Sawyer hung up after an irritatingly long call about ‘the disturbing direction the firm was heading’ with one of their clients. More and more of them seemed to be on the other end of her phone lately, wondering about their future with the firm since Mr. Stark started working there. The next one she got she’d be sitting Mr. Stark at her desk to take the call instead. She could always go to Mr. Skylar if she wanted to ensure they stopped hemorrhaging clients, but something told her that getting between the partners would be crossing an invisible line she’d rather not near.
To make the start of her day worse, today would be the day their new intern would be starting. Their program wasn’t as competitive as the one for paralegals, and most of the candidates were still in high school when they applied, but this year Mr. Skylar only handed her one applicant’s file. Sawyer recognized him the moment he walked in, would have even if he didn’t stick out like a poorly dressed red thumb. Morgana, give her strength.
Any sliver of hope she had that the new addition to the office would be slightly competent was dashed the second he opened his mouth and proceeded to empty out the contents of his bag on the floor. It was an interesting method of introducing himself to the office, she had to admit. She rose a brow at the items on the ground before pushing herself back from her desk and rising from her chair with a sigh. “I know who you are, Isaac, I’ve seen your file.” For a moment she wondered if Mr. Stark was the one who chose this candidate and got Mr. Skylar to submit it to her instead. Mr. Stark had an eye for incompetence.
“Once you’re done collecting your things I’ll show you around the office. I’m Sawyer Bishop, but Sawyer is fine. You will refer to Mr. Skylar and Mr. Stark as Mr. Skylar and Mr. Stark, so don’t get familiar. Mr. Stark may insist on calling him Robb; I insist that you don’t.” The stern look she gave him brooked no argument. “Any questions before we start?”
Isaac snatched the paper off the ground first, shoving it back into his pocket. The last thing he needed as for his new bosses to see that he’d been attempting to design his own machinery; his father’s name had gotten him this far--at least through the intimidating glass doors behind him--but he was sure they’d laugh to see how painfully behind he was in reinventing the wheel his father had just reinvented. The pictures weren’t done--just scribbles--and anyway, he was supposed to be putting his lawyer hat on now. Or at least, his gathering coffee for lawyers hat.
“Hi,” he said quickly, pushing out his hand to shake Sawyer’s, but the buss pass he’d used to get there was still crumpled up in his fist. He shoved that into his pocket too then tried again. “It’s really nice to meet you, Ms. Bishop. I mean, Ms. Sawyer. I mean Sawyer.” He cleared his throat. Get it together, Isaac. He laughed shakily. He had met Mr. Skylar before--years ago, at a work dinner with his father--but he had never met Mr. Stark. He imagined him the same way he imagined Mr. Skylar: tall, intimidating, a smile as fake as, well, as nothing he owned because the suits were all hand made and the desks pure mahogany and the trophies pure gold.
“No. I mean, congratulations on this job. You must have worked really hard to be in charge of all this stuff. That’s not a question though,” he realized. He snatched the last notebook off the ground, zipped up his backpack, then put his hands in his pockets as he followed Ms. Bishop--Sawyer--further into the building. “Is my file any good?” he asked. “I mean, does it say Number One pick, or we have no other options? You probably can’t answer that, huh?”
