Chapter 56
Emily's POV
The internship contract sat on my desk like a binding treaty, three pages of legal language that translated to one simple fact: I'd officially crossed over into Alex Monroe's world.
Not as a waitress. Not as a student doing busy work for resume padding. As an actual employee with a real salary and a single-bedroom apartment in a building nicer than anywhere I'd ever lived, courtesy of what Alex called "standard employee housing benefits" but what I knew was way beyond standard for a summer intern.
I signed it two days after finals ended, sitting in the smallest conference room at The Echelon House while Alex reviewed the terms with that clinical precision he applied to everything business-related. When I handed the pen back to him he didn't smile or congratulate me. He just nodded once and said we'd start Monday at eight sharp.
Somehow that was more reassuring than any performative enthusiasm would've been. It meant he was taking this seriously, taking me seriously. Not as some charity case or potential romantic conquest but as someone whose skills he actually needed.
Monday morning came fast. I showed up fifteen minutes early wearing the one blazer I owned—navy, slightly too big in the shoulders but professional enough—and found Alex already in his office, shirt sleeves rolled up, reviewing what looked like a month's worth of financial statements spread across his desk in organized chaos. He glanced up when I knocked, gestured for me to come in, and before I'd even finished my good-morning greeting he was talking, words coming rapid-fire like he'd been storing them up since dawn.
"I need you to understand something before we start," he said, and his tone was sharper than I'd heard it before, stripped of the casual friendliness he'd used during our coffee shop meetings. "I'm not paying you intern wages. You're getting full employee salary, full housing benefits, everything a regular staff member would get. That's not generosity. That's investment, which means I have expectations that go way beyond making copies and answering phones."
I set my bag down carefully, keeping my expression neutral even though my heart rate had kicked up a notch. "Okay."
"We're not running practice drills here. This restaurant is hemorrhaging money, the board wants me out, and we have maybe nine months before they force a sale or shut us down completely. Every decision we make matters. Every mistake costs us. You're not here to learn. You're here to help me save this place, and if we fail, we both go down with it. You understand what I'm saying?"
The weight of it settled over me like a physical thing, heavy and real and honestly kind of exhilarating in a way I hadn't expected.
This wasn't some sanitized classroom case study where you could analyze problems from a safe distance and present theoretical solutions that might work in an ideal world. This was actual high-stakes business, the kind where your choices had immediate consequences and there was no professor to fall back on if you got it wrong.
I met his eyes and said, "I understand."
"Good." He straightened, some of the intensity easing out of his posture. "Then let's get to work."
The first week was brutal. Alex handed me access to every financial record The Echelon House had generated in the past eighteen months, told me to identify patterns and inefficiencies, and then disappeared into back-to-back meetings with suppliers and staff while I drowned in spreadsheets trying to make sense of a business model that seemed designed to lose money as efficiently as possible.
The numbers told a story I'd expected but was still depressing to see confirmed: labor costs were astronomical because the kitchen was overstaffed with people who had tenure but not necessarily skill, food waste was running at nearly thirty percent because nobody was tracking inventory properly, and the restaurant was trying to maintain a level of luxury service that their current customer base didn't actually want or couldn't afford, which meant they were spending a fortune on amenities that generated zero return.
I worked through lunch most days, stayed late reviewing supplier contracts, and by Friday evening I had a preliminary report that was probably too blunt but at least had the virtue of being honest. Alex read it in silence, his expression unreadable, and when he finally looked up he said, "This is going to piss off a lot of people."
"Probably," I agreed. "But you asked for analysis, not diplomacy."
"Fair enough." He leaned back in his chair, studying me with that assessing look I was starting to recognize as his default mode when he was deciding whether to trust someone's judgment. "How fast can you turn this into an implementation plan?"
"Give me the weekend. I'll have something by Monday morning."
He nodded slowly. "You're really not afraid of this, are you?"
"Of what?"
"Failure. The stakes. Taking on more responsibility than any rational person would accept for a summer internship." He said it without judgment, more like he was trying to figure out what made me tick, and I had to resist the urge to deflect or make some self-deprecating joke because the truth was he'd hit on something I didn't entirely understand about myself.
"I'm terrified," I said finally. "I'm just more scared of not trying than I am of failing."
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of recognition or maybe respect. "Yeah. I get that."