Chapter 2
By week two, they had learned three things about Arthur Beauty Global.
One: nothing was ever truly an emergency, but everything was treated like one.
Two: Andre Arthur appeared at random, like a glamorous omen.
Three: interns were invisible until they weren’t.
Spring in New York moved fast. The city shed its gray skin and put on gloss. Sidewalk cafés bloomed. Rooftop invitations multiplied. And inside Arthur Beauty, the Spring Equinox Collection loomed — a pastel-heavy campaign featuring twelve influencers, three scandals, and one extremely delicate brand partnership with a luxury skincare line that insisted on being described as “celestial.”
James thrived in the chaos. He floated between talent calls and glam rooms with easy charm, memorizing pronouns, favorite lighting angles, and emotional vulnerabilities. Everyone liked James. Men leaned closer when he laughed. Women confided in him over iced matcha. He had a gift for making people feel seen without promising to stay.
Which was how he found himself on a balcony in SoHo at 9 p.m. on a Thursday, holding a glass of champagne he hadn’t asked for, listening to a British influencer named Theo confess his fear of irrelevance.
“Do you ever think it all just… disappears?” Theo asked.
James studied him — the perfectly tousled hair, the nervous eyes. “Everything disappears,” James said lightly. “That’s what makes it valuable.”
Theo stared at him like he had just quoted scripture.
Meanwhile, back at the office, Jenna was fighting.
“Why is it called ‘Soft Sunrise’?” she demanded, holding up a lipstick bullet like evidence in a trial. “It’s neon. It screams. It wants attention. Call it ‘Make Him Regret It.’”
The product team blinked.
Jenna did not blink back.
Her fire got her noticed — sometimes admired, sometimes flagged in HR notes. But Andre began stopping by her station more often. Asking her opinions. Watching her argue. She pretended not to notice the way his gaze lingered.
Melissa noticed.
Melissa noticed everything.
Her spreadsheets began predicting sales trends with unnerving accuracy. She discovered that posts made at 11:43 p.m. performed 18% better than those at midnight. She built models that mapped influencer breakups to product dips. Data was not just numbers; it was narrative. And she loved narrative.
But Melissa also believed in love. Real love. The kind that arrived with violins and stayed for laundry. Which was how she ended up on three consecutive terrible dates in one week, each one worse than the last.
“He said astrology isn’t real,” she told James and Jenna over ramen in the East Village.
“That’s a red flag,” Jenna said instantly.
“He pronounced quinoa wrong,” Melissa continued, wounded.
James reached across the table. “You are too intelligent for men who think Mercury is a planet and not a threat.”
Melissa sighed dreamily. “I just want someone who sees me.”
Jenna snorted. “Girl, you analyze TikTok engagement for fun. You’ll find him.”
Outside, rain slicked the streets. Spring storms rolled in dramatic bursts. The city smelled like wet concrete and perfume.
One afternoon, as thunder rattled the windows, the interns were summoned to the executive conference room.
They entered cautiously.
Andre stood at the head of the table, city skyline behind him like a painting. His expression was unreadable.
“I have an opportunity,” he said.
The word hung heavy.
“A capsule line. Youth-driven. Fresh perspective.”
James felt his pulse spike.
Jenna leaned forward.
Melissa’s mind began calculating.
“I want you three to pitch me something,” Andre continued. “In two weeks.”
Silence.
“You’re joking,” Jenna said.
Andre smiled faintly. “I never joke about innovation.”
James recovered first. “What’s the budget?”
Andre’s smile widened.
“Convince me.”
And then he dismissed them.
They stood in the hallway afterward, stunned.
“We are absolutely going to crash and burn,” Melissa whispered.
Jenna grinned fiercely. “Or we’re going to own this city.”
James looked back at the closed conference room door.
High above Manhattan, thunder rolled again.
“Let’s be dangerous,” he said.
And somewhere inside the building, unseen by any of them, Andre Arthur watched security footage on his private monitor — not of them, but of something else entirely — his jaw tight, his finger hovering over a paused frame.
Spring was blooming.
But something darker had already been planted.
