Chapter 19

Natsha Tachamongkalapiwat, Miu to family and friends, did not need an intern.

She said this on a Monday morning, at exactly 8:12 a.m., while standing in front of the glass wall of her office with a black coffee in one hand and a quarterly performance report in the other.

Her HR Director, Ploy, stood across from her with the expression of a woman who had survived three restructuring projects, two labor disputes, and one company-wide payroll system migration, and therefore did not fear CEOs anymore.

“With respect, Ms. Natsha,” Ploy said, “you do.”

Miu slowly lowered the report.

“No, I don’t.”

“It is part of the executive internship program.”

“Then assign her to another executive.”

“We already assigned interns to the other departments.”

“Assign two to Finance.”

“Finance threatened to resign when we gave them one.”

“Then Marketing.”

“Marketing turns interns into social media props.”

“Legal.”

“Legal makes interns cry.”

Miu stared at her.

Ploy smiled.

“Exactly. That leaves your office.”

Miu placed the coffee on her desk with terrifying calm. “My office is not a training ground.”

“No, it is where decisions are made. That is why one of the top interns should experience it.”

“I don’t have time to teach.”

“The intern assigned to you won’t need much teaching.”

“That is what everyone says before they send me someone who staples documents diagonally.”

Ploy opened her folder. “Her name is Lena Schuett. Last year in university, Business Administration. Excellent grades. Strong recommendations. Very organized. During the assessment, she found three errors in the mock financial brief before the evaluators did.”

Miu’s eyebrow moved.

Barely.

Ploy noticed anyway.

“She’s smart,” Ploy continued. “Efficient. And the program only runs for three months.”

“Not more?”

“Not more.”

“Exactly three?”

“Exactly three.”

Miu looked back at the report in her hand.

Three months.

She could survive three months.

She had survived worse.

She had survived inheriting a company at thirty-two after her father retired early and decided, very dramatically, that his daughter was “ready.”

The board had not agreed.

The board had smiled politely when her appointment was announced. They congratulated her. They bowed. They shook her hand. Then they looked at one another with the quiet hunger of people waiting for a young woman to make her first mistake.

Miu knew what they said when she left the room.

Too young.

Too inexperienced.

Her father’s daughter.

A symbolic appointment.

She would fail within a year.

So Miu did not fail.

She arrived before everyone else and left after everyone else. She read every contract, checked every proposal, questioned every number, and made herself so prepared that even the men who doubted her had to start doubting themselves.

She stopped going to team dinners.

Stopped attending company trips.

Stopped laughing too loudly in hallways.

Stopped letting people see her tired.

Because weakness, in that building, was not treated as human. It was treated as evidence.

And the vampires around her were always thirsty.

“No unnecessary access to confidential matters,” Miu said.

“Of course.”

“No shadowing board meetings.”

“Understood.”

“No personal errands.”

Ploy’s expression became offended. “This is not that kind of internship.”

“No emotional mentoring.”

Ploy blinked. “I wasn’t planning to ask for that.”

“No team-building expectations.”

“You don’t join those anyway.”

“Exactly.”

Ploy sighed. “Ms. Natsha, she will support your office, observe executive operations, and assist where appropriate. That’s all.”

Miu opened the report again. “Fine.”

Ploy smiled.

“Three months,” Miu repeated.

“Yes.”

“And if she slows me down, I send her back to HR.”

“Of course.”

Ploy turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“She starts today.”

Miu looked up sharply.

Ploy disappeared before the CEO could fire her.

Lena Schuett entered Miu’s office at 9:03 a.m.

Miu knew this because she was already annoyed by the three-minute delay, until Ploy explained that Lena had arrived at 8:15 but had spent the first forty-eight minutes helping Reception fix a printer jam, showing another intern where the orientation room was, and somehow calming down a client who had entered the wrong floor.

Miu did not like that.

Not because it was bad.

Because useful people were dangerous.

They made others depend on them before anyone realized it.

Lena stood in front of Miu’s desk wearing a cream blouse, black slacks, and a nervous smile she was clearly trying to control. She looked younger than Miu expected, but not childish. Her hair was tied back neatly. She held a notebook and tablet against her chest. Her ID lanyard still looked too new.

“Good morning, Ms. Natsha,” Lena said. “Thank you for allowing me to be assigned to your office.”

Miu looked at Ploy, who was standing behind Lena with the smile of a criminal.

“I did not allow it,” Miu said. “I accepted it under organizational pressure.”

Lena blinked.

Then, unexpectedly, she smiled wider.

“That’s fair.”

Ploy coughed suspiciously into her fist.

Miu looked back at Lena.

Most interns would have panicked. Some would have apologized too much. Others would have tried to impress her with rehearsed enthusiasm.

Lena simply opened her notebook.

