1 I was scrolling through a campus resale board late at night when a listing stopped my thumb dead in its tracks. Five-star luxury tasting buffet, valued at $500. Selling my spot for $25. Only one opening available. I sat bolt upright in bed. Twenty-five dollars for a five-hundred-dollar private buffet? That wasn’t just a discount; it was practically highway robbery in reverse. A food vlogger I followed had recently reviewed the place. Her video featured glistening plates of A5 wagyu and towering tiers of seafood, and I remembered sitting in my dorm room, practically drooling onto my screen. But the actual price tag equaled two months of my college grocery budget. I couldn't afford a single appetizer, let alone the full spread. And yet, here it was. Handed to me on a silver platter. I immediately opened a direct chat with the seller. Is this for real? He replied within seconds. Cross my heart. One hundred percent legitimate. How do I claim it once I pay? Meet me outside the front entrance tomorrow at four in the afternoon. I’ll walk you right in. Suspicious, but thoroughly blinded by the prospect of unlimited truffles, I sent the money. When I told my roommate about my impending feast, she stared at me for a long, quiet second, reached into her closet, and handed me an opaque black trash bag. I gave her a knowing smirk. “For smuggling out the wagyu?” She shook her head solemnly. “No. In case you get caught by the general manager, you pull this over your head. We don’t need your mugshot trending on Reddit under the headline: Local College Girl’s Morally Bankrupt Scam—A Tragic Descent into Petty Gluttony.” I lunged across the rug and tackled her onto her beanbag. “You dare question my survival instincts?” After a minute of breathless wrestling, I dusted off my knees and checked my phone. “Look, his seller rating is five stars. He’s obviously a good samaritan who just had an extra ticket.” The next afternoon, I showed up thirty minutes early. The seller wasn’t there yet. I didn’t have the courage to walk up to the velvet ropes alone, but lingering on the sidewalk made me feel like an undercover spy with zero training. Glancing around, I noticed a row of massive, waist-high terracotta planters flanking the courtyard. I ducked my head, scurried over, and wedged myself neatly behind a dense cluster of ornamental palms. Perfect. I crouched there, waiting, until my calves began to cramp. Just as I was considering crawling out, the low hum of conversation floated across the courtyard. A small crowd of men in tailored suits was approaching. Crisp lapels, mirror-shined oxfords, effortless posture—the kind of corporate pedigree that radiates from boardrooms and private clubs. Especially the man walking in front. He was striking in a sharp, aloof way, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that framed broad shoulders and a lean waist. His stride was deliberate and unbothered, carrying that distinct, bone-deep ease of someone who had never known material lack a single day in his life. Handsome, undeniably. But far out of my tax bracket. I stayed low, scanning the group for my seller. Suddenly, someone in the pack coughed three times in rapid succession. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. I froze. The secret code. The seller had told me he’d clear his throat three times, I’d call him "bro," and he’d take it from there. I stood up, rustling the palm leaves, and immediately locked eyes with a guy wearing wire-rimmed glasses in the back row. I swallowed hard, stepping onto the pavement, and ventured a tentative, “...Bro?” His eyes lit up with relief. “Hey! Little sis, over here!” Under the collective stare of half a dozen executives, my legs nearly forgot how to walk in alternating sequence. The guy in glasses quickly steered me toward the tall man at the front. “Mr. Shaw, this is my younger sister. She goes to school nearby, and since the company memo said we could bring a family plus-one to the celebration dinner, I figured I’d invite her along.” My brain short-circuited. A plus-one? This is a corporate team dinner? Mr. Shaw turned his gaze on me, his dark eyes cool and unreadable. I curled my toes inside my sneakers, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. “All right,” he said simply. “Let’s head in.” I let out a shaky breath, feeling a thin film of cold sweat glaze my back. The guy in glasses leaned close to my ear and muttered, “Relax. Once we’re inside, just focus on eating. Don’t worry about anything else.” I nodded numbly. At this point, there was only one thing left to do: get my twenty-five dollars’ worth. 