
Mia didn't move. She stood there, staring at Elena, tears blurred her vision. A crowd had gathered in the hallway outside the pantry—colleagues peeking around the doorframe, their faces a mix of curiosity and judgment. She could hear them whispering, their words sharp and cruel. "She's trying to get attention." "What a drama queen." "No wonder Watanabe is upset."
The crowd dispersed, but their whispers lingered. Mia sank to her knees, mopping up the milk with trembling hands, tears mixing with the white liquid. She felt broken—humiliated, angry, helpless.
Elena nodded, her gaze still cold as she turned to leave. The crowd dispersed, but their whispers lingered, hanging in the air like a cloud of poison. Mia sank to her knees, her hands shaking as she reached for the spilled milk. She grabbed a paper towel and began mopping up the mess, her tears falling into the white liquid as she worked. She felt broken—humiliated, angry, helpless.
Back at her desk, Mia felt hundreds of judging eyes. She kept her head down, hair hiding her red eyes, but her hands shook too badly to sort files. Watanabe passed by, whispering coldly: "You should have listened. Now you'll pay." Mia clamped her jaw tight, refusing to give him satisfaction.
Mia didn't look up. She just kept sorting, her jaw clamped shut so tight her teeth ached. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he'd hurt her.
By day's end, Watanabe's lies spread like wildfire. He told everyone Mia had "thrown herself at him," begged for a full-time job in exchange for "favors," and attacked him when rejected. He invented details—her lingering at his office, "inappropriate texts"—calling her a "gold digger who wants to sleep her way to the top."
Colleagues avoided her like the plague. Conversations stopped when she walked by; stares of disgust followed her. A marketing woman muttered "slut" as she passed. Mia's lunch remained untouched, her stomach too tight to eat. She was an outcast.
At 6 p.m., Mia packed up, hands still trembling, head down, hugging her canvas bag. The hallway was empty, but she still heard whispers, felt stares. Inside the elevator, she leaned against the wall, tears falling freely.
She'd come for a better life, to help her parents, but now she was trapped—harassed, betrayed, shunned, labeled a liar. Watanabe controlled her evaluation; Elena was on his side. No one would believe her. She thought of Liam, the only kind person here—would he believe the rumors too?
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Mia stepped out into the lobby, the cold air hitting her face. She walked out onto the street, the city lights blurring around her. She didn't know what to do, didn't know how to fight back. Watanabe had all the power—he controlled her evaluation, her future. Elena was on his side. No one would believe her.
As she walked to the subway, her phone buzzed—her mother: "Made your favorite soup, can't wait to see you!" Mia stopped, thumb hovering. She couldn't break their hearts. She lied: "Good day! Learned a lot, can't wait for soup." She put her phone away, the weight of the lie mixing with her pain. Her internship, once a lifeline, now felt like a prison. As she stepped onto the subway, surrounded by strangers, she realized she had no idea how to escape.
She put her phone away and continued walking, the weight of her lie mixing with the weight of her pain. Her internship, which had once felt like a lifeline, now felt like a prison. And as she stepped onto the subway, surrounded by strangers, she realized something terrifying: she had no idea how to escape.