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)
“Ms. Vreeland?” the receptionist says, her vowels crisp enough to cut glass.
“Yes?” My voice is an octave lower than last time I was here. I clear my throat.
She gestures to a single orange chair by the far window. “Please wait. Ms. Reyes will see you momentarily.”
I drop into the chair and immediately want to evaporate. My thighs spill over the seat. The city outside reflects off the glass, making it look like I’m sitting in the middle of a commercial. I rest my tote in my lap, clutching it like a life vest.
The silence is surgical. Even my breath feels too loud. I check my phone—no new texts, of course—and scroll through the NDA again, just in case I missed a clause about something important. The language is dense, but the terms are clear: confidentiality is everything. Also, the salary is very, very real. Five grand a month, direct deposit.
“Ms. Vreeland?” The voice snaps me upright. Camille Reyes glides into the lobby again, all five-two of her wrapped in a grey suit. Her dark hair is pulled into a bun that lifts her features. She carries a slim tablet and a pen that costs more than my rent.
She looks at me, and smiles.
“Thank you for your punctuality,” she says. “If you’ll just follow me.”
“Of course,” I say, rising and instantly wishing I hadn’t, because standing next to Camille, I look like I was grown in a different climate. She is small and severe and moves like she’s always three steps ahead of everyone else, whereas I’m a lumbering giant by comparison.
We pass through a corridor lined with frosted glass offices, every single one empty or populated by people in business casual, looking very important.
Camille stops at a glass-walled conference room and gestures me inside. “Please, have a seat.”
The table is clear but for a single tablet and a bottle of premium water. The chair is better than any chair I’ve sat in, and I sink into it gratefully. I glance at my reflection in the glass—my hair is already untangling from its half-bun, little pieces sticking out like antennae. I try to smooth them, then realize it’s hopeless.
Camille sits across from me, opens the tablet, and taps it a few times. “Thank you for completing the NDA,” she says. “I appreciate your responsiveness, and of course, that means we can proceed to the next phase. As I said, the client demands absolute discretion, making it difficult even to interview sometimes.”
I nod, suddenly thirsty. I open the water bottle and take a sip.
“Do you have any questions about the position?” Camille asks, eyes never leaving the screen.
“Yes,” I say, because if there’s ever a time to ask, it’s now. “The ad said ‘personal assistant,’ but I just want to make sure. Is this, like, a… companionship thing? Or just professional?” My face is flaming, and I instantly feel stupid.
Camille lifts her eyes, but her expression is smooth and unbothered. “The position is professional, of course. But the client is particular about aesthetics as a working artist, and you were selected for your fit with those preferences.”
I almost laugh. “You mean because I look like a failed e-girl?”
“On the contrary,” Camille says, and this time there’s the faintest hint of a smile. “You present as vibrant, approachable, and youthful. The client finds that appealing. However, there are some conditions before we proceed.”
I brace myself.
She taps the screen again. “First: your hair. We believe that your natural color suits you best, and prefer that you return to it. You’re a blonde, no? We can recommend a salon, or reimburse costs.”
I look down at my hands. My hair is my one visible act of rebellion, and it’s about to get erased for a paycheck. “Is that negotiable?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Camille shakes her head, not unkindly. “It is not.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek. “Yes, I’m a natural blonde and I can go back.”
“Excellent. Thank you. Second,” she continues, “we’ll need to take some photos once your hair is blonde again.”
I pause.
“But why?”
She shrugs.
“All employers do this. For security purposes, so that we have your face in the system, that kind of thing.”
I take a long drink of water, stalling for time.
Camille watches me, hands folded on the table, posture flawless. “Is this a problem?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I just want to know what I’m getting into.”
She closes the tablet and leans in, elbows on the glass. “You’re getting into a very lucrative arrangement, Ms. Vreeland. The client is a literary figure of international renown, and if you’re hired, you will be very well compensated. If not, there are many applicants waiting.”
The power dynamic is suddenly so clear, it makes my skin hot.
I force a smile. “Sure, photos,” I say, and I mean it. Or at least, I want to. “For security purposes.”