2 Inside, the restaurant was an altar to fine dining. Crystal chandeliers threw refractions across polished marble floors, and the silver cutlery gleamed with surgical precision. Australian wagyu, seared foie gras, Alaskan king crab legs, butter-poached lobster tails, beluga caviar, shaved winter truffles—luxuries I had only ever seen through a high-definition screen were arranged in generous, glistening spreads. A silent tear of joy nearly escaped the corner of my eye. I pulled out my phone, snapped a covert photo of the spread, and sent it to our dorm group chat: Behold, mere mortals. The notification banner instantly began to vibrate off the hook. I slipped my phone into my pocket, grabbed a plate, and went to work. For the next forty minutes, I existed in a state of pure culinary bliss. I floated between the carving stations and the raw bar, piling my plate high. The king crab meat was sweet and tender; the wagyu practically melted on my tongue, leaving behind a rich, smoky savor; the foie gras on toasted brioche was decadent perfection. I ate with total, shameless devotion, utterly oblivious to the quarterly projections and market strategies being discussed around the long table. Until an elbow nudged my ribs. “Hey, slow down,” the guy in glasses whispered. “It’s time to raise a toast to Mr. Shaw. Wipe your face.” I froze, a piece of lobster halfway down my throat. A toast? No one told me the fake sister had to give a speech! I frantically dabbed my mouth with a linen napkin. By sheer bad luck, the CEO was standing right near our end of the table. It was my turn. Wait—what was his last name again? I had heard someone address him earlier, but the noise of the room had garbled the syllables. Did they say... Mr. Shite? Mr. Short? Sean Shaw looked down at me, holding up a crystal flute of champagne with a faint, polite inclination of his head. He looked devastatingly put-together. I panicked, gripped my glass, and blurted out, “M-Mr. Shite, thank you for having me!” The table went completely, agonizingly dead silent. Several executives froze with their glasses mid-air. One junior associate turned beet red, his shoulders twitching violently as he tried not to choke on his wine. Sean’s expression hardened, his handsome jaw tightening into stone. “It’s Shaw.” I am going to die right here on this imported Italian marble. How could anyone butcher a name so spectacularly? If he realized I was a complete imposter, would security drag me out by my collar? My brain spun at a million miles an hour. “I am so, so sorry, Mr. Shaw!” I stammered, pulling a desperate face. “I grew up out in the deep rural sticks, and when I get nervous, my backwoods accent comes out and my vowels get completely tangled, haha...” Sean arched a single, razor-sharp brow. “The rural sticks?” He signaled the guy in glasses over. “Greg, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t your parents lifelong downtown Chicago residents? Is she actually your sister?” Greg’s smile turned painfully brittle. “Uh, yes, sir. Half-sister. Raised on a farm out in the countryside.” Greg was staring at me with silent, wide-eyed terror. I couldn't drag him down with me. He was the saint who had facilitated my lobster feast. I had to divert the CEO's attention immediately. I bit the bullet and flipped the switch straight to wide-eyed reverence. “Mr. Shaw, the truth is, I begged my brother to let me come because I’ve admired you for years! I just wanted to see you in person!” Greg’s jaw dropped. A glimmer of sheer awe crossed his eyes. Sean frowned slightly. “You’ve seen me before? I don’t recall meeting you.” “Not in person, no, but through everything my brother says!” The words poured out of me like an unbroken stream of commercial propaganda. “He always tells me how you built this enterprise from the ground up at such a young age, how visionary and brilliant you are, a true titan of industry and an inspiration to our entire generation! You are a paragon of modern leadership, a financial savant, a walking masterclass in executive excellence—” I threw every superlative I had ever learned in my business communications class into the fire. Sean cleared his throat softly, cutting me off. “That’s enough. Go finish your dessert.” The tips of his ears, I noticed with a jolt, were tinged with a faint shade of pink. Knowing when to retreat, I nodded meekly. “Right away, Mr. Shaw!” As soon as he turned back to the senior partners, I slumped back into my seat, exhaling a massive breath. Greg discreetly gave me a thumbs-up under the table. “Sis, if you don’t go into enterprise sales after graduation, it’ll be a crime against the economy.” “Just doing my civic duty,” I whispered modestly. 