The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor

Chapter 5: Davis

Now – eight years later

There’s something about intern season that gets under my skin.

It’s not so much the influx of twenty-somethings that stampede into the Davenport-Ridgeway Tower in ill-fitting suits and heels. It’s not even the sudden appearance of networking events on my calendar that I apparently have to attend because at least one member of the Davenport or Ridgeway families must be present for optics, naturally. It’s not even the fact that I’m obligated to take one of these kids under my wing and mentor them every motherfucking summer.

No, it’s the fact that these kids genuinely think that I’m worth pandering to.

I shift in place, studying the polished chrome fixtures on the espresso machine in front of me. The thing is stunning, like the Maserati of espresso machines. The custodial staff keeps it so pristine that I can see my own reflection in it: tired and pensive and acutely aware of the guy behind me. He’s planted rigidly in a spot a couple of feet away, but I can still feel his eyes boring into the side of my face. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s doing: clandestinely Googling my name and trying to compare my profile to one of the pictures that he’s found. He keeps glancing—phone, my face, phone, my face, phone—

The espresso machine lets out this rough gurgling sound, which is my cue to get the hell out of dodge. I take my cup and stare down at it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world, hoping I can breeze past this kid without him speaking to me. As usual, I’m not so lucky.

“Excuse me. Are you Davis Ridgeway?”

I stop in my tracks, wondering if I can get away with saying no. But only six people work on the eighty-eighth floor (five of whom are over the age of fifty) so if this guy has, like, an iota of deductive reasoning skills he already knows that it’s me.

Breathing out, I steel myself and layer on a placid expression before I turn around to face him. “Morning,” I say in confirmation.

The kid gawking at me (although, I realize that it’s unfair for me to call him a kid when he’s likely only a year or two younger than I am) offers me a serious nod when I face him. I know that nod; I’ve seen that nod hundreds of times. It’s a lethal mix of ambition and seriousness and naïveté, and it’s not what I want to see first thing on a Monday morning.

“Hi, I’m Jack Turner,” he introduces himself before offering me a hand. “I’m getting an MBA at Booth. I’m interning in finance.”

Already, I can think of three things wrong with this interaction. For one, he just admitted to me that he’s a student and an intern—things that I could discern from the green company badge that he wears pinned to his lapel. But the real issue is that he just admitted that he’s on a much more junior playing field than I am.

Number Two in the Ridgeway Guide to Success: Never reveal your deficits right off the bat.

For another, his handshake betrays his confidence. He’s a good talker, like most MBAs, but the clamminess of his palm and the shakiness of his grip tell me that I make him nervous as hell.

Number Ten in the Ridgeway Guide to Success: Never offer a weak handshake.

And finally, the last thing wrong with this interaction is that I’m standing here with my espresso in one hand, watching as it steadily grows colder with each passing second, and it’s not even eight.

Number Seventeen in the Ridgeway Guide to Success: Never ever approach someone before they’ve had their coffee.

“Davis,” I answer. I leave it at that.

One side of me, the one unconcerned with self-preservation, feels bad for doing that. The guy is clearly starstruck, or maybe he thinks that we’re going to have a really meaningful interaction where I invite him to C-suite lunches with my father and Gregory Davenport. But if word gets around that I’m offering free career advice to interns, my father will kill me—or send me to work in the Stockholm office. Seeing as I have a severe herring allergy, I’m not sure which is worse.

“I just wanted to say that it’s an honor to meet you. I’ve dreamed of working at this company since I was a kid, so when I got this internship it was one of the highlights of my career.”

That’s another strike for Jack Turner. Number Three in the Ridgeway Guide to Success: Never thank someone for something that they didn’t do. And I sure as hell didn’t found this company that he seems to love so much. On the contrary, I was simply bred to be here.

I nod once, wishing I could say more. I wish I could relax my expression and tell him everything I love about working here and how my heart still races when the stock price climbs. I wish I could tell him that I look forward to Shareholders’ Meetings the way that most people look forward to their own birthday. I offer him another cold, stilted nod instead.

