Love Lost to an Intern

I felt the tension in the conference room before Richard Chen even opened his mouth. The tech mogul's reputation for demanding perfection preceded him, and today was no exception. His sharp eyes scanned the presentation materials with the precision of a surgeon, his expression growing increasingly grim with each passing second.

"The scheduling conflicts alone could cost us millions," Richard said, his voice dangerously quiet as he pointed to the tablet in front of him. "Three separate meetings with conflicting times. Two missed calls from potential investors. And this—" he tapped the screen with more force than necessary, "—a dinner reservation for six people at a restaurant that seats parties of eight maximum."

I watched Drew shift uncomfortably beside me. Richard's criticism was directed at the young woman standing nervously at the edge of the table—Yasmin Watson, our newest intern. Her role was to coordinate logistics for this important client meeting, and clearly, she'd made significant errors.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chen," Yasmin's voice trembled slightly. "I'll fix everything immediately."

But before Richard could respond, Drew moved forward, placing himself almost physically between them.

"Richard, these are minor oversights that can be easily corrected," Drew said, his tone smooth and reassuring. "Let me personally handle the rescheduling. I'll ensure nothing like this happens again."

I studied my husband's face carefully. In our years together, I'd learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression—the slight tightening around his eyes when he was concerned, the way his jaw relaxed when he felt in control. But what struck me now was how quickly he'd stepped in to shield Yasmin from Richard's wrath.

"Minor oversights?" Richard raised an eyebrow. "In my world, precision is everything."

"Of course," Drew nodded, "and I take full responsibility for any inconveniences caused today."

Full responsibility? I watched as Drew redirected Richard's anger toward himself, absorbing the client's frustration while Yasmin stood silently behind him, now largely forgotten by everyone in the room.

---

Three days later, I sat at the head of the conference table for our weekly executive briefing. The room hummed with the usual energy—reports on quarterly projections, updates on new acquisitions, and discussions about upcoming projects.

"And how is our newest team member settling in?" I asked casually, flipping to the section on personnel updates. "Ms. Watson has been with us for nearly two months now."

The room fell into an unexpected silence. I looked up to find Drew's eyes fixed on his tablet, his fingers tapping against the glass surface with unnecessary force.

"Yasmin is adjusting well," he finally said, not meeting my gaze. "She's showing promise in several areas."

"Specifically?" I pressed gently.

Drew's posture stiffened slightly. "Her organizational skills are... developing. And she has a good eye for detail when properly focused."

I noticed how his shoulders tensed as he spoke, how his usual direct eye contact shifted to a point just over my left shoulder. In all our years together, both personally and professionally, Drew had never been evasive with me about company matters.

"And how is she working with the marketing team?" I continued, watching him carefully.

"She's primarily supporting my office at this time," Drew replied, his tone suddenly clipped. "I'll be evaluating her performance more closely over the next few weeks."

More closely? That was unusual phrasing for an intern's evaluation. I made a mental note of his defensive posture, the way his fingers continued their restless tapping against his tablet.

---

That evening, as I scrolled through my social media feeds, a notification caught my attention. Yasmin had posted something on Instagram—a photo that made me pause mid-swipe.

There it was: a gleaming Leica S3 camera with a rare specialty lens mounted on it. The equipment looked pristine, professionally displayed against a neutral backdrop that highlighted its sleek design.

"Dreams do come true when you work hard," read the caption beneath it. "Some people believe in you even when you don't believe in yourself. #blessed #newbeginnings"

I zoomed in on the image, recognizing the distinctive red marking on the lens barrel. I'd seen that particular model at the photography expo last year—a limited-edition piece that retailed for approximately $300,000.

My finger hovered over the screen as I calculated the implications. An intern secretary receiving a $300,000 photography lens? As an employee appreciation gift? Or something more?

I set my phone down carefully on the nightstand, my mind racing with possibilities, none of which reflected well on my husband or our marriage.

Drew's voice called from the bathroom, asking if I wanted to review the quarterly reports before bed. I replied automatically, my voice steady despite the questions swirling in my mind.

"Yes, I'll be right there," I answered, picking up my tablet as I prepared to join him.

But my thoughts remained fixed on that camera—and what it might mean for us both.