3 By the time the dinner wrapped up, my stomach was pleasantly rounded. I waddled out of the restaurant, fully prepared to take the long, slow walk back to my dorm to burn off the thousand calories of butter I’d consumed. I had only walked half a block when a sleek black Maybach slowed to a crawl alongside the curb. The tinted rear window rolled down smoothly, revealing Sean’s sharp profile. “Your brother didn't arrange a ride for you?” I gave an awkward, tight smile. “He had some errands to run. It's totally fine, I like walking.” “You go to the university nearby, right?” “Yes, sir.” “Get in. It’s on my way.” “Thank you, Mr. Shaw, but really, I wouldn't want to trouble you—” Before I could finish my polite decline, the chauffeur had already stepped out and pulled the heavy door open with a crisp click. “Please, miss.” I stood there, cornered by luxury. What choice did I have? I ducked inside and gingerly perched on the edge of the leather seat. The car smelled exquisite—a clean, crisp blend of dry cedarwood, bergamot, and very expensive upholstery. It was Sean’s scent. The seat was so plush it felt like sinking into a cloud, far removed from the squeaky vinyl of campus transit. I shrank as close to the window as physically possible. Sean leaned his head back against the headrest, eyes shut, rubbing his temples with long, elegant fingers. He seemed exhausted, perhaps carrying a slight buzz from the scotch he’d been drinking all evening. His hands were striking—cleanly defined knuckles, neat nails, the kind of hands that looked effortlessly authoritative. As someone with a mild aesthetic weakness for well-kept hands, I couldn't help stealing a few glances. “See something interesting?” he asked quietly, his eyes still closed. I jumped in my seat, snapping my gaze straight ahead. “N-no! Not at all!” A faint, breathy chuckle escaped his lips, but he didn't say another word. The cabin settled into a heavy, quiet stillness. Between the food coma, the smooth suspension of the car, and the quiet purr of the engine, my eyelids grew impossibly heavy. I didn't mean to fall asleep, but the darkness pulled me under. Some time later, a gentle tap on my shoulder dragged me back to consciousness. “Wake up. We’re here.” I blinked sleepily, my vision swimming into focus. A gorgeous, chiseled face hovered just inches from mine. Dark lashes, a high nasal bridge, and that intoxicating woodsy cologne. Still half-drowned in a dream, my unfiltered subconscious took the wheel. “Wow,” I murmured dreamily. “You are ridiculously pretty.” Sean froze, then cleared his throat and leaned back into his seat, an amused curve touching his lips. “You’re at your dorm gate.” The fog vanished instantly. Heat rushed up my neck and painted my face in bright crimson. “I—I am so sorry! I was talking in my sleep!” I fumbled frantically with the seatbelt buckle, my fingers trembling. “Thank you so much for the ride, Mr. Shaw! Have a great night, goodbye!” I shoved the door open and bolted onto the sidewalk like a fugitive. Behind me, the Maybach’s taillights vanished into the city traffic. Standing in the cool night air, I pressed both hands to my burning cheeks. What a night. 4 The following afternoon, my roommate and I were slurping down bowls of extra-spicy takeout noodles in the dining hall when my phone buzzed with an email notification. My appetite evaporated on the spot. Prospectus review: What on earth is this? The logic is convoluted, the thesis statement lacks academic merit, and the methodology is nonexistent. Rewrite it from scratch. My roommate peered over my shoulder. “Babe, did Professor Ellis just reject your senior thesis proposal for the fifth time?” I dropped my head onto the table with a dull thud. Professor Arthur Ellis was not yet thirty, brilliant, and possessed an academic tongue that could strip paint off a wall. As my misfortune would have it, he was assigned as my senior project advisor. The bad news: my proposal was dead. The worse news: the email ended with an order to report to his office immediately. I slumped in my chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Why does the universe test me like this? It’s one thing to get roasted via email, but now I have to walk into the lion’s den and get shredded in person. Save me.” My roommate took a thoughtful sip of her broth. “There’s only one way to survive this: psychological warfare.” “Explain.” “When he starts yelling at you, just picture that when people scream, their glutes involuntarily clench up super tight. Keep your focus on that mental image. It’ll dilute the fear.” I stared at her. “...You are an absolute menace.” Ten minutes later, I was standing outside his office door, clutching my laptop. “Come in.” I stepped inside. “Professor Ellis.” Arthur looked up from his desk. He was sharply dressed as always, his expression sour. “Did you read my notes? Do you understand what’s wrong with your premise? Walk me through it.” If I understood what was wrong with it, I wouldn't have written it that way in the first place. I attempted to string together some