The first sign that this was not going to be a normal job interview should have been the waiting room. It wasn't so much a room as a cavernous, minimalist temple dedicated to the god of Absurdly Expensive Taste. The walls were the colour of a cashmere-clad thundercloud, the floor was polished concrete so shiny I could check if my desperate, last-minute haircut was even, and the only furniture was a single, backless steel bench that seemed designed to punish the spine of anyone foolish enough to sit on it. I felt like a misplaced piece of lint in a museum of modern art.
The second sign was the receptionist. He didn't so much sit at his desk as perch, a flawless specimen of blonde hair and glacial disdain named, according to the sharp-angled nameplate, Sterling. He hadn't blinked in the twenty minutes I'd been here. I was starting to suspect he was an animatronic prototype for the perfect, soulless employee.
"Chloe Chen," he finally said, his voice as warm as a spreadsheet. "Mr. Wilde will see you now." He gestured with a perfectly manicured hand towards a pair of doors that looked like they led to Narnia, if Narnia were governed by a tyrannical billionaire.
"Thanks," I said, my voice squeaking slightly. I smoothed down the skirt of my one "power" suit—a garment that had cost more than my weekly grocery budget and now felt about as powerful as a damp paper towel.
The doors swung open silently, and I stepped into the lion's den.
Alexander Wilde's office was what happened when a Bond villain and a Silicon Valley tech bro had a baby, and that baby was given an unlimited budget. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window offering a dizzying view of the city. The opposite wall was a living, breathing ecosystem of ferns and orchids, misted by an almost imperceptible haze. In the centre of this ecological and architectural marvel sat a desk the size of my first apartment.
And behind the desk sat the man himself.
Alexander Wilde was, undeniably, handsome in a way that felt like a personal insult. Sharp jawline, artfully tousled dark hair, eyes the colour of a stormy sea. He was studying a single sheet of paper on his otherwise pristine desk—my resume, I presumed—with the intensity of a general surveying a battlefield map.
He didn't look up as I approached. I cleared my throat.
Nothing.
I reached the desk. "Mr. Wilde? I'm Chloe Chen."
He held up a single finger, a gesture of such imperious command that I actually stopped mid-step. I stood there, feeling like an idiot, for a full minute. I used the time to take inventory. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my student loans. His tie was a deep, shimmering purple, held in place by a silver tie pin shaped like a tiny, snarling dragon.
Okay, drama king, I thought. Let's get this over with.
Finally, he lowered the paper and looked at me. His gaze was a physical weight. "Chloe Chen." He said my name like he was tasting a rare wine and finding it… acceptable, but surprising. "Stanford. Summa cum laude. Impressive."
"Thank you," I said, aiming for professional confidence.
"Sit," he commanded, nodding towards the single, terrifyingly sleek chair facing his desk. It was even more spine-warping than the bench outside.
I sat, perching on the edge, my posture so rigid I could have been used as a plumb line.
He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "I have read your qualifications. They are… adequate."
Adequate? I'd graduated top of my class. I'd slain myself with internships. Adequate? My inner monologue, which was far sassier than my external one, was already writing a very strongly worded Yelp review for this interview process.
"The role of my personal assistant," he began, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seemed designed for making proclamations, "is not for the faint of heart. It requires unwavering loyalty, preternatural foresight, and a tolerance for…" he paused, searching for the word, "…the unconventional."
"I'm very adaptable," I said, my smile feeling stapled to my face.
"We shall see." He picked up a pen, a heavy, silver thing that looked like it could double as a murder weapon. "The previous three assistants lasted a combined total of eleven days. One of them fled the building during her lunch break and was never seen again. We found a single, discarded pump by the elevator. A haunting monument to failure."
I blinked. "I… see."
"Do you?" He leaned forward, his stormy eyes locking onto mine. "This is not a job, Miss Chen. It is a vocation. You are not merely assisting me. You are the supporting character in the epic that is my life. The Samwise to my Frodo. The Watson to my Holmes. The… slightly less attractive but competent friend in a romantic comedy."
I was too stunned to even be offended. Was he for real?
Okay, Chloe, my inner voice chirped. Either this guy is completely unhinged, or this is the most elaborate stress test in corporate history. Play along. You need this job to avoid living off ramen for the next decade.
"I understand the importance of a strong supporting role," I said, with what I hoped was grave sincerity.
"Good." He stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge, looming over me. He smelled of sandalwood and unearned confidence. "Then let us begin the practical assessment. First question: this tie." He gestured to the purple silk monstrosity. "Appraise it."
This had to be a trick. I looked at the tie. It was… a tie. A very expensive, very purple tie. "It's… very nice?" I ventured.
He sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. "'Nice' is the adjective one uses for a moderately pleasant day of weather, Miss Chen. It is not the adjective for a tie woven from the dreams of Italian silkworms. Try again. Use metaphor. Use hyperbole. Use feeling."
I stared at him. My brain, trained in economics and data analysis, short-circuited. He wanted me to… poetically praise his neckwear? This was it. This was how I would die. Not from poverty, but from being asked to perform literary criticism on a billionaire's accessory.
And then, something in me snapped. The absurdity of the situation, the pressure of my empty bank account, the sheer, unadulterated gall of this man—it all coalesced into a wave of reckless courage. If he wanted a performance, I'd give him one.
I took a deep breath, stood up to meet his gaze (a bold move that seemed to surprise him), and in my best impression of a bad Shakespearean actor, I declaimed:
"Thy silken noose, a twilight's deep embrace,
A royal shroud for thy… esteemed face.
Its threads do whisper of a noble plight,
To frame the jaw that ushers in the light!"
I gestured grandly, nearly knocking over the terrifying chair. The room was silent, save for the gentle hum of the orchid-misting system. I had just composed, on the spot, a truly terrible couplet in iambic pentameter about his tie. I was pretty sure I'd mixed my metaphors horribly. I was definitely going to hell.
Alexander Wilde stared at me. His expression was unreadable. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to call Sterling to have me escorted from the building.
And then, a slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a warm smile. It was the smile of a collector who has just found a bizarre and fascinating new specimen.
"Iambic pentameter," he said, a note of approval in his voice. "A bold choice. The scansion was a bit off in the third line, and 'esteemed face' is weak, but… the effort was noted."
He pushed off the desk and walked back to his chair. "The position is yours, Miss Chen. You will report to Sterling for your onboarding. Your first task will be to source a replacement for my coffee thermometer. The current one is inaccurate by half a degree. A travesty."
I stood there, rooted to the spot. I had gotten the job. By reciting bad poetry.
"That will be all," he said, already turning his attention to a massive, futuristic monitor that had risen from his desk. "And Miss Chen?"
"Yes, Mr. Wilde?"
"Welcome to the chaos." He didn't look back. "Try not to leave any shoes behind."
I walked out of the office in a daze. Sterling, the android receptionist, handed me a tablet thicker than my thumb without a word. I took it, my mind reeling.
I had a job. A ridiculously high-paying job. My student loans were as good as gone.
As the elevator doors closed, I leaned against the wall and finally let out the breath I'd been holding. I was now the personal assistant to a man who considered himself the protagonist of an epic novel.
What in the actual hell have I gotten myself into? my inner voice asked, a question that echoed in the sterile silence of the descending elevator.
It was a very, very good question.