“I understand the program runs for three months,” she said. “I’ve read the basic confidentiality agreement, the executive office procedures, and the company overview Ploy sent us. I also prepared a list of questions, but I arranged them by urgency so I don’t take too much of your time.”

Miu stared.

Ploy’s smile became unbearable.

Lena continued, “I was told your assistant, Narin, manages your calendar, so I won’t touch that unless instructed. But I can help summarize reports, prepare meeting briefs, track follow-ups, and draft non-sensitive internal communication if that’s useful.”

Miu looked at Ploy again.

Ploy mouthed, I told you.

Miu hated being wrong.

She hated being wrong even more when HR witnessed it.

“Sit,” Miu said.

Lena sat.

Miu handed her a report. “Summarize this into one page. I need key risks, missing data, questionable assumptions, and recommendations for follow-up. No decorative language. No unnecessary praise. No ‘overall, this is promising’ unless it actually is.”

Lena took the report. “Deadline?”

Miu expected hesitation.

“Eleven.”

Lena nodded. “Do you prefer bullet points or structured paragraphs?”

Miu paused.

“Bullet points.”

“Do you want suggested questions for the department head included?”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

“Noted.”

Lena stood.

Miu watched her leave.

Ploy stayed behind just long enough to whisper, “Three months.”

Miu glared.

At 10:41, Lena returned.

The summary was one page.

Exactly.

The key risks were accurate. The missing data was properly identified. Two assumptions Miu had also flagged were marked as “unsupported.” The follow-up questions were clear and sharp without sounding arrogant.

Miu read it once.

Then again.

Lena stood quietly in front of the desk, hands folded, waiting.

Miu finally looked up.

“Who helped you?”

Lena’s mouth opened slightly.

Then she laughed.

Not loudly.

Just a small surprised laugh, like she had not expected the question and found it more amusing than insulting.

“No one.”

Miu leaned back. “You found the pricing inconsistency.”

“It was on page eighteen, but the chart on page six used a different baseline.”

“And the projected churn rate?”

“Too low for the assumptions they used.”

Miu looked at her.

Lena looked back.

No fear.

Respect, yes.

Nerves, slightly.

But not fear.

Miu placed the paper down.

“This is acceptable.”

Lena’s eyes brightened.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s not a compliment.”

“I’ll treat it as a baseline.”

Miu’s eyebrow moved again.

Lena smiled, bowed slightly, and left.

Miu stared at the closed door for six seconds.

Then she called HR.

Ploy answered too quickly.

“Don’t say anything,” Miu said.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I can hear your face.”

Ploy laughed.

The first week should have been simple.

It was not.

Because Lena became useful in ways that disrupted Miu’s carefully controlled irritation.

By Wednesday, Lena had organized the executive follow-up tracker that three departments had been neglecting for months.

By Thursday, she had learned how Miu preferred documents arranged: summary first, risks second, data tables attached separately, flagged assumptions in yellow, urgent decisions in red.

By Friday, she had figured out that Miu forgot lunch unless someone placed food in front of her and then walked away without making it sentimental.

At 1:17 p.m., Lena entered with a sandwich.

Miu did not look up from her laptop.

“I didn’t request that.”

“I know.”

“Then why is it here?”

“Because you have three meetings back-to-back, and your 4 p.m. requires patience.”

Miu continued typing. “I have patience.”

Lena looked at her.

Miu stopped typing.

Lena wisely said nothing.

Miu looked at the sandwich.

“Is there tomato?”

“No. Narin said you hate tomato in sandwiches because it makes the bread wet.”

Miu turned toward the glass wall, where her assistant was suddenly very busy looking at absolutely nothing.

“Traitor,” Miu said.

Narin did not look up.

Lena placed the sandwich neatly on the corner of the desk.

“I’ll leave it here. You don’t have to eat it.”

She left.

Miu did not eat it.

For four minutes.

Then she ate all of it.

By the second week, everyone liked Lena.

This irritated Miu too.

People greeted Lena in hallways. Reception called her “nong Lena” with affection. Finance, which hated everyone, gave her a chair during a meeting. Marketing invited her to lunch. Even Legal, famously joyless, asked if she could help format a contract review template because “she makes spreadsheets less ugly.”

Miu began hearing Lena’s laugh through the glass walls.

At first, it was distracting.

Then it became something worse.

Pleasant.

Miu would be reviewing budget cuts or reading another passive-aggressive note from a board member, and somewhere outside her office, Lena would laugh. The sound had texture. Warmth. A careless brightness Miu had not allowed in her world for years.

It made the office feel less like a battlefield.

Miu hated that most of all.

One Friday afternoon, Miu was walking back from a meeting when she saw Lena in the break area with three interns and a junior analyst from Marketing.

