Nadia's Point Of View
The plastic nameplate on the edge of my desk sat slightly crooked.
Nadia Corvanni - Operations Intern.
I stared at it until the letters blurred into a meaningless smudge of black ink. Intern. The sheer, unadulterated insult of that title clung to me like cheap perfume I couldn't wash off, no matter how hard I scrubbed. My long, nude acrylic nails tapped against the polished wood of the desk, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack echoing the frantic, messy beating of my own heart.
Adopted or not, I carried the Corvanni name. I grew up in the shadow of their wealth, dined at their mahogany tables, wore their designer clothes, attended their exclusive galas. Every birthday party had been catered by Michelin-starred chefs. Every school break had meant trips to European capitals or private islands.
