Chapter 2
*The CEO's Game*
The next morning, Amara stood frozen in front of the giant glass doors of Blackwell Enterprises. Her fingers gripped her ID badge a little too tightly, her eyes tracing every detail of the building as if it might swallow her whole. She had barely slept—last night's humiliation replayed in her head like a bad movie. Coffee. Shoes. That voice. *That man.*
She had no idea who he was, only that he was important—and that she'd started off on the absolute worst foot.
The elevator ride to the 24th floor was painfully silent. She clutched her small bag, ignoring the way the other suited employees glanced at her like she didn't belong. When she stepped into the executive office area, a tall woman with icy eyes approached.
"You're the new intern?" the woman asked, clipboard in hand.
Amara nodded. "Yes, Amara Cavanaugh."
The woman gave a clipped nod and handed her a slim black folder. "This outlines your tasks for the week. You'll be assisting Mr. Blackwell directly when required. Otherwise, report to me."
Amara blinked. "Mr. Blackwell?"
The woman arched a brow. "Yes. The CEO."
Her heart stopped.
CEO.
No. It couldn't be.
"Tall? Black suit? A little intimidating?" Amara asked cautiously.
: The woman narrowed her eyes. "He's the one you spilled coffee on, isn't he?"
Amara's face turned scarlet. "I didn't mean to—"
"He noticed," the woman interrupted, turning on her heel. "And that's rare. You'll find out soon enough—he doesn't pay attention to people he's not interested in. Watch yourself, Amara."
And just like that, the woman vanished.
*Mr. Blackwell.* That man. The CEO. She felt her stomach twist. Her new boss was the same man whose shoes she'd baptized with cappuccino.
***
Later that afternoon, Amara was summoned to the top-floor office. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed the intercom.
"Come in," a deep voice replied.
She opened the door slowly.
He was sitting behind a massive desk, his tie loosened slightly, sleeves rolled up. No sunglasses this time. His dark eyes lifted slowly to meet hers. He didn't smile. He didn't blink.
"I see you've recovered," he said flatly.
Amara swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
He stood, walked toward the window, hands in his pockets. "Amara Cavanaugh. 24. Honours graduate. Fluent in French and... sarcasm?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
His lips curved just slightly. "I read your file. Impressive. So tell me, what are you doing here?"
"I—I want to learn," she replied, nervous but steady. "I want to grow in this field."
: "In this company?" he asked, turning to face her again.
"Yes," she said firmly.
He watched her for a beat. Then: "Fine. You'll shadow me for the next two weeks. Prove you're worth the salary I'm not even paying you."
She blinked again. "Wait—shadow you? Personally?"
"Problem?" he asked.
"No," she said quickly. "No problem."
He stepped closer, just enough to make her pulse quicken. "Good. Because I don't tolerate incompetence. Or coffee stains."
Her breath hitched, but she nodded.
"Dismissed."
As she turned to leave, she heard him murmur just loud enough: "Let's see how long you last, Miss Cavanaugh."
****The First Test*
Amara barely made it out of his office before collapsing onto a bench down the hall. Shadowing the CEO? For two whole weeks? She had hoped for some quiet desk work—not being under the constant gaze of the same man she'd spilled coffee on.
Her phone buzzed.
*New Email:*
*From:* [email protected]
*Subject:* Task 01
*Body:*
"Boardroom. 15 minutes. I want the Q2 performance report printed, colour-coded, and annotated. Impress me."
No greeting. No signature. Just orders.
She sprang up, racing to the intern desk where a printer and filing cabinet sat. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she searched for the document. She'd barely begun printing when a tall shadow loomed over her.
It was Janelle—the cold-eyed woman from earlier.
"He's testing you," she said flatly. "This is what he does. He's ruthless. Most interns last three days."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Amara muttered, not looking up.
Janelle smirked. "I'm just being honest. If you want to survive him, don't just work hard—work smart. He respects precision. Doesn't care about effort. He cares about results."
Then he walked away.
Amara stood there stunned.
Had he just said that?
: Amara didn't respond. She finished printing, grabbed a highlighter and quickly started annotating with notes from last quarter's market changes she'd researched the night before.
At exactly 15 minutes, she stepped into the boardroom.
It was empty. For 10 seconds.
Then the door opened and in walked Adrian Blackwell—this time in full control. Impeccable. Sharp-eyed. Surrounded by three top executives.
He didn't introduce her.
Instead, he took the file she handed him, flipped through it silently, then slid it to the others.
"Good," he said quietly.
That single word made her knees nearly buckle.
For the rest of the meeting, she stood silently at the back, taking notes. But she noticed it—every so often, his eyes flicked toward her. Quick, subtle glances. As if watching her reaction. As if studying her.
After the meeting, he stopped her just outside the room.
"You did better than I expected," he said. "But next time, add a brief on potential competitor movements. Anticipation, Miss Cavanaugh. It separates the average from the brilliant."
She nodded. "Understood, sir."
He paused. "And one more thing—don't let Janelle rattle you. She's territorial."
"Territorial?" she asked, confused.
He looked her straight in the eye. "You're new. And you got my attention."