The Billionaire's Intern (Maya Thompson) novel Chapter 7

Damien stared at the ceiling for another moment, then pushed away from the desk and crossed the room to the built-in cabinet tucked against the far wall. He poured himself a glass of whiskey — not out of need, but for the quiet ritual of it. The steady motion, the clink of glass, the burn waiting at the back of his throat — something about it helped anchor him.

Focus, he told himself.

The numbers on the Lawson account demanded his attention. The investor memo was due by week’s end. But none of it held.

Not with her face rising, uninvited, behind his eyes.

She’d looked out of place in that boardroom—too soft for a space carved out in sharp lines and sharper ambition. He’d clocked her in the corner, barely breathing. Eyes wide. Hands still. Almost like prey.

Probably out late last night, he’d thought at first. Hungover maybe. Some interns partied their way in, then floundered through their responsibilities. A pretty face and high GPA didn’t always mean substance.

But something about her didn’t sit cleanly with that assumption.

No glitter. No practiced charm. No scent of desperation disguised as confidence.

There was just… fatigue. Real fatigue. And something else beneath it—restraint. Not fear, exactly. Just a kind of tension that spoke of someone used to bracing for impact.

Maybe she’d worked a late shift somewhere. Coffee shop, wasn’t it? He vaguely recalled seeing that on the file. So she wasn’t just a student. She was working. Probably studying too. Was she tired from school? From life?

He frowned, irritated with himself.

This wasn’t his business. Interns came and went. Some lasted. Most didn’t. He didn’t have time to get curious about a girl who clearly didn’t belong here.

And yet, here he was. Thinking about her.

She had held herself together in that meeting better than most junior execs. Didn’t speak. Didn’t shrink either.

It gnawed at him.

He took a slow sip of his whiskey, the burn grounding him, the silence in his office too still. Something wasn’t adding up—and he didn’t like unresolved variables. Especially not when they stared at him with those dark, exhausted eyes.

Damien set the glass down with a soft clink and pressed the button on his desk.

“Elle,” he said as the intercom lit up. “I need you.”

“On my way,” came her smooth, composed reply.

Moments later, Elle entered, tablet in hand, her presence as calm and crisp as always.

“Yes, sir?”

“I saw an unfamiliar face during the meeting this morning,” he said without looking up. “Sitting beside Harper.”

Elle paused briefly, then gave a small nod of recognition. “Ah. That would be Maya Thompson. The new intern. She was transferred to the West Wing today per your order. Assigned under Trina’s supervision.”

“Hmm.” He leaned back slightly, tapping his finger once against the armrest. “Reach out to Trina. I want the intern’s raw notes from the pitch. Unedited, unpolished.”

Elle’s brow twitched. barely noticeable — but she recovered without missing a beat. “Of course,” she said, fingers already dancing across the screen of her tablet. “I’ll have them sent up immediately.”

A beat.

“Anything else, sir?”

Damien hesitated, eyes fixed on the skyline beyond the glass. But it wasn’t the city that filled his thoughts—it was the quiet way Maya had sat through the meeting. Neither shrinking nor seeking attention. Just there. Watching. Absorbing. Holding something close he couldn’t quite name.

“No,” he said at last. “That’ll be all.”

She turned and left without another word.

Damien returned to his chair, but he didn’t sit. Instead, he stood there a moment longer, staring down at the tablet with the untouched reports. His mind was no longer on the Lawson account.

Maya Thompson.

He ran the name through his memory again.

There’d been nothing striking on the resume, nothing that stood out beyond the usual desperation and ambition. But watching her, really watching her—had told him there was more. The posture, the way she sat through that entire meeting with her jaw tight and shoulders tense, the way she avoided everyone’s eyes but didn’t shrink.

She didn’t want to be noticed. That much was clear.

And yet here he was.

Noticing.

Again.

He turned on his screen and brought up the internal directory. He hesitated only briefly before typing her name into the search bar.

There she was. Student intern. Local university. Final year. No special endorsements. A modest GPA, clean record, high recommendations from professors. But nothing that screamed “Blackwood material.”

Still, she was here.

His eyes scanned the screen, pausing at the emergency contact section. One name. Jamie Thompson. Brother.

No parents listed.

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