coherent academic jargon. Arthur listened for about thirty seconds before cutting me off with a dry scoff. “What do you do with your brain all day? This is fundamental research theory. I’ve mentored dozens of undergraduates, and I rarely see someone miss the mark this consistently.” Here it came—the signature verbal flaying. I kept my head down, trying to look appropriately penitent. Then my roommate’s words echoed in my head. My brain betrayed me, instantly generating a vivid, high-definition mental image of the dignified, intellectual Arthur Ellis passionately clenching his rear end while lecturing me. A snort slipped past my lips. Arthur stopped mid-sentence. His face darkened dangerously. “Are you laughing? You think your academic probation is a joke? With this attitude, do you actually expect to graduate this spring?” I am a dead woman. Just as I opened my mouth to beg for mercy, a brisk knock sounded at the door. I turned around. Standing in the doorway, framed by the afternoon light, was Sean Shaw. He paused when he saw me, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Greg’s sister?” I offered a weak, agonizingly polite grimace. “Mr. Shaw. Nice to see you again.” Arthur looked between Sean and me, his eyebrows furrowing in deep confusion. “Sean? How do you know my student?” “She’s the sister of one of my analysts,” Sean said casually. “Met her at a team dinner.” Arthur’s gaze snapped back to me, piercing and incredulous. “An analyst’s sister? Brooke, your file says you’re an only child. Since when do you have a brother?” Trapped between two towering, imposing men whose combined presence sucked all the oxygen out of the room, my survival instincts gave up. I squeezed my eyes shut and confessed everything. “I’m sorry! I paid twenty-five dollars on a resale app to pose as his sister so I could crash your company’s luxury seafood buffet! I let my gluttony win, I disgraced you, I disgraced the department, and I am an embarrassment to higher education!” A heavy silence descended upon the room. I cracked one eye open. Arthur’s temple was visibly twitching with sheer, unadulterated exasperation. “Brooke Lind! If you applied even ten percent of this rogue ingenuity to your literature review, you’d have a published paper by now!” “Yes, Professor, I know, I’m sorry,” I squeaked, stealing a cautious glance at Sean. To my shock, Sean didn't look angry at all. In fact, the faintest trace of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a fitted black button-down today, the sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, corded forearms. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he exuded an effortless, magnetic poise that felt distinctly unfair. “All right, Arthur,” Sean said smoothly, intervening on my behalf. “Let it go. I came by because I need your expertise on a data modeling project we’re rolling out.” Arthur let out an irritated breath and gestured to the chairs. The two of them shifted into a dense discussion about statistical models and consulting contracts. I stood awkwardly off to the side like a piece of decorative office furniture, uncertain whether to stay or bolt. Suddenly, Arthur changed tracks. “By the way, do you need an extra set of hands around your corporate office? Classes are winding down before finals, and this one has too much free time on her hands. Take her as an intern for two weeks. Let her see how actual industry projects operate so she stops writing pure theoretical nonsense.” I snapped my head up, pointing at my own chest. “Me?” Arthur glared at me. “Who else?” Sean let out a low, amused sound. “Works for me. Have her report to my office on Monday morning.” I stood frozen. Did you two just casually decide my fate in five seconds? Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “Get out of here, Brooke. We’ll deal with your thesis rewrite tomorrow.” “Thank you, Professor!” I clutched my laptop to my chest and fled the building before anyone could change their mind. 5 After the office door clicked shut, Arthur leaned back in his leather chair, rubbing his forehead. “Speaking of which, has your mother been on your case lately?” Sean took a seat on the opposite sofa, crossing his long legs. “She’s on yours?” Arthur’s mouth twisted in annoyance. “She set me up on three different blind dates last weekend. It’s relentless.” “Same old story,” Sean replied smoothly. “So when are you actually planning on settling down?” Sean rested his head back against the cushion, his gaze drifting toward the ceiling. “No plans. I'm in no rush.” “No one caught your eye?” “No one.” His tone was light, indifferent. “Marriage isn't on my radar for the foreseeable future.” Arthur let out a dry laugh. “Fine by me. Just don't ask me to be your best man when the day comes.” “You won’t have a