The Billionaire and The Virgin Intern (Seduction and Sin Book 5)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Epilogue
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
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The Billionaire and the Virgin Intern
Seduction and Sin, Book 5
Bella Love-Wins
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COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
The Billionaire and the Virgin Intern
Copyright © 2017 Bella Love-Wins.
Written by Bella Love-Wins.
All Rights Reserved.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
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About Bella Love-Wins
One
Rose
I so wasn’t expecting this crap.
Not at my first fucking real-world job.
The tiny, cramped shredding room is hot and stuffy from hours upon hours of shredding—my only task so far since I started this internship. Everywhere else on the floor of offices and cubicles is perfectly climate controlled. Everywhere but here. Wiping a bead of sweat from my temple with the back of one hand, I take a deep breath. My thumb accidentally slides over the rose white sapphire rose stud earring in my earlobe, and my bone-deep disappointment causes my heart to clench. I hold the stud between my thumb and forefinger, letting my fingertips slide over the grooves and ridges, hoping a few moments with only my great grandmother’s earrings in my thoughts will remind me to appreciate this job, even if it’s one of the biggest let downs of my life.
But I only grow more upset.
My great-grandmother didn’t leave Eastern Europe to come to America and work herself to the bone for over twenty-four years as someone’s nanny and housekeeper for this. Neither did my grandmother as a clerk in a cigar shop. Or my mother who worked in a law firm’s mailroom for years before she passed away, for that matter. Not for me to end up with an MBA while still slaving away as Intern slash Chief Document Destroyer in the innards of Levine Holdings, one of the most reputable corporations in Manhattan. Of course, it’s an internship. It’s not supposed to be flashy or challenging work, but something corporate and respectable to add to my resume under ‘relevant work experience.’ I tell myself every morning that it’s temporary, and that once my assignment is done, I’ll reap the rewards of a damn good education on top of surviving this job.
Right now, I can use a little more reassurance.
A mix of emotions wash over me—uncertainty, regret, desperation—but more than anything, I feel hopelessness start to set in. In six weeks, the massive first payment of my student loan will come due. I still have no idea how or where I’m going to find the money. This unpaid intern gig sure isn’t getting me any closer. It’s unpaid, for fuck’s sake. My part-time job at the Feldman Harrigan’s New York department store makeup counter barely covers my share of rent, let alone food and transportation. No way will it improve my current financial situation.
I take a sip from my open water bottle on the counter beside the shredding machine, my other hand still at my ear. It’s usually so easy for me to find my center and get motivated when I wear these pieces of jewelry, especially on days like today. But right now, all they do are serve as a reminder.
If I can’t make the first installment of my student loan, how will I pay off the rest?
I’m fucked.
A failure with an MBA from Columbia U and a close to hundred and fifty thousand dollar student loan to go with it.
Even the degree taunts me.
The majority of my classmates found great positions in desirable firms and startups around the city.
Correction. The majority of my already wealthy, well-connected classmates did. Some of the nobodies like me, well, just like in our lives were before we started our degrees, we’re scraping the bottle of the barrel. A few smart nobodies lined up real jobs in good companies since last summer. I wish I’d done that too, but wasn’t so lucky.
Because luck is something that doesn’t come my way.
Ever.
I have no one and can only rely on my own effort, hard work, and my unrelenting drive to get ahead.
It’s up to me to turn this internship around.
I’ll figure something out and find the money for this loan payment.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I straighten up and blindly stare at the stark concrete walls. The room is so small, whoever decorated the rest of the offices on this floor didn’t even waste their time adding paint or even a framed photo on the walls. I’m tired from leaning over the shredder for so long, and my day isn’t over yet, but a wave of energy surges through me. This is temporary. I’m smart, ready to put my back into it, and I’ll use every ounce of creativity and ingenuity to make it.
I won’t be a nobody for long.
After I lost my parents in a car accident as a teen, I’ve survived by pushing myself. I remind myself that I got through three years of high school and two college degrees on my own. Sure, I was put into foster care from fifteen years of age until I turned eighteen. I guess I can also be grateful that the family who fostered me were reasonably decent people. They didn’t have an ounce of love to give me, but they also didn’t abuse or mistreat me. Still, I’m in this journey alone. My emotional support system comprises of my two roommates, Dahlia and Emily. But they too are struggling to make ends meet, just like me. So while we can encourage and motivate and inspire one another, financially, I have to figure out this student loan shit by myself.
How?
