The Intern Who Reported the Boss, Not Knowing the Boss Signs Her Salary Chapter 13

The Intern Who Reported the Boss, Not Knowing the Boss Signs Her Salary Chapter 13

The days kept coming. The company locked fully back onto its 

rails. 

Derek was a natural leader, steady, grounded, with a quiet 

authority that people respected. 

Under his direction, Apex’s projects flourished. The Cloudveil 

and the Southside Cultural Arts Center both turned out 

beautifully, earning the firm serious acclaim across the 

industry. 

As for me, I slipped comfortably back into my “idle” role. 

I kept my desk in the farthest corner of the design department. This time, nobody mistook me for some washed–up senior employee coasting toward retirement. 

Everyone who passed me said “Ms. Whitfield” with genuine deference. 

The younger designers started gravitating over with their questions and sketches, and I never held back what I knew. Watching their faces light up when something clicked? That gave me more satisfaction than signing a ten–million–dollar 

contract. 

I refilled my windowsill with succulents. 

In the afternoons, I brewed a pot of herbal rose tea, kept a few crackers on hand, and paged through the latest design journals at my leisure. 

I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone anymore. 

This company was my best work. And I was its quiet, 

unshakable foundation. 

One afternoon, a new batch of interns arrived, young, striking, buzzing with the same energy Brielle had walked in with once. 

The HR manager guided them around the office and paused deliberately at my corner. 

“This is Sloane Whitfield. Our founder.” 

Their eyes went wide. They glanced at each other, a little unsure, then dipped their heads in a flurry of greetings. “Ms. 

Whitfield!” 

I smiled and nodded. “Welcome.” 

The boldest of the group, eyeing my succulents and tea set, couldn’t help herself. “Ms. Whitfield… is it really okay to keep plants and snacks at our desks?” 

Before I could answer, a senior designer nearby grinned and jumped in. “Around here, if you nail your work, you can throw a party at your desk. That’s the rule Ms. Whitfield gave us.” 

A warm ripple of laughter went through the office. 

The interns visibly relaxed, their faces bright with 

anticipation. 

I looked at them and saw a reflection from more than a decade 

ago. That same hunger. That same drive to dive headfirst into this industry, chasing a dream of making something that 

mattered. 

Ten years of grinding. The fire never went cold. After everything, I was still in love with what I did. 

The afternoon sun settled in, golden and good. 

I steeped a cup of fresh rose tea, the fragrance drifting through 

the air around me. 

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. 

[Sloane, I was wrong.] 

No signature. I knew who it was. Colton. Maybe prison had 

finally given him time to reflect. 

I looked at the message, felt absolutely zero pull to respond, 

and hit delete. 

Some mistakes can be forgiven. 

But some lines, once crossed, don’t come with a way back. 

I lifted my gaze to the window. The sky was a wide, 

cloud–streaked blue. 

A young designer in a white button–down approached my 

desk, blueprints in hand, visibly nervous. “Ms. Whitfield? Do you have a minute? There’s something I’d love your take 

on…” 

I smiled, set my phone aside, and reached for the drawings. “Of course. Let’s take a look.” 

Sunlight poured through the glass and landed warm and easy 

across my shoulders. 

This. This was the life I wanted. 

I was the founder of Apex. The chairwoman who held the reins. 

But I was also Sloane Whitfield, a woman who could enjoy sunshine, a cup of tea, and the quiet pleasure of good design. 

On my own terms. 

I lifted my craft beer toward the glittering city below. 

Toward my own reflection in the glass, I raised it in a gentle, private toast. 

To this maddening, magnificent life. And to the woman who 

never stopped sailing through every storm. Me.