The obsidian-boardroom air was sharp enough to cut glass,the Manhattan skyline burning gold behind the floor-to-ceiling windows as Alaric Beaumont tore into his VPs. “Eight percent,”he snapped,voice low but lethal.“Eight fucking percent revenue loss in the largest real-estate development firm on Wall Street.How the hell does that even happen?” Papers trembled. Executives stiffened. No one dared breathe wrong.

Alaric’s jaw clenched as he paced behind the sleek black table,his dark hair falling slightly across ice-blue eyes.“And on the day we bring in the new architectural interns to observe the meeting…perfect.”His tone dripped venom mixed with a PR-forced smile.

She sat near the back,a new intern for Beaumont Development. Twenty-one. West Indian-American. Dark brown hair that glowed gold in the sun,sharp chocolate eyes that missed nothing. Everyone else was nervous. She was bored. Completely uninterested.

They shifted into the financial review for current development projects. Group 3 in Finance stepped up—3B and 3C—confident,smug,smelling of self-importance as they began their presentation.

“Our real-estate development margins for Project Atlas will rebound next quarter,”3B announced.“We project a 6% increase based on current supply costs and construction progression.”

Her eyelid twitched. Incorrect. Completely idiotic.

3C continued,“We’ve recalculated material expenses,and with steel prices dropping by 3%,the structural budget aligns perfectly with our original forecast.”

She almost scoffed aloud.Steel prices hadn’t dropped.They’d risen. She knew—they affected her architectural designs directly.

Alaric’s fingers tapped the table once,twice,sharp.“Are you sure about those numbers?”

“Yes,sir,”3B said confidently.“All metrics confirm the projection.”

She exhaled sharply. That was it. She stood. “That’s wrong.”

The room froze. Interns did not interrupt board meetings. Ever.

Alaric’s head snapped toward her,eyes narrowing. He recognized confidence when he heard it. But he didn’t recognize her.

She stepped forward,no notes,no hesitation.“Your Atlas projection is fundamentally flawed.You’re basing the 6% growth on outdated steel metrics.Steel rose by 4.3% this month due to port delays.” She walked around the table as if she owned it.“And your construction progression estimate is inflated.You assumed a 12-day completion on Phase 2 framing,but the current workforce capacity only covers nine units a day.That pushes completion to nineteen days,not twelve.”

Silence. She kept going.

“Your math uses the equation C=(LM)-(SV).You plugged in last quarter’s material cost for M,but current L has increased due to the overtime payout you didn’t account for.That’s an immediate 0.6 million budget overrun.And your so-called 3% drop in steel?Impossible.Sector data from HRC index shows a month-over-month increase.”

3C swallowed.“W-We—”

She cut him off with a single glance.

“If you want Atlas to recover,you need to restructure the material allocation budget,increase contingency by 0.4 million,reduce noncritical design features by 1.1% to offset labor cost spike,and renegotiate the steel contract to lock pricing before next month’s projected rise of another 2%.If you don’t,the project loses 2.3 million by mid-quarter and drags revenue down another 3%.”

She finished,voice steady,unbothered,disgusted by their incompetence.

Alaric stared at her. Not blinking. Not breathing. Shocked. Irritated. Intrigued.

Who the hell was this intern who walked into his boardroom and did in sixty seconds what his department couldn’t do in six months?

She didn’t care. She simply muttered,“If you’re going to run billion-dollar projects,at least do math properly,”and returned to her seat,ignoring everyone.

Alaric’s pulse ticked once. Twice. A slow,chilling smile pulled at his mouth.

He’d just found a problem. And a solution. All in one girl.