The Position

I'm twenty-three years old, summa cum laude from Columbia, and I've never been more nervous in my entire life.

Sterling & Associates doesn't hire interns. Everyone in the finance world knows this. They're the white whale of Wall Street internships—the firm that built three Fortune 500 companies from the ground up, the consultancy that turns down clients because they're too successful to need the help. When I got the call for an interview, I assumed it was a mistake.

It wasn't.

The receptionist—a severe woman in her fifties with reading glasses perched on her nose—tells me to wait. The lobby is all glass and steel, modern art that probably costs more than my student loans, and a view of Manhattan that makes me feel impossibly small.

I smooth my skirt for the hundredth time. Black pencil, professional. Silk blouse, cream. Heels that are killing my feet but make my legs look incredible. My mother always said to dress for the job you want.

She never told me what to do when the job wants something back.

"Miss Chen?" The receptionist looks up from her computer. "Mr. Sterling will see you now."

My heart stutters.

Mr. Sterling. Not his assistant. Not the HR director. The man himself. Maxwell Sterling, founder and CEO, the legend who built his empire from a single loan and a Georgetown dorm room. I've read every profile, every interview, every think piece. I know he's forty-nine, divorced, ruthless in negotiations and generous with charity. I know he's been named one of the most eligible bachelors in New York for the past decade.

What I don't know is why he's personally conducting interviews for an internship.

The elevator takes me to the forty-seventh floor. The doors open onto a private lobby—no receptionist here, just a single door with his name etched in brushed gold.

I knock.

"Come in."

His voice is deep, commanding. It does something to my stomach that has nothing to do with nerves.

I push open the door.

Maxwell Sterling stands at the window, his back to me, silhouetted against the Manhattan skyline. He's taller than I expected. Broader. His suit is charcoal gray, clearly custom, hugging shoulders that suggest he does more than sit behind a desk. Silver threads through dark hair at his temples, and when he turns—

God.

The photos didn't do him justice. Sharp jaw, sharper eyes. Blue-gray, like steel. Like the building. He looks at me the way I imagine he looks at contracts—assessing, calculating, searching for weaknesses.

He finds them immediately.

"Miss Chen." He doesn't offer his hand. He gestures to a chair across from his desk—leather, expensive, positioned lower than his own seat. A power move. "Please. Sit."

I sit. Cross my ankles. Try not to fidget.

"You'...