The analyst was a man named Tan.

Perfectly ordinary. Mid-twenties. Friendly face. Good presentation skills. Not unattractive, in the harmless way young executives with gym memberships and teeth whitening strips were not unattractive.

He was standing too close to Lena.

Not scandalously close.

Just close enough for Miu’s brain to immediately create a legal department.

Tan handed Lena a coffee.

Lena smiled.

Miu stopped walking.

Narin, who was following behind with a folder, nearly walked into her.

“Ms. Natsha?”

“Who is that?”

Narin looked. “Tan from Marketing.”

“I know he’s from Marketing.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Miu did not answer.

Tan said something.

Lena laughed.

Miu’s eyes narrowed.

Narin looked at Miu, then at Lena, then at Tan, then slowly down at the folder as if it could protect him from what he was realizing.

“Marketing has a campaign review at three,” Narin said cautiously.

“Move it to Monday.”

“You asked for it today.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Because of the campaign?”

Miu looked at him.

Narin nodded quickly. “Monday.”

Miu walked away.

She did not look back.

She absolutely looked back through the reflection of the glass wall.

By the third week, Miu attended a team lunch.

This was treated by the company as a religious event.

The lunch was organized by HR to welcome interns properly. Miu had never attended previous intern lunches. She usually sent a polite message, approved the budget, and remained in her office where she belonged.

This time, at 11:58 a.m., she appeared at the restaurant.

Ploy almost dropped her chopsticks.

Narin closed his eyes in prayer.

Lena looked up from the far end of the table, surprised.

Miu told herself this was why she had come: to observe the internship program as CEO.

Not because Lena was there.

Certainly not because Tan was sitting beside Lena.

“Ms. Natsha!” Ploy said too brightly. “What a surprise.”

Miu sat down at the head of the table. “Leadership visibility is important.”

Ploy’s eyes slid to Lena.

Then back to Miu.

“Of course.”

Lena smiled politely. “It’s nice to see you outside the office, Ms. Natsha.”

Miu took the menu.

“I leave the office.”

Narin, seated beside Ploy, whispered, “For other offices.”

Miu turned one degree.

Narin became very interested in soup.

The lunch was loud.

Too loud.

People asked questions. Interns shared stories. HR played an icebreaker game that made Miu regret every decision that had led her there.

Then Lena laughed at something Tan said.

Miu looked over.

Tan was holding up a piece of fried chicken with chopsticks, apparently telling a story about dropping food during a client lunch. It did not seem that funny.

Lena laughed anyway.

Miu stabbed a dumpling.

Ploy noticed.

Narin noticed.

Even the dumpling probably noticed.

“Ms. Natsha,” Ploy said sweetly, “are you enjoying the lunch?”

“Yes.”

“You’re gripping your chopsticks very tightly.”

“I enjoy with discipline.”

Across the table, Lena glanced at Miu.

Their eyes met.

Lena’s smile softened.

Miu looked away first.

That was the first real problem.

Miu had looked away from board members, journalists, investors, and hostile executives without feeling anything.

Looking away from Lena felt like retreat.

It got worse from there.

Lena had a way of making Miu participate in life without directly asking her to.

When Lena helped organize a small Friday coffee break for the executive floor, Miu said she would not attend.

At 3:05, she walked by “coincidentally.”

Lena handed her a cup of tea.

Not coffee.

Tea.

“You seemed tired,” Lena said.

Miu looked at the cup.

It was exactly how she liked it, though she had no memory of telling Lena.

“I have a call.”

“It starts in twenty minutes.”

Miu looked at her.

Lena smiled.

“Calendar.”

Miu took the tea.

She stayed for six minutes.

The following week, Lena joined a team-building activity.

Miu said no immediately.

Then she saw the attendee list.

Tan from Marketing was going.

Miu attended.

The activity was escape-room themed.

It was a disaster.

Not because Miu was bad at puzzles. She was excellent at puzzles.

The problem was that Lena was also excellent at puzzles, and everyone else kept praising her.

“Lena, you’re amazing!”

“Lena solved another one!”

“Lena, join our team next time!”

Miu stood by a locked cabinet holding a code clue and experiencing an emotion she refused to name.

Tan leaned over Lena’s shoulder to look at a puzzle.

Miu cleared her throat.

Everyone turned.

“The clue is upside down,” she said.

Tan stepped back.

Lena looked down.

“Oh. She’s right.”

Miu walked away before anyone could thank her.

They escaped with eleven minutes left.

Ploy insisted on a group photo.

Miu stood at the edge.

Lena was in the middle.

Tan tried to stand beside Lena.

Miu appeared there first.

No one saw her move.

One moment she was at the edge.

The next, she was beside Lena, expression calm, shoulders squared, CEO energy weaponized.