choice.” Arthur fell quiet for a moment, then spoke in a more grounded, protective tone. “Listen, about Brooke... she’s actually exceptionally bright. She’s just spirited and hates sitting still. If she makes a few rookie mistakes at your firm, go easy on her.” Sean raised an eyebrow. “Defending your student already?” “She’s my responsibility.” Sean didn't answer right away. Instead, his mind drifted back to the quiet backseat of his car—the way the girl had blinked awake in the dim light, looking at him with groggy sincerity before blurting out that he was pretty. A quiet, nearly imperceptible warmth touched his eyes. “I'll keep that in mind.” 6 On Monday morning, I woke up early, dressed in my most professional business-casual attire, and arrived at the gleaming high-rise headquarters of the Shaw Group. The receptionist passed me to Sean’s executive assistant, Patrick, who led me toward the executive suite. As he walked, Patrick kept throwing me strange, subtly complex looks. I didn't understand why—until we reached our destination. My assigned desk was set up inside Sean Shaw’s corner office. Granted, the office was massive, with floor-to-ceiling panoramic views of the skyline, and my small desk was tucked away in the corner near the entrance. But still—an intern sitting inside the CEO’s private sanctuary? No wonder the assistant looked like he was trying to solve a quantum physics equation. At nine sharp, Sean walked in. “Good morning, Mr. Shaw!” I scrambled to my feet, greeting him with military precision. He gave a brief nod. “Morning.” At ten o’clock, a senior marketing director entered to deliver a quarterly performance report. The man, well into his forties and impeccably groomed, looked as though he were walking toward a firing squad. “Do you honestly believe these projected conversion figures?” Sean’s voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a scalpel. “Rework the entire deck. I want realistic numbers on my desk by eight tomorrow morning.” “Mr. Shaw, the supply chain delays—” “I asked for results, not a post-mortem. Next.” Every syllable carried the chill of sub-zero frost. Without a trace of warmth on his face, he looked less like an executive and more like an apex predator evaluating weak links. I shrank into my cubicle corner, barely daring to breathe. Ten minutes later, the director emerged, pale, sweating through his collar, and visibly shaking. Then came the second manager. Then the third. Then the fourth. Every single one entered looking confident and exited looking like their souls had been thoroughly vacuumed out through their ears. A profound realization washed over me: to survive two weeks in this room, emotional meteorology was a matter of life and death. Over the course of the morning, I discreetly observed his habits and drew up a brightly colored “Mr. Shaw Mood Barometer” on a bright yellow sticky note: Sunny: Walks to the espresso machine himself with a relaxed jawline — Safe to ask basic questions. Overcast: Flips through portfolio pages with increasing velocity — Avoid eye contact. Heavy Rain: The word "Redo" is spoken — Lethal danger; do not approach. Thunderstorm: Personally leaves his desk to hunt down a department head — Suggest playing dead. Extremely pleased with my survival guide, I slapped the note neatly onto the bottom bezel of my monitor. During lunch, Greg sneaked over to check on me. When his eyes caught the sticky note, he stared at it for three full seconds before raising a hand in silent tribute. “You are an absolute genius.” I beamed. “Pure evolutionary survival instinct.” Naturally, my brilliant system blew up in my face the very next afternoon. I returned from the breakroom humming a quiet tune, tea mug in hand, only to stop dead in my tracks. Sean was standing right in front of my desk. He was leaning slightly over the partition, one hand resting on the surface, looking down at my monitor with a quiet, intense focus. The blood in my veins turned straight to slush. He was reading the barometer. My hands shook so violently the hot tea almost sloshed over my knuckles. Hearing my footsteps, Sean turned his head. His expression was completely neutral, but his dark eyes were impossibly deep. “Brooke.” “Here, sir!” I lunged forward, slammed my mug onto the coaster, and reached frantically to peel the sticky note off the screen. “I am so sorry, Mr. Shaw! I’ll shred it immediately! I shouldn't have engaged in non-work-related activities during business hours—” “Don’t touch it.” My hand froze an inch from the paper. Sean straightened to his full height, slipped both hands into his trouser pockets, and looked down at me, a lazy arch in his brow. “Tell me. Based on your scientific analysis... what’s the weather like right now?”
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