My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 17

Gianna

━⊰ ❦ ⊱━

The classroom was already half full when I slipped inside. I walked to my usual seat near the side wall, not too close to the professor and definitely not too close to the center where people liked to talk.

I pulled out my laptop and notebook. My hands were still a little stiff from the cold morning air outside. Around me, people were talking about internships.

That was normal this time of year.

The seventh semester meant everyone was scrambling for something to put on their résumé.

G****e.

Startups.

Research labs.

The guy two seats ahead of me was bragging about a small fintech internship downtown, “I’ll probably convert it into full-time,” he was saying loudly.

Someone behind me snorted, “Dude, it’s unpaid.”

He shrugged, “Still better than nothing.”

I kept my eyes on my notebook. The door opened and Professor Adler walked in with a stack of printed papers under his arm.

“Morning, everyone,” he said.

He set the papers down and started connecting his laptop.

“Before we start today’s lecture,” he said, scrolling through something on his screen, “I want to talk about internship placements. As most of you know, internships in your senior year can influence your final academic standing.”

A few laptops stopped typing.

“The Computer Science department allows certain internships to count as practical credit if they are directly related to your field.”

My pen paused. I already knew that. I had read the policy three times.

“Now,” he continued, “some placements are more competitive than others.”

His eyes moved across the room then they landed on me. I immediately looked down at my notebook but it was late.

“Gianna,” he said, “Stand up for a moment.”

People turned to look at me. My legs were stiff, locking into place as I stood. I forced my weight onto the balls of my feet, leaning into the burning fire of the wounds hidden under the tape. Professor Adler glanced at the screen on his laptop again.

“I received a verification email this morning,” he said calmly. A few students shifted in their seats, “You’ve accepted a junior analyst internship with Orion Vector Technologies. Correct?”

The room went completely silent. Every single head turned toward me. My throat felt dry, “Yes,” I said quietly.

Someone behind me whispered, “No way.”

Another voice closer to the window muttered, “That’s impossible.”

Professor Adler nodded once, “Well done.”

A girl in the front row turned around fully in her seat, “Wait,” she said, disbelief written all over her face, “You mean the government contractor?”

Another student leaned forward, “They don’t hire undergrads,” he said.

Someone else added quietly, “They barely hire master’s students.”

I stared at the edge of my desk. The attention made my skin crawl.

Professor Adler raised a hand slightly, “Let’s keep the reactions professional.”

A few people sat back, but the whispers didn’t stop.

“How did she get that?”

“They only take Ivy League.”

“Is she related to someone?”

Professor Adler continued like the noise didn’t exist, “Orion Vector is one of the top predictive intelligence firms in the country,” he said, “They work closely with federal agencies and financial security systems,” saying that he looked back at me, “Positions like this are extremely competitive.”

My ears burned.

“But they also qualify for department internship credit,” he continued as he walked a few steps closer to my row, “If you maintain the position through the semester, it can count toward your professional experience requirement. In practical terms,” he said, looking around the room, “this means Gianna will receive additional credit hours applied to her senior record.”

A few students typed something quickly into their laptops.

“Internship credits don’t raise GPA directly,” he explained, “but they strengthen the academic evaluation attached to your final record. So when graduate schools or employers review transcripts,” he continued, “high-level industry placements carry weight.”

He glanced at me again.

“In short, it reflects very well on a student’s academic standing,” Professor Adler gave a small but proud nod, “You can sit down, Gianna.”

My legs felt weak as I lowered myself back into the chair. Immediately the whispers started again.

“She never even talks in class.”

“How the hell did she land that?”

“That company works with the Department of Defense.”

I stared at my notebook. My pen hovered over the page.

The lines blurred for a second.

Professor Adler turned back to the board and began the lecture.

“Today we’ll continue discussing neural network optimization…”

His voice faded into the background.

I could still feel the eyes on my back like everyone in the room was trying to solve the same question.

How someone like me, someone quiet, awkward and barely speaking in class ended up with a job at Orion Vector.

But now I knew for a fact that I couldn’t lose this job. It maybe my Stepbrother's company but Orion Vector wasn’t just another internship someone could shrug off and replace. People fought for positions there. Students with perfect transcripts. Perfect speaking voices. Perfect resumes.

People who didn’t stumble over simple sentences.

If I worked harder than everyone else, maybe I could keep up. Maybe that would be enough. I didn’t have the luxury of giving up halfway through. I just had to push through it, one day at a time.

This internship wasn’t only about grades or credits on a transcript. It meant something bigger than that.

It meant independence.

It meant not needing anyone to carry me.

I wanted a life where I could stand on my own feet. Where my mother didn’t have to worry about whether I could make it in the world. Where my little sister could look at me and see someone strong enough to hold things together.

So I would stay up later.

Study longer.

Check every line of code three times if I had to.

I would fight through every report and every meeting and every humiliating moment in that glass building if it meant keeping that position.

Because I wasn’t going to lose this opportunity just because my brain made words harder for me or because my stepbrother thought pushing me around was some kind of game.