Tan ended up behind Ploy.

Narin took the photo and whispered, “I need hazard pay.”

The first time Lena met Miu’s parents, it was by accident.

Or at least Lena thought it was.

Miu knew perfectly well her parents were coming to the office.

She simply failed to mention it because she had been distracted by the fact that Lena was presenting an intern project proposal that morning and looked unfairly competent while doing it.

Miu’s father, Arun Taechamongkalapiwat, entered the executive floor at 2 p.m. with the relaxed confidence of a man who had built an empire, handed it to his daughter, and now spent most of his time pretending retirement was not boring.

Miu’s mother, Sirin, entered beside him with the elegance of a woman who missed her daughter’s laugh more than she missed her husband’s full-time career.

They found Lena outside Miu’s office, explaining a revised report to Narin.

Arun stopped.

Sirin stopped.

Lena looked up.

“Oh,” she said, immediately bowing. “Good afternoon.”

Arun smiled. “And who are you?”

Lena introduced herself properly, explaining that she was part of the executive internship program assigned to Miu’s office.

Sirin’s expression warmed.

“So you’re Lena.”

Lena blinked. “You know my name?”

Arun’s smile widened. “Our daughter mentioned you.”

From inside her office, Miu heard this and experienced a full spiritual emergency.

She opened the door.

“Father.”

Arun turned cheerfully. “Miu.”

“Mother.”

Sirin smiled. “You look thin.”

“I am working.”

“You were thin before work too.”

Lena pressed her lips together to avoid smiling.

Miu saw.

Miu suffered.

Arun turned back to Lena. “How is she as a boss?”

“Father.”

Lena looked briefly at Miu, then at Arun. “Very demanding.”

Arun laughed.

Miu folded her arms.

Lena continued, “But fair. And precise. I’ve learned a lot.”

Sirin’s eyes softened.

Miu looked away.

Arun studied Lena for a moment.

“You graduate this year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Business Administration?”

“Yes.”

“Good. After graduation, speak to HR. We should offer you a proper position.”

Miu’s head snapped toward him.

Lena’s eyes widened. “That’s very kind, sir, but I still need to finish the internship and prove myself.”

Arun smiled like he had just discovered a rare species.

“Humble too.”

Miu said, “She is still an intern.”

“And you were once a child who ate crayons,” Arun said. “People develop.”

Lena made a small sound.

Miu looked at her.

Lena stared at the floor.

Sirin touched Miu’s arm gently. “Join us for dinner tonight.”

“I have work.”

“Bring the work.”

“No.”

“Bring Lena.”

Both Miu and Lena froze.

Sirin smiled innocently.

“I mean, if she has no plans. We would like to hear about the internship program.”

Miu stared at her mother.

Her mother stared back with the calm of a woman who had birthed her and therefore feared nothing.

Lena, unaware she was stepping into family warfare, said, “Thank you for inviting me, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense,” Arun said. “Come.”

Miu should have refused.

She should have said it was inappropriate.

She should have protected all boundaries.

Instead, she heard herself say, “If Lena is comfortable.”

Lena looked at her.

Miu looked back.

For some reason, the entire hallway became too warm.

Dinner was a mistake.

Not because it went badly.

Because it went too well.

Lena was easy with Miu’s parents in a way Miu had forgotten people could be easy. She answered questions without sounding rehearsed. She laughed at Arun’s jokes. She complimented Sirin’s cooking with such sincerity that Sirin visibly adopted her halfway through dessert.

Miu sat beside Lena, saying very little.

She watched.

Her father looked lighter than he had in months.

Her mother looked happy in a way that made Miu’s chest ache.

And Lena, who came from a simple life, not poor, not rich, but rich in family, stories, friendships, and ordinary warmth, filled the room with something Miu had been starving for without admitting it.

“So your family is close?” Sirin asked.

Lena nodded. “Very. Too close sometimes. My sister still calls me to ask if chicken in her fridge is safe to eat, and my father sends weather updates like I control the sky.”

Arun laughed loudly.

Miu smiled before she could stop herself.

Sirin saw it.

Her face changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

“There she is,” Sirin whispered.

Miu looked at her mother.

Sirin did not explain.

She did not need to.

Miu looked down.

Lena, beside her, did not notice. She was busy telling Arun about a university professor who graded presentations like a royal decree.

Miu listened to her laugh.

Something inside her, something she had locked away when the board first looked at her like a temporary mistake, shifted in the dark.

After that, Miu became worse.

Everyone noticed.

Miu started joining events she had rejected for years.

Company dinner?

Miu appeared.

Karaoke night?

Miu appeared and stood in the corner looking like a hostage until Lena sang an old pop song badly enough that Miu laughed into her drink.

CSR volunteer day?

