The Rehab Triangle

Chapter 6: A Seat at the Table

“How I met Zack “

The first time I stepped into Coleman Pharmaceuticals, I felt like I’d walked into the future. Everything was sleek — glass walls, minimalist furniture, and floors so polished you could see your reflection. It smelled like fresh coffee and something sterile, like success had its own fragrance.

I wasn’t supposed to be intimidated. I’d earned my spot here, after all. Out of dozens of pharmacy school graduates, I was the one they picked for this internship. Six months to prove I deserved more than just a clipboard and a name tag. Six months to convince them I belonged here permanently.

And I was doing fine. Until he showed up.

It was a Thursday morning, two months into my internship. I was in the break room, double-checking notes on a new drug protocol, when I heard the sound of footsteps — not the usual slow, purposeful strides of the executives, but sharp, unbothered clicks like the person didn’t care if anyone heard him coming.

“Where’s the coffee in this place?” a voice said behind me, casual but loud enough to sound like an order.

I turned, and there he was. Zack Coleman. I didn’t need an introduction to know who he was. Everyone knew. The heir to Coleman Pharmaceuticals. Son of Ben Coleman, the CEO himself. His face had been on the company’s charity newsletters, smiling next to his father like a prince next to a king.

Zack looked like he’d just walked out of a GQ spread — rolled-up sleeves on a crisp, gray dress shirt, gold watch on his wrist, and hair styled just enough to look careless. His eyes were blue, sharp as broken glass but somehow still warm enough to draw people in.

“Over there,” I said, nodding toward the coffee machine.

He didn’t move right away, just stared at me like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “You new?” he asked, stepping forward.

“Intern,” I replied, not offering more than that.

“Name?”

“Eric.”

“Cool,” he said, grabbing a mug. He tilted it toward me, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re smart, right?”

I frowned. “I like to think so.”

“Good.” He filled his mug, stirred it without looking down, then took a sip. “You’re with me today.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Dad’s orders,” he said, like that explained everything. “I’m ‘shadowing the team’ or whatever, but really, that just means I’m supposed to ‘learn the ropes.’” He used air quotes, rolling his eyes like the whole thing was beneath him. “So, congrats, Eric. You’re my guide for the day.”

I glanced at the door, half-expecting a manager to walk in and clarify this whole mess. But no one did. Zack was still grinning like this was all some kind of joke, but I knew better. He wasn’t joking.

Days later, I got pulled into a meeting with Mr. Ben Coleman himself. It was the kind of thing that sent my heart straight into my throat. The CEO. Sitting behind his desk like a judge, his hands folded calmly, his face serious but not unkind.

“Eric,” he said, leaning forward. “You’ve been doing excellent work. Sharp, on time, focused.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, keeping my back straight.

He nodded once. “I believe you have a future here.”

It took everything in me not to grin. This is it, I thought. He’s about to offer me the job.

“But,” he said, and that one word stopped me cold. “I want you to help Zack. Full-time.”

I blinked. “Sir?”

“Work with him. Guide him. Help him understand the day-to-day. I think you could be a good influence.” He leaned back in his chair, watching me carefully. “He needs someone like you.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Someone like me? Did he mean someone competent? Or someone disposable?

“Do this,” Mr. Coleman added, his voice firm but kind, “and I can guarantee you a permanent position when your internship ends.”

That sealed it.

“Understood, sir,” I said, my voice steady, but my stomach felt like it was free-falling.

That “day” stretched into weeks. I thought Zack would get bored after a few shifts of following me around, but he didn’t. Turns out, “shadowing” meant I was doing the work while he watched and occasionally asked questions that seemed way too sharp for a guy who claimed not to care.

“Why do they track batch numbers on individual bottles when they already log it at the warehouse?” Zack had asked me once, tilting his head like he actually wanted to know.

“Repitition,” I replied, tapping the scanner against the barcode. “If a batch is recalled, we can trace every bottle it touched. No guesswork.”

He nodded slowly, then smirked. “Efficient. I like that.”

Some days, he’d actually roll up his sleeves and help, counting inventory or scanning shipments. Other days, he’d kick back in the corner with his phone, texting away like he wasn’t standing in a pharmaceutical warehouse. People whispered about him. Most of the staff thought he was only there because of his last name. “Rich kid playing dress-up,” they’d say.

But I saw more than that. He didn’t have to be there. Guys like him? They didn’t punch in at 9 a.m. if they didn’t want to. And yet, he showed up every day.

Zack didn’t make it easy. He called me his “PA,” which was technically accurate but still annoying. He’d show up five minutes late, ask me to grab him files, and sometimes disappear for half an hour without saying where he went.

But something changed. We started talking more. Not about work, but about life.

“You live alone?” Zack asked one day as we loaded up shelves in the supply room.

“Yeah,” I said, stacking a box. “Small apartment.”

“Bet it’s a dump,” he said with a grin.

“Not a dump,” I muttered. “Just… not great.”

Zack laughed, tossing a box onto the shelf. “I’ve got three bedrooms.”

“Good for you,” I muttered.

He glanced over, smirking. “I’m serious. I’ve got space. You ever get tired of that ‘not great’ place, hit me up.”

I waved him off, thinking he was joking. But a month later, after I got my permanent contract and realized how much rent was eating my paycheck, I remembered his offer.

“Still got that spare room?” I asked him one afternoon as we restocked inventory.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Zack replied, grinning like he’d just won a bet.

Moving in with Zack was surreal. His apartment wasn’t just big — it was massive. Three bedrooms, a rooftop terrace, and a kitchen so shiny I thought it was for show. Glass doors let in too much sunlight, and every piece of furniture looked like it belonged in a catalog.

I brought two duffel bags and a suitcase. Zack didn’t even notice.

At first, I thought living with him would be like working with him — full of smart remarks and half-jokes at my expense. But it wasn’t. He didn’t flaunt his money. He didn’t complain if I ate his food or left my laundry out.

“Don’t be weird,” he’d say whenever I apologized for something. “You live here too.”

It was the first time I’d lived somewhere that actually felt like living instead of just surviving.

But, of course, it didn’t stay perfect.

It started with the guests. The people Zack let in at odd hours of the night. Loud, flashy types with too much perfume and too little patience. They never stayed long, and Zack always had an explanation.

“Friends,” he’d say.

“Sure,” I’d reply, even though I knew they weren’t.

But I ignored it. I had my own space. My own job. My own life.

At least, that’s what I told myself.