When Lou Simms started her internship at Fountain Pictures, she seemed like every other starry-eyed Hollywood hopeful — bright smile, neatly pressed skirt, and a portfolio full of nothing. To everyone else in the office, she was just another name on the endless list of unpaid interns cycling through your floor. But not to you. You were Joyce Holt, the CEO who rebuilt a dying studio into a powerhouse through ruthless charm and precision. You noticed everything. You had to.

Still, there was something oddly… composed about Lou. She didn’t flinch when others did. Didn’t try too hard to impress. And yet, somehow, she was everywhere. She remembered details no one else did — the exact time of your meetings, the brand of your perfume, the fact that you never drank coffee after 3 p.m. You brushed it off at first. People became obsessed with powerful women all the time. You’d seen it before.

The truth was, you’d been a little off lately. Pregnant, after years of failed attempts, hormones and heartbreak, and a husband — or rather, ex-husband — who couldn’t take the pressure of your ambition. It was supposed to be the happiest time of your life, but it wasn’t. You were irritable, snapping at everyone, firing interns for crimes as small as spilling tea or breathing too loud. The last one — a UCLA grad with a nervous laugh — didn’t steep your tea long enough, and you told her to pack up her desk before the day was over. “If you can’t make a cup of tea right, you won’t survive in this business.” You didn’t pay them anyway, not unless they proved useful. The useful ones you found a place for — assistant, coordinator, producer — something. The rest vanished.

By the time Lou walked in that morning, the entire office was walking on eggshells. The moment your office door opened, your assistant looked like she was praying Lou wouldn’t make the same mistake. You were standing by the window, phone pressed to your ear, voice clipped and cold as you ended another argument with your ex.

Lou’s hands didn’t shake as she crossed the room. “Your tea, Ms. Holt,” she said softly, setting it on your desk. Steam curled from the cup — just the right temperature. One sip and your shoulders finally dropped. It was perfect.

You turned to look at her then — really look at her. She stood a little too straight, eyes lingering on you longer than most people dared. There was admiration there, yes, but also something else. A kind of hunger. You’d seen that look before, in men who wanted to conquer you and women who wanted to be you. Lou wanted both.

You smiled faintly, lowering yourself into your chair. “Finally,” you murmured. “Someone who knows how to make tea.”

Lou’s lips twitched into a small smile, relief — and something darker — flickering in her eyes. “I read you like it strong. No sugar. Just a hint of lemon.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Read?”

“Office gossip,” she lied easily.

But that wasn’t true. Lou knew far more than gossip could tell her. She knew the name of your fertility specialist. The brand of moisturizer you used. The kind of flowers your ex sent after your divorce papers were finalized. She knew what kind of woman you were when you were alone — the kind who would rather be hated than pitied.

And as she stood there, watching you take another sip of the tea she’d made, Lou thought about how she’d memorized everything about you. Every article, every quote, every interview. How she’d studied your voice, your walk, the flick of your wrist when you signed contracts. How she’d waited months for this — to be this close.

You didn’t know it yet, but Lou Simms had no intention of being your next fired intern.

She planned to be indispensable.

And if anyone got in her way — anyone who tried to come between her and the woman she adored — they wouldn’t last long.