Miu appeared in a company shirt and helped pack school supplies with terrifying efficiency.

Birthday cake for Finance?

Miu appeared, handed the CFO a knife, and said, “Cut evenly. There are thirty-two people.”

The company changed around her.

At first, people were frightened.

Then they were fascinated.

Then they were delighted.

“The CEO smiled at my joke,” someone whispered in the elevator.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a threat?” someone else asked.

“No, teeth were visible.”

“Impossible.”

Narin began keeping a private list titled:

Things Ms. Natsha Has Done Because Lena Was There

1. Ate lunch outside her office.

2. Attended karaoke.

3. Smiled during HR announcements.

4. Asked about someone’s weekend and waited for the answer.

5. Took a selfie at team-building. Looked uncomfortable but alive.

6. Approved Casual Friday.

7. Said “good job” with warmth.

8. Laughed. Actual sound. Witnesses: 14.

Ploy added number nine:

9. Asked whether the internship period could be “extended for strategic continuity.”

HR denied it.

Miu did not forgive them.

And then there was Tan.

Tan from Marketing did not know he was a marked man.

This was unfortunate for Tan.

Because Tan genuinely liked Lena.

Everyone could tell. He asked her to lunch often. Brought her coffee. Sent her campaign articles. Praised her ideas in meetings. Once, he leaned against Lena’s desk and said, “You really should consider Marketing after graduation. You’d be wasted in Operations.”

Miu heard about this from no one.

She simply developed the ability to sense it through walls.

“Where is Lena?” she asked one afternoon.

Narin checked the calendar. “Lunch.”

“With whom?”

Narin paused.

Miu looked up.

Narin chose life. “Several interns.”

“And?”

“Marketing.”

“And?”

Narin sighed. “Tan.”

Miu’s pen stopped moving.

Narin whispered, “I’m so tired.”

Miu said nothing.

But that afternoon, Marketing received forty-seven follow-up questions on their campaign proposal.

Tan answered twenty-three of them.

By month three, Lena had become a problem Miu could no longer pretend was professional.

She thought of Lena in the morning.

She looked for her laugh in the hallway.

She noticed when Lena wore blue.

She noticed when Lena looked tired.

She noticed when Lena spoke to Tan and touched her hair.

That last one almost ended an entire department.

The worst part was that Lena did not seem unaware.

Sometimes Miu would look up and find Lena already watching her, eyes bright with something knowing. Then Lena would smile and return to her work, leaving Miu feeling like an unprepared intern in her own office.

One evening, near the end of the internship, Miu returned from a brutal board meeting.

The meeting had gone well on paper.

In reality, three board members had questioned her expansion strategy with the thinly veiled condescension of men who thought speaking slowly made them intelligent. Miu had answered everything. Calmly. Perfectly. She had won.

Still, she felt drained down to the bone.

She stepped out of the elevator onto the executive floor, heading toward her office, when she heard Lena’s voice near the open workspace.

Then Tan’s.

Miu slowed.

She did not mean to listen.

She listened completely.

Lena was at her desk, packing her things. Tan stood beside it, holding two coffees.

Again with the coffee.

“Come on,” Tan said warmly. “Just dinner. You’ve been saying maybe for weeks.”

Lena laughed lightly. “I’ve been saying maybe because I’m polite.”

“Ouch.”

“I didn’t mean it badly.”

“I know. But your internship is almost over. If I don’t ask properly now, I’ll regret it.”

Miu stopped walking.

Narin, behind her, stopped breathing.

Tan continued, “I like you, Lena. I think you know that.”

Lena’s smile faded slightly.

Miu’s vision narrowed.

“So,” Tan said, softer now. “Dinner? This Friday. Not as coworkers. As a date.”

The entire floor became silent in Miu’s head.

Lena opened her mouth.

Miu moved.

Not walked.

Moved.

“Mr. Tan.”

Tan turned.

Every drop of blood left his face.

Lena looked up, startled.

Miu stood behind him in a black suit, expression cold enough to affect room temperature.

“Ms. Natsha,” Tan said quickly.

“Leave.”

Tan blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I said leave.”

Lena stood. “Ms. Natsha—”

Miu did not look at her.

Her eyes remained on Tan.

“You are making an intern uncomfortable in a professional workplace.”

Tan’s mouth opened. “I wasn’t—”

“If you want to keep your job,” Miu said, voice low and terrifyingly calm, “you better walk away now.”

Narin closed his eyes.

Somewhere, someone dropped a pen.

Tan looked at Lena, then Miu, then decided that survival was more important than dignity.

“Yes, Ms. Natsha.”

He walked away quickly.

Not ran.

But almost.

The floor stayed silent.

Miu turned to Lena.

“Come to my office.”

Lena stared at her.

Miu walked away first.