I have no fucking clue.
And it’s par for the course.
Nothing in my life has ever come with sure bets or one hundred percent certainties.
But maybe that’s a good thing. I’ve had to find a way before, and I’ll do it again.
Whatever it takes.
I have a seat in the swivel chair at the counter. With my elbows on my knees, I rest my head in my hands. My fingers wander up to my earrings again, and this time, I feel pumped. I can do this. And when I do, I’m sure my mom, dad, and great-grandmother will be looking down with pride.
I feel the buzz of my phone in the pocket of my work blazer. As I reach for it and unlock the screen, the door to the shredder room creaks open and I jump at the unexpected sound.
Shit.
“Hi Brenda,” I say to my manager. Well, she’s not a real manager. She’
s one of the PR reps at the firm, and is in charge of the one intern the company hires each year. It’s a shame too, because the woman is cold, distant, and has no interest in showing me the ropes. Which is sad, because we’re pretty close in age, and one of the dozen or so women out of the hundred people who work in this place. As she’s my only connection to the firm, it’s another reason I’m going nowhere in this assignment. She stands at the open doorway, her ice blue eyes moving from the top of the shredder to my hand, now holding my phone. She’s shorter than me but has a strong presence designer office suits. As she looks at me from behind dark horn-rimmed glasses, I can feel her usual judgy disdain pouring from her.
“Oh, I was just—”
“Killing time on your phone?” she asks, her voice tight. “Yes, I see that.”
“No, I wasn’t. Really, I only just—” I start, but stop myself because of how lame it sounds. I slide the phone back into my pocket and get to my feet, returning to the stack of boxes filled with documents waiting to be destroyed. “I was just taking a short break. Can I help you with something?”
She points at a cart behind her. “Here’s another batch to shred. It’s from R&D, so put a rush on it.”
“Will do. No problem,” I tell her.
Brenda steps to the side, allowing me to move past her for the cart with close to a dozen more boxes. “And one more thing, Rose. The executives here at Levine Holdings have always leaned toward hiring men. It’s not as bad in its pharmaceutical subsidiaries, but our majors aren’t in the sciences so there’s no chance we’ll end up working there. It might help your future if none of them ever find you playing games on your phone when you should be working. It looks bad for all of us women.”
I hold my breath to stop myself from responding. No matter what I say, it’ll sound weak. If Brenda cares to know how much I’ve done, she only has to take a look at the stack of empty boxes in the corner, and the piles of clear plastic bags filled with confetti size pieces of shredded paper.
She forces a smile and turns, leaving me standing there, anxious and off balance, with all the fear flooding back.
I hate this job.
I hate how I feel.
Taking a breath, I roll the cart into the room, all the while promising myself that tonight, as soon as I’m home, I’ll search online, apply everywhere I can, and pound the pavement if I have to.
But then I remember my part-time job at the makeup counter. I’m working tonight until ten o’clock, and will be on the subway for another hour after that for my commute to my shared apartment in Brooklyn. Shit.
I’m so fucking stuck.
Two
Caleb
“It’s a shit show.” My friend, Foster, relaxes in his chocolate brown leather, button-back armchair, puffing on a Cohiba. He points the cigar in my direction. “A fucking disaster.”
“Are you surprised?” I casually look around the living room of his Soho brownstone home decorated in neutral tans and dark brown. He just bought this place a couple of months ago, yet it’s already completely remodeled to his usual tastes. But my mind is restless, looking for something other than the sorry state of the Mont Blanc deal. Our friends, Jace, Jackson, and Dylan, as well as Jace and Jackson’s father, Joseph, are all the partners at Knight’s Capital Management. For the past few weeks, our hedge fund firm has been adjusting to the reality that our most imminent acquisition deal can fall apart if we don’t act fast.
But adjusting isn’t where our focus should be.
Fixing.
We have to fix the broken pieces of this multi-billion-dollar transaction before it fucks up the rest of Knight’s Capital holdings. If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have anything to fix, because we wouldn’t go down this road in the first place. Our firm was doing just fine before Joseph listened to that smug son of a bitch, Gerald Buchannan, and convinced us to get on board. It serves me right for not putting my foot down to stop it. This deal is just as much my fault as it is the rest of the partners. But I still blame Gerald for forcing his foot in the door and dragging in this shit deal with him.
“The only thing I’m surprised about is that you’re here at my house at this fucking ungodly hour. I mean, for fuck’s sake, Caleb. Six thirty in the morning?”
