Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
There’s a brief silence. “We’d love to have you in for an interview, if you’re interested. Would tomorrow, 9am, work?”
I gulp.
“Yes, it does—”
“Great. Our address is 921 Mariposa, Suite C. Please bring photo ID. Oh, and wear something professional but comfortable.”
“Can I ask—what exactly does the job entail?” My pulse thuds as I say it.
Another long pause. “You will meet with one of our managers, Ms. Reyes, for an interview. Details will be provided then. Thank you for your interest.” The receptionist hangs up before I can ask anything else.
I stare at my phone, thumb still pressed to the screen, replaying the call in my head. Did I just give my measurements to a stranger? I want to laugh and dry-heave at the same time. I double-check the address. It’s in one of those office parks near the edge of the city, the kind with too much glass and not enough soul. At least the opportunity seems real so far.
I flop onto my bed, stare at the ceiling, and count the hours until tomorrow. It’s barely four p.m., but I can’t focus on TV or social media. My brain hums with electric possibility and pure, unfiltered dread.
At some point, I dig through my closet, looking for something that fits the impossible dress code—professional but comfortable. Every button-down I own is coffee-stained or missing a button. I settle for a plain black sweater and the dark jeans that almost look like slacks if you squint. I put the sweater on and check myself in the mirror. My hair is a faded pastel pink, the roots showing through in a way that’s pretty. It’s definitely not “office chic” but what can I do on such late notice? I tie it back and try to look at myself as if I’m a stranger.
I look like a girl who desperately needs five thousand dollars.
I sink back on my bed and pull the magazine out again. The blue ink of my circle wobbles, like maybe my hand was already warning me. I think about what Simone would say—probably something about “late-stage capitalism” and “unbridled greed.” Or, more likely, she’d just raise an eyebrow and pour us both a drink.
I lay the magazine on the nightstand and shut my eyes, adrenaline still fizzing under my skin. This is too much.
I don’t dream, but I wake up feeling like I haven’t slept at all. The clock says 7:48 a.m. My stomach is a tight, sour knot.
I shower, scrub myself raw, and put on the black sweater. I dab on a little makeup, just enough to hide the dark circles. I stare at my reflection, trying to see myself as confident, intelligent, and capable, instead of desperate and poor.
The city is foggy, damp enough to curl my hair at the temples, but it’s okay. I get on the bus and watch the world pass by, the other passengers staring into their own private universes. I imagine they’re all on their way to normal jobs, jobs where “discretion” means not telling your coworkers about your wild weekend, not whatever I’m walking into.
At the office park, the building is so nondescript it barely registers as real. The front desk is staffed by a woman with the same smooth, flat voice as the one from the phone. She leads me to a glass-walled conference room and hands me a bottle of water. The place is spotless, minimalist, no logos or weird décor—just a silent hush, and the click of my boots on the tile.
A few minutes later, a woman walks in and introduces herself as Camille Reyes. She’s tiny, maybe five-two, but has a presence that fills the room. Her suit is so well-tailored it looks like it’s couture. She gives me a look, not exactly predatory, but as if she’s sizing up a rare fish at the market. She’s intimidating somehow, and I can feel my heartbeat race.
“Ms. Vreeland, thank you for your punctuality.” Her eyes flick down to the magazine in my tote, the blue circle visible from here. “I’m a manager here at Sweet Lies. I understand you’re interested in the personal assistant position?”
“Yes,” I say. “I saw the ad in the Century College Quarterly, and was intrigued. I’m a creative writing major, and the chance to assist an author could be valuable. Can I ask who it is?”
She shakes her head.
“Unfortunately, our client prefers to remain unnamed at this time. I hope you understand. He’s a successful, world-famous author, and we’d rather not disclose his name at this early stage of interviewing.”
She smiles with her mouth but not her eyes.
“Of course not,” I babble. “Totally understandable.”
The middle-aged woman nods.
“Perfect, then let me get started with the basics. As I said, you would be assisting a successful author. The position is exclusive, and will require you to live at the client’s residence for several weeks, if not months.”