Lena followed.

The door closed behind them.

For three seconds, neither spoke.

Then Lena said, “That was unnecessary.”

Miu turned.

“He was pressuring you.”

“He asked me out.”

“He asked repeatedly.”

“I could handle it.”

“He was unprofessional.”

Lena crossed her arms. “So were you.”

Miu’s face tightened.

“Excuse me?”

“You threatened his job.”

“Because he crossed a line.”

“No,” Lena said. “You threatened his job because you were jealous.”

The word entered the office like an explosion.

Miu went very still.

Outside the glass walls, everyone suddenly remembered they had work far away.

Miu walked to her desk, then turned back.

“This conversation is inappropriate.”

Lena laughed once.

It was not amused.

“Now you care about appropriate?”

Miu’s eyes sharpened.

“Careful.”

“No,” Lena said, stepping closer. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use your CEO voice when I say something true.”

Miu’s jaw tightened.

Lena’s own voice shook now, not with fear, but with weeks of held-back frustration.

“You show up at lunches you hate because I’m there. You attend karaoke and stand in a corner like you’re negotiating with death. You glare at every person who brings me coffee. You ask where I am when I leave for more than twenty minutes. You asked HR if three months was a flexible definition.”

Miu’s eyes flicked toward the door.

“I did not ask that.”

“Narin told me.”

From outside, Narin whispered, “Betrayal.”

Lena continued, “Your parents invited me to dinner, and your mother looked like she wanted to plan our wedding before dessert. Your father offered me a job after knowing me for ten minutes. Everyone in this company knows something is happening except you, apparently.”

Miu’s face flushed.

Just slightly.

Enough.

“You are my intern,” Miu said.

“Yes.”

“I am your CEO.”

“Yes.”

“There are rules.”

“Yes.”

“Power dynamics.”

“Yes.”

“Ethics.”

“Yes, Miu, I know.”

The use of her first name struck harder than anything else.

Miu looked at her.

Lena looked tired suddenly.

Not playful.

Not bright.

Tired.

“I know all of that,” Lena said softly. “That’s why I waited for you to say something. That’s why I didn’t push. That’s why I kept showing up, doing my work, pretending I didn’t see you looking at me like I was the only person in the room.”

Miu’s breath caught.

Lena swallowed.

“And I know I’m young. I know I’m still finishing university. I know you’re carrying an entire company while half the board waits for you to fail. I know you trained yourself not to want anything because wanting things makes you feel vulnerable.”

Miu looked away.

Lena stepped closer.

“But you can’t keep punishing everyone else because you’re scared.”

Miu’s hands curled at her sides.

For a moment, she was silent.

Then she said, very quietly, “He wanted to take you to dinner.”

Lena’s anger softened despite herself.

“Yes.”

“You would have gone?”

“No.”

Miu looked at her.

Lena’s expression changed.

A small smile, almost sad.

“I was waiting for someone else to ask.”

Miu stared at her.

“You knew?”

“Miu,” Lena said, and now she smiled properly, “you attended karaoke. You hate microphones, crowds, and happiness.”

Miu blinked.

Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.

It came out small, startled, helpless.

Lena’s face softened completely.

There she was.

The woman beneath the CEO.

Miu covered her mouth for a second, as if embarrassed by the sound.

Lena stepped closer again.

“I thought the day would never come,” Lena whispered.

Miu’s eyes changed.

All the control she wore like armor began to crack.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Miu said.

“That’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” Miu’s voice trembled with frustration. “I know what this looks like. I know what people will say. I know what the board will do if they find any weakness they can use. I know I should not want you like this. I know I should be responsible.”

Lena stood close enough now that Miu could smell her perfume, something clean and warm and impossible to ignore.

“And what do you want?”

Miu closed her eyes.

When she opened them, the answer was already there.

“You.”

Lena’s breath softened.

Miu looked almost angry at herself.

“You walk into a room and it becomes easier to breathe,” she said. “You make people feel seen without trying. You make this company feel less like a warzone. You made my parents look at me like they recognized me again.” Her voice broke slightly. “I started following you everywhere because wherever you were, I felt like I could rest for five minutes.”

Lena’s eyes filled.

Miu took one careful step forward.

“I am jealous,” she admitted. “Of Tan. Of the interns. Of executives. Of my own father offering you a job. Of anyone who gets to ask for your time without measuring the consequences first.”

Lena smiled through emotion.

“That’s a lot of jealousy.”

“I am thorough.”

Lena laughed softly.

Miu looked at her mouth.

Then back at her eyes.

“I can’t be reckless with you.”

“I don’t want reckless.”

“I can’t date you while you’re my intern.”

“I know.”

“And if you join the company after graduation, your hiring cannot be influenced by me.”

“I know.”