“I’ve been here at this time before. And it didn’t stop you from lighting up when you should be getting your ass ready for that charity golf game.”
He puffs on the cigar again and breathes out a ring of smoke above his head. “It starts at eight. And it’s golf, not a marathon. I can handle eighteen holes.”
“Be glad that I drove all this way to pick you up in Soho to drive all the way back up to the Holland Tunnel to make it into Bayonne in time.”
“The game’s in Jersey?”
“Don’t act so fucking surprised. It’s been at Bayonne every year since before your sorry ass was born.”
“Right. Fuck.” He snuffs out the cigar and gets to his feet. “I’ll get ready.”
Foster is the least punctual person I’ve ever met, but he won’t risk showing up late for this game, considering that Joseph specifically asked for all the partners to be early.
“Just hurry,” I tell him and walk over to one of the living room’s large bay window.
As I wait for him to get ready, I scroll through the fifteen or so unread texts on my phone. Most are from women I’ve fucked in the last month or so. One by one, I read through the messages and delete each one. What else am I supposed to do, reply?
Fuck no.
One and done.
That how I’ve always been, and I don’t plan to change my M.O. anytime soon.
The fact that these women have all texted me afterward tells me that I need to do more to set the record straight next time. I mean, I don’t lead these girls on. They know my reputation. They also all get the ‘talk’ when we first meet, be it for drinks or at some random, chance meeting at clubs, restaurants, out on the streets of Manhattan, or wherever I pick them up. The topic of said ‘talk’? I’m the man of the hour. Maybe for the night. But nothing more. This happy as fuck bachelor isn’t looking to settle down.
I accidentally tap on the search button, and my contact list pops up. Then I see her name and it twists up my insides all over again.
Rose Burnell.
I should’ve deleted her contact info a long fucking time ago.
At least then, I wouldn’t have her name in my phone to remind me how badly I fucked up over eight years ago.
I was barely an adult, but that was no excuse for what I almost let happen to her.
At an event I took her to.
Under my watch.
The events of that holiday party all flood back into my mind, playing on repeat. I don’t even think about where I am when I turn from the window and pitch my phone across Foster’s living room. It shocks me to believe that eight years have passed and the memory is just as vivid.
That night haunts me because I could’ve done more.
I should’ve fixed what I broke beyond repair.
I would’ve, but Rose didn’t let me.
She walked out, quit her job at my family’s department store chain, and made sure I didn’t have a minute of her time or attention since that night.
Not one second.
Not even during our entire time in the same fucking business school during both degrees at Columbia U.
I was a couple of years ahead of her, but I saw her almost ever damn day. Each time we crossed paths, she’d make a beeline around me, turn and run the other way, or keep walking as though I was invisible. After a few semesters of being avoided, I gave up and put the night back in the past. Or tried to. Like right now, I couldn’t quite master the art of erasing this one bad thing from existence.
My fucking phone rings from where it landed across the room. Walking over to it, I pick it up and check the now cracked screen to see who’s calling.
“What?” I answer gruffly when I catch sight of Jackson’s name.
“Caleb. Dud
e. Who the fuck has your panties in a bunch this early?” Jackson asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Make sure you and Foster show up on time, okay? The old man is in a mood.”
“We will. I’m at Foster’s now,” I say. Pressing the end call button, I walk into the hallway and stop at the bottom of the stairs. “Hurry the fuck up!” I shout.
Foster leans his head over the wrought iron railings, his hair dripping wet from his shower. “Calm your ass down. I’m almost ready.”
“I’ll be in the car,” I grunt.
“What the hell was that noise just now?” he asks.
“My phone. It’s broken. I’ll send my contractor to fix your wall in a few days.” I tell him and turn to leave through the front door.
Eight fucking years and I still let that night rattle me.
Eight fucking years and just the sight of her name still haunts me.
But not anymore.
I stop at Foster’s front door for a moment and delete Rose Burnell’s name from my contact list.
Three
Rose
My roommate, Emily and I are working on our third bottle of cheap white wine on Friday night. We’ve both had crazy weeks, so the few hours of relaxation are perfect for my aching feet, which are on Emily’s lap as I stretch out on the sofa.
We both perk up on hearing a key turn in the lock of our front door. The hinges creak while it opens, slowly revealing our third roommate, a smiling Dahlia.
“Hi!” she chirps. “Y’all miss me yet?”
It’s one of those rare days where all three of us are home at the same time.