“Have a great summer, Jack,” I reply before I turn to walk out of the break suite, leaving Jack behind. He thanks me again as I’m heading out, which somehow makes the whole thing worse.

Back at my office, I take a seat at my desk and push up the lid of my laptop. I pull up my calendar, but I already know what’s on my schedule this morning. First, it’s a call with the London office about two potential acquisitions that I’ve been scouting for months—fintech companies. After that, I get a fifteen-minute break before a check-in with one of my reports. Then it’s a debrief on the London call with my own boss, followed by a good ten or fifteen minutes when I plan to chug another espresso while my admin Kelsey updates me on the five emails that I need to prioritize reading for the day.

And then it’s here: my eleven o’clock. The meeting I’ve been waiting for. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

It’s fucking showtime.

The meeting series has been on my calendar for six months and I’ve been counting down to it like it’s Christmas morning. Somehow, that hasn’t diminished my anticipation in the slightest. If anything, this meeting—this moment—has been a north star, getting me through every shitstorm I’ve encountered in the past year. A deal fell through? No problem; I’ve got that big moment in five months that I can look forward to. Three straight weekends at the office? Whatever; the big moment is in two weeks. Five days of back-to-back-meetings and lunch on the go? That’s fine; the big moment is only a week away.

I’ve never been more ready for anything.

As I survey my calendar, my attention lingers on that thirty-minute block right before lunch. “Intern 1:1,” it’s called. It’s a stupid name for what can only be described as a historic occasion, but I don’t blame Lana, my colleague who set it up. Every summer, she brings an MBA intern onto her mergers and acquisitions (or M&A) team and every summer that intern gets the opportunity to research a potential acquisition target under my guidance. There’s no reason why Lana should have realized that this meeting has been eight years in the making.

Eight long, transformative years.

I finish off my espresso and recline in my seat, breathing out heavily as I stare out the window towards the corporate skyline. Clouds dot the June morning, but I can already see the summer sun peeking through them to highlight the day. A good day, I decide.

Call this day redemption. Call it vindication. Call it motherfucking justice.

Or maybe I’ll just call it pathetic, because I’m wearing my best work suit, got a haircut on Friday, worked out twice a day for the last month (at unbearably early and unbearably late hours to fit around my work schedule), had a moderate panic attack on Saturday morning, and had to take a Xanax last night (which was really annoying because I had gone a whole month without needing one).

Either way, this day is about to catalyze a summer that I’ve spent eight years preparing for, whether I realized it or not. I deserveto enjoy this. I’ve earned this.

Still, there are a couple things standing between me and the total chaos that I have planned, so I power through the calls and the check-ins and my heart rate steadily rises every time I look at the clock and realize that the meeting is getting closer. Instead of chugging a coffee, I spend ten minutes pacing in the bathroom and tell Kelsey to hold off on talking about my emails because I’m not going to get to them anyway.

And when it’s a minute past the start time and I’m still sitting alone in my office, I pick up this hideous fountain pen that my dad’s third wife gave me for my thirtieth birthday and am thisclose to breaking it with one hand when there’s a knock on my office door.

“Come in.”

My colleague Lana pokes her head in first, beaming as usual before she opens the door the rest of the way and steps into my office, making room for the woman behind her.

“Olivia, I’d like to introduce you to Davis Ridgeway,” Lana announces, gesturing towards me with a flourish that I definitely don’t deserve, but still accept without objection.

And then she appears in the doorway to my office, looking somehow more gorgeous than the last time I saw her eight years ago. Immediately, I recognize those pale green eyes and that fair skin offset by the darkness of her long, auburn hair. It hangs loosely down her back, carefully straightened and styled to perfection. Only a small lock cascades over the bare hint of her collarbone at the neckline of the gray dress that she wears.

She’s wearing the hell out of it.