“And we would need to disclose appropriately if it becomes serious.”

Lena tilted her head.

“If?”

Miu stopped.

Lena smiled.

“Miu, you nearly exiled a marketing executive because he brought me coffee.”

Miu’s expression sharpened. “He brought you coffee too often.”

“There’s a frequency limit?”

“There is now.”

Lena laughed.

Miu tried to stay stern.

Failed.

Then Lena reached for her hand.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Giving Miu every chance to pull away.

Miu did not.

Their fingers touched.

For a woman who had negotiated acquisitions without blinking, Miu looked terrified by one hand.

Lena squeezed gently.

“My internship ends in two weeks,” Lena said. “I graduate in four months. Until then, we can be careful.”

Miu looked down at their joined hands.

“And after?”

Lena’s smile turned soft.

“After, you can ask me to dinner properly.”

Miu looked up.

“And if I ask now?”

Lena leaned closer.

“I’ll say yes later.”

Miu laughed again, quieter this time.

Then Lena kissed her.

Or maybe Miu kissed Lena.

Later, they would argue about who moved first.

Miu would insist it was Lena because Lena had no respect for executive boundaries.

Lena would insist it was Miu because CEOs always needed to take responsibility.

The truth was that they moved at the same time.

The kiss was soft, careful, and absolutely disastrous for Miu’s remaining professionalism.

Miu’s hand rose to Lena’s cheek. Lena’s fingers curled into the front of Miu’s blazer. For a few seconds, there was no board, no internship, no company, no glass walls, no people outside pretending not to be pressed against the copy room door.

Only breath.

Only relief.

Only the terrifying sweetness of wanting and being wanted back.

When they pulled apart, Miu rested her forehead against Lena’s.

“We have to be careful,” she whispered.

Lena smiled. “You said that already.”

“I will say it many times.”

“I know.”

Miu opened her eyes.

Lena was looking at her like she had been waiting a long time.

Miu’s chest ached.

Outside, someone sneezed.

Both women froze.

Miu turned toward the glass wall.

Shapes moved away quickly.

Lena covered her mouth.

Miu walked to the door and opened it.

The executive floor became a masterpiece of fake productivity.

Narin was typing on a calculator.

Ploy, who had apparently arrived at some point, was reading a folder upside down.

Two assistants stared intensely at a plant.

Miu looked at all of them.

“Is there something interesting?”

“No, Ms. Natsha,” everyone said at once.

Lena appeared beside her, cheeks pink.

Ploy glanced at her.

Then at Miu.

Then smiled like she had just won an HR championship.

Miu narrowed her eyes. “Ploy.”

“Yes?”

“Please arrange for Mr. Tan from Marketing to supervise the regional branch.”

Ploy blinked. “Which one?”

Miu’s smile was cold.

“The farthest one.”

Lena gasped. “Miu!”

Narin whispered, “Oh my God.”

Ploy pressed her lips together. “We cannot transfer an employee for personal reasons.”

“It is for leadership development.”

Lena stared at her. “Leadership development?”

“He needs distance to grow.”

Ploy nodded slowly. “I will review appropriate career development opportunities that do not violate labor regulations.”

“Choose somewhere with poor coffee.”

“Miu,” Lena said, scandalized and laughing.

Miu looked at her. “What? He likes bringing coffee. He should experience scarcity.”

Narin turned away, shoulders shaking.

Ploy wrote something down.

“Noted,” she said. “Leadership development. Coffee scarcity.”

The secret relationship lasted approximately six minutes.

Officially, nothing happened until after Lena’s internship ended.

Unofficially, everyone knew something had happened because Miu became both stricter and happier, which was confusing but undeniable.

She stopped glaring at people who spoke to Lena.

Mostly.

She attended Lena’s final internship presentation and asked exactly one question, which Lena answered beautifully.

Then Miu said, “Good.”

Everyone waited.

Miu added, “Very good.”

Ploy nearly cried.

On Lena’s last day as an intern, Miu shook her hand in front of HR.

“Thank you for your work,” Miu said formally.

Lena smiled. “Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Natsha.”

Their hands stayed joined one second too long.

Narin looked at the ceiling.

Ploy looked at the floor.

No one looked at them.

That evening, after Lena had returned her intern ID, Miu took her to dinner.

Properly.

Not as CEO and intern.

Just Miu and Lena.

Miu arrived with flowers because she had no idea how to be casual about love.

Lena laughed when she saw them.

“They’re beautiful.”

“I researched appropriate first date flowers.”

“You researched?”

“I wanted to perform well.”

Lena took the bouquet and kissed her cheek.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I am prepared.”

They kept their relationship private while Lena finished university.

Private, not hidden.

There was a difference.

Miu met Lena’s family.

