Hearts in Conflict

Chapter 4

The rest of the week was a grind, but by Thursday I could feel myself slipping into the rhythm. The stares in the hallways had cooled, someone from accounting even waved at me.

Racheal had started trusting me with little things—scheduling posts, typing up meeting notes. Mundane, yes but it gave me space to observe. For blending in.

That afternoon, however, she tossed me something different.

“Anna, you’ll be sitting in on tomorrow’s board meeting,” she said briskly, as though assigning me one of her coffee runs. “We need someone to take notes, and you’re it. Don’t mess this up.”

For a moment I thought I had misheard. The board meeting? Interns weren’t supposed to be anywhere near those. Usually, they were strictly reserved for senior staff—people who had been here long enough to know every rope and every unwritten rule. But Racheal was already walking away, her heels clicking against the polished floor, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Lucian Hawthorne would be there. The company’s top brass would be there. Probably discussing things they did not want another pair of ears to hear. The thought tightened in my chest. This was my chance, yes, but also a direct march into the lion’s den.

Still, the question gnawed: why me?

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The next morning, I stood outside Boardroom B, notebook clutched tight enough to wrinkle the cover. My breath fogged faintly on the glass door as I whispered a quick prayer, then pushed it open.

The boardroom was overwhelming, its polished wood table stretching long enough for twenty, glass walls framing the San Francisco skyline like a deliberate taunt.

Lucian sat at the head, his tailored suit a second skin, eyes scanning the room like he owned the air we breathed.

The meeting opened with numbers, charts, and projections. Languages that might as well have been from another planet. I nodded when others did, my pen scratching across the page, the act of note-taking my only disguise.

Then midway through, the head of Marketing cleared his throat and tapped a stack of papers. “Next on the agenda, the press release draft. Hawthorne Biotech Donates $10 Million to Global Health Fund.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the table. Words like optics and perception floated in the air, seasoned with approving nods and thin smiles.

And then Lucian spoke. His voice was calm, but sharp enough to draw blood.

“Miss Miles?”

My head snapped up, heat rushing to my face. Every pair of eyes turned toward me.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said, leaning back in his chair, unreadable. “Tell us—how will the public read this? As sincerity, or opportunism?”

My mouth went dry. Every pair of eyes turned toward me.

“I—well…” I cleared my throat, forcing words out before silence buried me alive. “People expect corporations to donate, but if the timing seems too convenient, especially after recent events, some might view it as damage control rather than genuine charity.”

The air in the room shifted, subtle but unmistakable. A man adjusted his tie. Another frowned. Suddenly the temperature felt ten degrees colder.

Lucian’s eyes stayed fixed on me, unblinking. “So you’re suggesting we look insincere?”

His words cut sharper than intended, but the timing of the donation was no accident. Barely a month ago, the press had torn them apart for their mishandling of the clinical trial fallout. Headlines still echoed in the public’s mind. He wasn’t about to let an intern reduce their carefully plotted narrative to a single word: opportunism.

Blood pounded in my ears. “No, not at all. I only mean the message has to be framed carefully. The act itself is strong, but if it feels reactive, the narrative could slip away.”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, smooth as glass, Racheal’s voice slid into the silence. “What Miss Miles means,” she said evenly, “is that sincerity must guide the framing. A generous act can lose its shine if the narrative feels defensive. The donation itself is strong, but the way we present it will determine how it lands.”

Relieved nods followed. Tension loosened.

I exhaled. My eyes flicked to Racheal. She didn’t look like she’d saved me. She looked like she was measuring me.

Lucian steepled his fingers. “Noted,” he said at last, moving the discussion forward.

Lucian

The rest of the discussion blurred: projections, percentages, the usual parade of jargon. But his attention kept circling back to her.

Anna Miles. The intern.

Quiet. Nearly invisible. Until I called her out.

He hadn’t expected much. A stammer, perhaps, some fumbling. Instead, she had given me something else entirely—a truth too many people in this room were too cowardly to voice. Not polished, but sharp enough to sting.

Most interns wilt under pressure. She hadn’t. She faltered, yes, but she met my eyes and didn’t look away. That kind of defiance was rare here. Rare anywhere.

He leaned back, studying her from the corner of his eye as the others droned on. Tall, with a frame that should have carried more confidence than she wore. Her shoulders had tightened when the room turned on her, but she hadn’t broken eye contact, even when her voice faltered.

She was aware of the stakes and aware of the room. She glanced at Racheal once, but came back to him. Brave, or reckless. Perhaps both.

He had a lifetime of experience reading people, but something about her didn’t fit into the usual categories. Unexpected. Enigmatic. And therefore, interesting.

One thing, however, was certain: Anna Miles had just stepped into his line of sight. And once there, people rarely walked away unchanged.

Anna

When the meeting finally ended, I walked out on shaky legs. But the weight of his gaze followed me down the hall.

Lucian Hawthorne had looked at me—really looked at me.

And I couldn’t shake the terrifying thought that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run… or be seen again.