The smiling secretary led Catherine to Alan's office.

"Go on in, he's expecting you," the secretary said.

​​

Catherine knocked quietly, and the door swung open. Alan sat behind a desk piled with paperwork. A small modernist metal sculpture like the ones in his apartment sat in the corner of the room next to a small potted palm.

"Welcome," he said, smiling at her over the top of his computer. "Let me finish this email, and then we'll get started."

She took a chair at the desk and looked around the room as he tapped away at his keyboard. The office was much smaller than she remembered it. Back when she used to visit her dad at work, she'd always run to Alan's office to give him a drawing she'd made at school, or when she got older, to say hi. She looked around the room, marveling that her memories were so different from reality.

"Looks a bit different, doesn't it?" Alan asked.

"A bit," she admitted.

"Things changed when your uncle took over," he said with a shrug. "I used to have a corner office, and now I'm here."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"It's not a big deal," he replied. "At least, it's not as bad as the other changes he made around here."

She nodded sadly, "I know. Anyway, Mr. Jones said you could explain the internship program to me."

Alan nodded, "I can, but you're in something of an interesting position. Sure, you're an intern, but you're also a shareholder in the company, and you're married to the majority shareholder. That makes your role here a little more complicated."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Well, normally, we assign our interns to work in specific departments," Alan replied. "Based on their specialty at uni, we find a department that best fits their skills and interests. However, you haven't studied business at all. Additionally, you're one of the shareholders at the company."

"I don't want special treatment," she answered quickly. "I know I'm a shareholder, but I want to learn how everything works."

"Of course you do," Alan said. "But it doesn't make sense to have you specialize in something like accounting or sales. We need to take a broader view of your internship. That way, you'll be able to assume your duties as a shareholder."

"That sounds good to me," she said. "Where do we begin?"

Alan sighed and reached for a file on his desk, "We can begin with the recent situation the company is in. We've just received a massive investment from the Times Corporation and—"

"I'm sorry, what corporation?" she interrupted.

"The Times Corporation," Alan replied. "Why?"

She thought about the mysterious scholarship Sophia had received. The Dean had told her it was funded by the Times Corporation. Though she'd googled the company, she hadn't been able to find Sean's name anywhere in association with the corporation. But this proved he was behind the scholarship. He had just invested in Feather Textile in exchange for her hand in marriage. No other company would invest money in Feather Textiles—everyone was expecting it to fail—so it had to be him.

"Catherine?" Alan asked. "Is everything okay?"

"Sorry," she replied. "I just thought of something."

"Please try to focus," he said. "I have a meeting in an hour, and there's a lot I need to explain to you beforehand."

"Was the investment enough to keep the company running?" she asked.

"It was," he replied. "But it came with conditions. If the company hasn't reached a billion in profits by the end of the year, Times Corporation will liquidate us completely."

Catherine stared at Alan in shock. Sean would liquidate her father's company if it didn't make a billion in profits? He truly was ruthless.

"No," she said. "He can't do that!"

"I know it's hard to hear," Alan said with a sigh. "But you have to think as Sean does. He's a great businessman after all, and great businessmen don't achieve greatness by pouring money into failing businesses."

"Hmm," she said. "What are the chances we can meet that profit goal?"

"They're not great," Alan said. "Right now, our sales are down, and our suppliers have started charging us extra. Worse, many have shut down our lines of credit. In order to get anything made, we have to pay for it before the factories even begin work. We can hardly afford to make new products, and we have a huge backlog of products that never sold."

"I see," she said. "Can we switch to new suppliers?"

"We've been blackballed," Alan said. "No one will work with us on credit anymore."

"And what's wrong with the clothing?" she asked. "Why aren't people buying?"

"Based on our market research, the clothing is overpriced," Alan replied. "And then there's the problem with style. We can't keep up with our competitors, and they've taken all of our best designers."

He handed her the file, and she thumbed through it quickly. Pages of dense reports with statistics and prices, graphs, and charts made her head spin.

"That should tell you everything you need to know for now," he said. "Study the file and let me know if you have any questions, okay?"

"Is there anything else I should do?" she asked. "Any projects I should start on?"

"Not yet," Alan answered with a wry smile. "Your biggest project is saving this company—and that's not normally the kind of thing we ask our interns to do."

"Okay," she said. "Thanks."

"My secretary will show you to your office," Alan said. "I'm afraid it's even smaller than mine, but—"

"That's alright," she said. "If I ever have a larger office, I want to earn it."

He smiled approvingly, and she stood and left his office. Another secretary waited by the door. She smiled sympathetically, and Catherine followed her down a long carpeted hallway, past a large room filled with cubicles and into a small windowless office.

"Here are your email credentials and computer login information," the secretary said. "Good luck."

Catherine sat down in the creaky desk chair and fired up the computer. While she waited for it to load, she started to browse the file. After a few minutes, her head spun. She studied the spreadsheets until the red and black numbers began to swim before her eyes. No matter how she tried, she couldn't make sense of the information. Frustrated, she flipped past the spreadsheets to the market research reports.

She read page after page, feeling more and more discouraged. According to the report, no one liked the clothing at all. The fluorescent bulb over her desk flickered, and her eyes ached. She dropped the files on her desk and stretched her arms over her head—it had only been a few hours, and she was exhausted.

"What am I doing here?" she asked aloud.

Miserable and tired, she let her head fall onto the top of her desk. She closed her eyes and listened to the dismal buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the soft hum of the computer. I'm sorry, Dad, she thought. But I just can't do it.