The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor

Chapter 10: Olivia

Now strip.

The words rattle through my brain for the millionth time, taking up too much space. They’ve grown into this malignant tumor that only seems to get bigger as the minutes tick by. My body shifts between shame and want, two warring sensations that I simply didn’t expect to feel this time around. For some reason, I expected it to be different now. Sex for money—a simple business arrangement. Yet I still straddle the ends of the spectrum, bouncing back and forth between shame and want.

Shame.

Want.

I’m well aware that this is trivial. If I had any self-control, I would be focusing on a dozen other things—like my internship, most importantly—but I can’t stop replaying Davis’s command over and over again.

Now strip.

I did. I stood there in the middle of this man’s apartment and peeled off every stitch of clothing on me while he watched—while he practically basked there on his disgustingly expensive couch. His gaze had been so hot that my pulse had sped up just from staring at him. The ache between my legs had intensified with each passing second.

His lips had been on my skin. His fingers were inside of me. He bit me.

And yet he had left me yearning for more—even if I was ten thousand dollars richer by the time I got back to my apartment.

I pick up my phone from its spot face down on my desk and swipe until I’m looking at my checking account for what must be the hundredth time since Saturday night. The number staring back at me has ballooned from three digits to five. As I stare at it (gawk at it) I can’t help but recall the last time I had this much money at one time. It was at the beginning of the last semester when my loan appeared in my bank account—a loan that was already accruing interest at an alarming rate.

This money is different; this money is mine.

Every. Single. Cent.

I lock my screen and put my phone down once again, allowing a small sigh to escape my lips as I turn my attention back to my laptop screen. There’s a brief financial analysis that I owe to Davis waiting for me, but the numbers may as well be Greek because nothing registers as I read. All I can think about is that I’ll be seeing him for our weekly meeting soon.

Now strip.

What will it be next time? Will he put himself inside of me? And if and when he does, will I still feel the self-loathing that underlies our every interaction? Or will I take the money and continue to look at those climbing numbers, wishing I could get the money in cash and scatter it over my bedspread and roll around naked on it.

Screw Davis on it.

I jump as the door to my office flings open and Lana appears in the doorway, looking equal parts gorgeous and intimidating in a black sheath dress.

“Happy Monday!” she practically sings while tossing perfectly coiffed corporate hair over her shoulder. “How was your weekend?”

“Uneventful,” I lie—because I certainly can’t cop to having stripped naked for a guy whose name is printed on every pen, letterhead, Patagonia, and coffee cup in the building.

“Uneventful?” She strolls in and shuts the door behind her. “You know, the internship is supposed to be for work and play. When I was an intern a decade ago, I was out late every weekend with the other interns, exploring the city and trying to decide if I wanted to live here. If you get an offer, you’ll be moving here after graduation.”

For some reason, I can’t ignore this flash of a fantasy where Davis greets me at Penn Station and helps me carry my luggage to my new apartment in the city. It’s stupid, really, for so many reasons. For one, Davis probably doesn’t even carry his own luggage because he seldom goes anywhere without paid help or security to accompany him. For another, if I were in a relationship with Davis Ridgeway, he would probably never tell me to haul my shit from Philly to the city on Amtrak. And lastly, the most ludicrous part of this fantasy is that fact that Davis is currently paying me for sex—not exactly the blueprint for a healthy, long-term, post-grad relationship.

“Let me know if you have any recommendations,” I say, mostly to make small talk.

Immediately, Lana rattles off the names of bars and restaurants. Dutifully, I sit there and pretend to type them into my phone, even though I don’t give a shit about bars and restaurants because I think they’re a colossal waste of money. Then I start to wonder if she’s in here chatting with me about anything but work because she knows that I’m not cut out for this. She probably had another potential intern that she wanted to hire much more, but got overruled by Davis. All of that just so he could whip me into a frenzy and cut me off.

By the time Lana finally leaves my office, I’ve lost a good twenty-five minutes of productivity and my meeting with Davis has tiptoed closer. I know he won’t be pleased with the subpar quality of analysis that I’ve done, but I only have half an hour to cobble something passable together and email it to him.

As soon as my shitty financial analysis is sailing over the fiberoptic cables of the internet to Davis’s inbox, my mind goes right back to where it was before Lana barged in: preoccupied—no, obsessed—with the filthy thing that I did on Saturday night. I’m not sure what upsets me more: that I can’t stop thinking about it or that I wasn’t able to see Davis naked.

His new physique is a revelation, but I didn’t have any issues with his body before. Sure, he wasn’t the human reincarnation of Zeus himself eight years ago, but he was big and cozy and in command of his motions. For years, I thought about the way that he controlled his weight over me, absolutely overpowering me with his size but making me feel so safe at the same time. I’d slept with other men since Davis, but none of them ever scratched that particular itch. Based on Saturday’s showing, it may be a few weeks until he does just that.

With a sigh, I force my brain to focus on anything—literally anything—other than Davis. It’s so hard. The only other things on my mind are my internship and my bank account, which both currently have Davis’s last name stamped on them.

Like Narcissus and his reflection, I delve into my obsession with my bank account once more. Just as I’m logging into the app on my phone, a text message pops up from Charlie.

Charlie: Picked up another shift

Charlie: I’ve got my rent this month

I frown at the screen, imagining my younger brother heading straight from his summer class to his job as a barista—or maybe it’s his job waiting tables. Either way, the thought strikes up memories of my college years missed, spent doing anything and everything to make ends meet for Charlie and me. I lost out on so many quintessential college moments: the big games and the drinking and the theme nights and the study breaks. Charlie had been worth it though. But the thought of Charlie going through the same thing that I did?

Hell. Fucking. No.

Me: Either drop the shift or keep the money. I’ve got your rent.

Charlie: Seriously, it’s covered.