Chapter 2

Her voice came through the receiver. The background was loud—like a seaside terrace—people laughing, the faint clink of glasses, wind smearing the ends of her words.

She clearly wasn’t somewhere that required careful conversation.

I looked past the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city skyline and didn’t answer right away. Instead, I asked, “What do you think it means?”

There was a one-second pause. Then her tone sharpened. “How would I know what you mean? Why did you shut off my card?”

I steadied the handset, my voice flat. “That isn’t your card. It’s mine.”

She choked on the line for half a beat, then pushed her voice higher, indignation fully loaded. “But I’m on vacation. You just cut it off—what am I supposed to do? The hotel, meals, a car… how do you expect me to check out?”

I didn’t take the bait. I brought it back to the only thing that mattered. “Have you seen what’s online?”

She gave a short scoff, like she was rolling her eyes. “Yeah, I saw it. So what? Don’t tell me you did this because of that.”

“So what,” I repeated, still calm.

“Exactly.” She spoke faster now, with a hint of pride. “That speech landed. And I didn’t say anything wrong. My followers went up, the comments are all praising me—saying I’m brave, that I tell the truth. Don’t you think that’s… influence?”

As I listened, I filed the call into two simple facts: she knew what happened, and she didn’t believe she owed anyone accountability; she saw attention as a prize, not a liability.

I wasn’t going to waste time lecturing her on how influence cuts both ways.

I opened my laptop, pulled up the email from a client who had paused negotiations, and read one line to her. “‘Given the current public-relations risk, we need to reassess whether continued partnership with Ashford Group aligns with our brand values.’ We received that this morning.”

She went quiet for half a second, then dismissed it lightly. “Clients are sensitive. They’ll forget in a few days.”

“They won’t forget on their own,” I said. “They’ll be reminded.”

She sighed, annoyed. “Do you really care that much about your reputation?”

I neither confirmed nor denied. “I care about cost. Your video made partners believe we have compliance and culture risk. Once that risk exists, it impacts contracts, teams, and the next few months of planning. You think it was just a few lines. They see a label that can be inflated.”

She sounded like she wanted to laugh. “You’re being dramatic.”

I lowered my voice, making every word sharper. “I’m not. I need you to do two things, now. First, issue a public clarification that your speech was not about any specific person, not about Ashford Group, and that there is no so-called ‘control.’ Second, contact the school and the platforms and request takedowns of misleading edits—at minimum, stop further spread. You have twenty-four hours.”

On her end I heard fingernails tapping a tabletop, like she was waiting for me to soften.

When she finally spoke, her tone was still dismissive. “Julian, it was just stage talk. I was setting the mood. You know how it is—if you don’t tell a story, nobody listens. I can’t get up there and recite my résumé. That would be boring.”

My voice stayed level, but I put the question on the table. “Claire, you call it stage talk, a story. Then who is Noah Parker? We traced the earliest accounts pushing the edits—he’s connected to them. He’s your schoolmate, and he’s been close to you. Tell me this: is it still an accident?”

The tapping stopped. She clearly hadn’t expected me to name someone. Then she quickly tried to pull the situation back into something casual, something she could shrug off. “You even looked into that? Noah’s just a friend. He understands social media—he helped make the clip look better. Don’t turn it into some conspiracy. We just wanted a little attention. That’s how it works now. Attention is opportunity. What’s wrong with that?”

I said only, “You can want attention. You don’t get to push the cost onto other people.”

She paused, then snapped back to the angle she was good at. “If you didn’t do anything, what are you scared of? You’re so desperate for me to clarify—doesn’t that mean you’re guilty?”

I leaned back in my chair, fingertips resting on the edge of the desk. My tone slowed. “I’m not scared of talk. I’m dealing with loss. The company doesn’t exist to prove whether your story sounded good. And you’re not just a random speaker who gets applause and walks away. You’re our intern. Your identity is tied to us.”

She brushed it aside. “No one will remember in a few days. Have you seen the numbers? This is free publicity. Brands pay for this.”

“That’s not how publicity works,” I said.

She talked straight over it. “And didn’t you say you admired me? If you still want to keep developing whatever this is, don’t make a big deal out of it. The more you obsess, the smaller you look. Okay, okay—enough. I’m hanging up. I’m on vacation.”

I didn’t interrupt. I let her finish every sentence, because those sentences were her choice.

Her last line shifted in tone—hard, commanding. “I’m warning you. Restore my card. Now.”

I stayed silent for two seconds, just long enough to confirm I didn’t need an emotional response.

Then I spoke, clearly, as if driving a stake into the ground. “Claire, listen carefully. I do have a fondness for you. That doesn’t mean you get to use my company as your stage. I’m telling you—”

The next second, the line cut with a sharp beep. She’d hung up.

I set the handset back onto the base. The call timer was still counting, then dropped to zero.

The office fell quiet, except for the low hum of the air conditioning—and the subject line of that client email on my screen.

Matthew had been standing beside me the whole time without speaking. Only after the call ended did he ask, “Do you want me to restore her card?”

“No,” I said. “She just gave her answer.”

I stood and walked to the window, looking down at the traffic moving through the streets below.

A lot of people treat a relationship like an insurance policy—say a few sweet words, strike a few poses, and assume someone else will absorb the fallout.

Business doesn’t recognize that kind of insurance. Contracts recognize it even less.

“Proceed by the book,” I said. “Have HR prepare termination of the internship—cite the compliance and reputational-risk clauses. Have Legal draft the demand letter.”

“Understood.” Matthew picked up the folder and headed out.

He answered once, shut the door, and left.

I sat back down and opened the tablet again. The screen was still frozen on the frame of Claire at the podium.

She looked certain—like she believed she controlled the rhythm, like applause could cancel consequences.

But I knew the rhythm had changed the moment she hung up.

This wasn’t about feelings. It was about boundaries.