The Billionaire's Intern (Maya Thompson) novel Chapter 2

Maya showed up fifteen minutes early the next day, because late wasn’t even an option in a place like this.

She hadn’t slept. Her mind kept replaying the elevator ride, the heavy silence outside Damien Blackwood’s office, and the assistant’s icy warning: “Sign everything. He doesn’t tolerate leaks.”

It felt less like an internship and more like stepping into a lion’s den—with a blindfold on.

Now, walking into the private lounge again, Maya smoothed her blouse and tried to breathe. There was no coffee shop hum here, no casual chatter. Just tension. Glass. Steel. Control.

“Thompson?” a sharp voice called.

Maya looked up.

A woman—blonde, tall, sleek as marble—stepped out from a nearby door, holding a digital tablet. Her heels clicked like gunfire on the floor.

“I’m Elle. Mr. Blackwood’s senior executive assistant,” she said. “You’ll be working under me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Maya said immediately.

Elle arched a brow. “No need for ‘ma’am.’ Just do your job right.”

Maya nodded, feeling like she was already failing.

They moved down a long corridor lined with black-tinted glass. On the far right, she caught a glimpse of a closed door guarded by two silent men in suits. No signs. No labels. But she knew what—who—was behind that door.

The air shifted there. Like the building itself knew who was sitting just beyond the glass.

They didn’t stop.

Instead, Elle led her into a smaller office on the next wing—sleek desk, minimalist décor, a corner with a round table stacked with marketing folders.

“You’ll start here,” Elle said briskly. “You’ll help file, sort, review, and—if you prove you’re more than decorative—assist in prepping internal reports.”

Maya’s face warmed. Decorative?

“I’ll do whatever’s needed,” she replied carefully.

Elle studied her with a flicker of something unreadable. Not quite hostility. Not quite approval either.

“We’ll see,” she said. “Blackwood Enterprises doesn’t hand out gold stars for effort.”

The morning flew by in a blur of names, passwords, documents, and near-constant corrections. Maya’s hands were trembling by the time she finally got into the rhythm of the database system.

Elle never raised her voice, but her critiques were sharp.

“Don’t highlight in red, that’s only for flagged deals.”

“Always file CEO-level memos in the locked drive first.”

“No coffee runs. This isn’t a sitcom.”

Maya bit her tongue and nodded, absorbing every detail like a sponge.

But what rattled her the most was how present Damien Blackwood felt, even without showing his face.

Everyone referred to him with a hush, like he could appear at any moment.

“Mr. Blackwood doesn’t like delays.”

“Make sure the reports are uploaded by three—Mr. Blackwood checks them personally.”

“Don’t block that hallway. That’s Mr. Blackwood’s route.”

His name wasn’t spoken with admiration. It was reverence. Caution. Power made flesh.

She saw glimpses of him, or thought she did—reflections in the glass, flashes of black suits and broad shoulders down distant hallways. Always surrounded. Always guarded. Never still.

But she never saw his face.

Not yet.

At lunch, Maya sat alone on the rooftop terrace employees rarely used. She could see the city stretched endlessly below her—millions of lives moving forward, just like hers was trying to.

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