I would prove that I belonged there.

Even if it cost me every ounce of strength I had.

──━⊰ 𓆙 ⊱━──

The elevator doors slid open on the twenty-second floor, and the first thing I noticed was the quiet.

The hallway outside was bright, glass walls reflecting the morning light from the city skyline. The floors were polished, the lights were soft and warm instead of the harsh white ones universities liked to use.

My shoes pressed against my heels when I stepped out.

Pain spread up the back of my feet immediately, sharp and familiar under the layers of tape.

Good.

I shifted my weight slightly and walked forward anyway, keeping my shoulders straight.

If it hurt, it meant I would pay attention.

If I paid attention, I wouldn’t make mistakes.

The reception desk sat in the middle of the open floor. A woman looked up from behind it as I approached. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun. Her blazer looked like it had never seen a wrinkle in its life.

“Good morning,” she said. “You must be Ms. Toricelli.”

I nodded once.

“Yes,” my voice came out smaller than I meant it to.

She stood up and walked around the desk, offering her hand, “I’m Aileen. Operations manager,” her handshake was quick and firm, “First day?”

I nodded again.

“Right on time,” she said and turned, gesturing down the hall, “Come on. I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”

I followed her, trying to keep my steps even. Every few steps my heels burned harder, the skin pulling under the tape. The pain made my back straighten automatically.

Don’t limp.

Don’t slow down.

Be perfect.

The hallway opened into a large workspace filled with rows of desks and tall monitors. Screens everywhere. Some showed lines of code. Others showed moving graphs and long streams of numbers.

My eyes locked on the numbers immediately.

One of the screens showed shipping data across several ports. A long graph curved upward near the end.

Something about the shape was wrong.

My brain started tracing it automatically. Trend line. Delay point. Inventory correction. The spike wasn’t demand. It was a routing bottleneck.

My fingers rested on the keyboard but nothing moved.

Writing always felt like pushing through mud.

I reached into my bag and grabbed my phone. I had to use my tricks, they weren't perfect but they worked.

I took a picture of the folder and used an app to turn the image into text. Then I put my earbuds in. A flat, robotic voice started reading the words to me. It was slow and boring, but it helped my brain see the sentences without them scrambling.

The phone read the text out loud through my earbuds. The voice was flat and robotic, but it slowed the sentences down just enough for my brain to catch them.

“…prediction model begins at search behavior index…”

“…regional interest spike precedes shipment demand…”

I listened once.

Then again, while the voice played, I whispered into my phone, using the voice-to-text.

“Change that... start with consumer data... no... wait... delete that word.”

The speech-to-text system typed the corrections onto the screen but faster than trying to build every sentence from scratch.

I copied the text into the document on the screen, then I listened again. Sometimes the words still tangled. Sometimes the software heard the wrong thing and replaced it with something strange.

I fixed the ones I noticed, some of them might have slipped past me.

The report slowly grew into two pages.

A short explanation at the top. A chart in the middle. A few bullet points under it explaining what the model predicted.

I read it one more time through the audio playback.

“…This model demonstrates earlier demand detection and improve shipment planning accuracy…”

Improve.

Not improves.

I frowned.

Something about that line felt off, but the meaning still made sense.

I left it.

My stomach fluttered when I saved the file. It wasn’t perfect. I knew that but the numbers were right and that mattered more.

I printed the report and slid the pages into a thin folder. When I stood up, the pain in my heels returned instantly, sharp enough to make my breath catch.

I forced my steps to stay even as I walked down the hallway. Aileen’s desk sat near the glass conference rooms. She was typing quickly when I approached, her attention locked on the screen.

I stopped a few feet away, “I… finished the model,” I said.

She looked up and I held out the folder. She opened it and started reading. Her eyes moved down the page slowly, pausing at the chart. For a moment her expression didn’t change then one corner of her mouth lifted slightly.

“You rebuilt the prediction sequence.”

I nodded, “Yes.”

She flipped to the second page. Her finger tapped lightly against one of the bullet points, but then she closed the folder.

“You’ll need to take this Mr. Capone.”

My stomach tightened again, as she slid the folder back toward me.

I hesitated, “You want me to… give it to him?”

Aileen leaned back in her chair, “He asked to see any early strategy adjustments personally,” she said calmly, “This counts.”

My fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the folder. The paper suddenly felt much heavier than before.

Aileen studied my face for a moment, “His office is at the end of the hall,” she added. “Last door on the left.”

She turned back to her computer like the conversation was finished.

I stood there for another second. Then I nodded to myself and started walking, each step making me wince.

Stay focused.

Don’t mess this up.

The numbers inside it were solid. I trusted those. The words... I hoped they behaved.

The hallway grew quieter the farther I walked.

At the end stood a dark wooden door with frosted glass across the center.

One name etched into it.

R. Capone

I stopped in front of it.

The pain in my feet pulsed, my fingers tightened slightly around the papers. Then I raised my hand and knocked.