Lena’s father liked Miu immediately because she looked terrified when he asked if she would take care of his daughter.

Lena’s mother fed Miu until she stopped looking like a CEO and started looking like someone’s shy girlfriend.

Miu’s parents, meanwhile, behaved as if Lena had already been legally adopted.

Arun sent Lena business articles.

Sirin sent dessert recipes and once accidentally sent a message meant for Miu that said:

Do not ruin this by being emotionally constipated.

Lena screenshotted it.

Miu refused to speak for ten minutes.

After graduation, Lena applied to the company’s management associate program.

Properly.

No shortcuts.

No influence from Miu.

In fact, Miu removed herself from every stage of the hiring process so aggressively that HR begged her to stop sending emails titled Conflict of Interest Reminder.

Lena passed every round.

Ploy personally signed off.

Arun, still Chairman, approved the final offer and wrote in the margin:

Good. Finally.

Miu pretended not to see it.

On Lena’s first official day as a full-time employee, the company held a small welcome ceremony for new hires.

The auditorium was full of staff, executives, department heads, and a row of fresh graduates trying not to look overwhelmed.

Lena stood with the new employees, wearing a white blouse and a navy skirt, hair neatly styled, ID newly printed.

Miu stood on stage as CEO.

Composed.

Elegant.

Professional.

She gave a speech about responsibility, growth, and the company’s future. It was a good speech. Clear. Motivating. Slightly intimidating.

Then each new hire came forward for a handshake and welcome photo.

Lena was third.

She walked up the steps with a polite smile.

Miu looked at her.

For half a second, everything else disappeared.

Not the company.

Not the board.

Not the staff.

Just Lena.

The intern who had brought tea without making it sentimental.

The woman who had made her attend karaoke.

The person who made offices feel less like warzones.

Lena stopped in front of her.

Miu took her hand.

“Welcome to the company,” Miu said.

Then, because love had apparently removed every survival instinct she had, she added softly:

“Congratulations, love.”

Silence.

Perfect, complete, corporate silence.

Then someone dropped a folder.

It echoed.

A new hire made a choking sound.

Narin, standing near the stage, closed his eyes like a man witnessing a disaster he had predicted in writing.

Ploy covered her mouth with both hands.

Arun, seated in the front row, smiled proudly.

Sirin started clapping like this was a wedding.

The applause triggered chaos.

People clapped because Sirin clapped. Then people realized what had happened and clapped louder. Someone from Marketing whispered, “Did she say love?” Someone from Finance whispered, “I knew it.” Someone from Legal whispered, “Do we need paperwork?”

Lena stared at Miu.

Miu stared back, horror slowly dawning.

Lena’s smile spread.

“Thank you, Ms. Natsha,” she said sweetly.

The auditorium lost its mind.

Miu tried to recover.

She failed.

Her ears turned red.

This made everything worse.

By lunchtime, the entire company knew.

By 2 p.m., someone had made a meme of Miu saying “Congratulations, love” with the caption:

CEO announces merger.

By 3 p.m., Ploy sent a company-wide reminder about respectful workplace communication, privacy, and appropriate celebration of colleagues’ personal milestones.

By 3:07, Narin sent Miu a message:

Do you still want Tan transferred to the branch with poor coffee?

Miu replied:

Yes.

Lena, sitting at her new desk, texted:

Leave Tan alone.

Miu replied:

Fine. Medium-distance branch.

Lena sent a laughing sticker.

Miu looked at it in her office and smiled.

Through the glass wall, half the executive floor saw.

No one mentioned it.

Well, almost no one.

Ploy walked past Narin and whispered, “The CEO smiles.”

Narin nodded gravely.

“Lena should be added to the strategic assets register.”

Inside her office, Miu looked out and saw Lena laughing with the other new hires.

Still bright.

Still easy to love.

Still hers, though not in a way that needed owning.

Miu picked up her coffee, took one sip, and made a face.

It was terrible.

A second later, Lena appeared at her door with tea.

“Yours looked bad,” Lena said.

Miu accepted the cup.

“You have work to do.”

“I know.”

“You cannot keep coming into my office.”

“I work here now.”

“In another department.”

“Same building.”

“Boundaries.”

Lena smiled. “You said love on stage.”

Miu closed her eyes.

“Once.”

“In front of the company.”

“I made an error.”

“A cute error.”

“A catastrophic error.”

“A romantic catastrophic error.”

Miu opened her eyes.

Lena stood there, smiling at her like she had no fear of boards, glass walls, CEOs, or vampires.

Miu reached for the tea.

Their fingers brushed.

Outside, the office pretended not to watch.

Inside, Miu smiled.

For three months, she had insisted she did not need an intern in her office.

Years later, everyone would agree she had been right.

She had not needed an intern.

She had needed Lena.