“No, no, it’s… it’s not that.” I stare at the email, words blurring. “It’s Vasiliev Holdings. The Manhattan job. The insane salary one.”
She laughs. “Shut up. You’re kidding. That can’t be real. When did you even go for the interview?”
I shake my head, even though she can’t see. “I didn’t. I just sent my résumé. I never even spoke to a real person. I thought it was one of those black hole jobs, you know? The kind you never hear back from.”
Frankie whistles low. “That is… that is weird, Zee. Are you sure it’s not a scam? Did you check the links? Did you Google them?”
“I checked. It’s real. They have a website, LinkedIn, everything. It’s all there. And the offer letter has a signature. A real signature. It says I’m supposed to start in two days.”
She’s quiet, then, “Who picks someone without an interview? That’s not even legal, is it? Maybe they mixed you up with someone else. Or maybe—oh my god, do you think they justreallyliked your cover letter?”
I laugh, high and shaky, because the only alternative is to cry. “Frankie, my cover letter was just me begging for a job in corporate language. Maybe they’re desperate. Or maybe it’s a mistake and they’ll realize tomorrow and take it all back.”
“Vasiliev Holdings, huh?” she says, and I can hear her typing in the background. “Jesus, Zee, this is one of those billionaire companies. Like, glass towers and private jets.”
I bite my lip, still half-waiting for the catch. “Maybe it’s a typo. Maybe they meant to hire someone else and I just got lucky.” I look up my Linkedin to see what they saw there. I don’t even have a profile picture. So unprofessional. I can only wonder what they’re thinking about me.
Frankie snorts. “Who cares? You got the offer in writing. Print it, sign it, send it back before they change their minds.”
“Should I accept? I mean—what if it’s a mistake?”
“You need a job. They need an assistant. It’s fate, babe. Take the money and run.”
I nod, still staring at the screen. My hands finally stop shaking as I download the contract and read the terms again, slow and careful. It’s real. It’s happening.
And for the first time in a long time, I think maybe—just maybe—my luck has finally changed.
By the time I reach the address—an entire block of polished stone and glass gleaming in the late-morning sun—I’m convinced there’s been a mistake. The building soars above the street, all sleek lines and brushed steel, the kind of place that makes you walk a little straighter just to step inside. The logo over the revolving doors is etched in probably real gold, catching the light, and the lobby is a cathedral of marble, quiet and cool and impossibly expensive.
My scuffed shoes squeak on the floor as I cross to the security desk. A man in a crisp suit greets me by name before I can even say hello. “Ms. DeLaurentis?”
“Yes, how did you know it was me?” I say.You don’t even know what I look like and hired me,I want to say but of course don’t.
“We were expecting you,” he says, smiling, “And you’re right on time. You’ll find that we really emphasize always being on time. Welcome to Vasiliev Holdings. Please take this visitor badge.” He nods at another smiling woman behind the reception desk, who offers me a bottled water and a warm, practiced smile.
“Right this way, Ms. DeLaurentis,” she says. “We’ve been expecting you. Congratulations on the position.”
She leads me through the lobby, past a wall of living greenery and an enormous chandelier that looks like a modern art installation, into a bank of whisper-quiet elevators. My nerves flutter, but everyone seems calm, efficient—like it’s not unusual to hire someone sight unseen.
We step out onto the 42nd floor, where sunlight pours through floor-to-ceiling windows and the city stretches out beneath us. The air smells faintly of fresh coffee and something floral. Desks are spaced neatly apart, each one with a view, each one equipped with a brand-new computer and a stack of elegant stationery embossed with the company’s logo.
The receptionist shows me to my desk—an actual desk, not a cubicle, with drawers and a soft chair and a fresh bouquet of flowers waiting for me. My name is already printed on a little glass plaque.
A few heads turn as I sit down. A man with ginger hair and a mischievous smile leans over the divider, offering his hand.“Hey, you must be the new PA. I’m Owen, accounts. Welcome to the madhouse.”
A woman with dark braids and bright pink lipstick waves from across the aisle. “Zatanna, right? I’m Lina, HR. You landed on your feet here, girl. The coffee’s free, the view’s amazing, and if you ever need to hide from upper management, the pantry is your friend.”
I laugh, the tension in my chest easing. I never expected warmth from a place this glossy, but the welcome is genuine, and for the first time in weeks I feel…safe. I open my email and there’s a message waiting:Welcome aboard. Orientation at noon. You’re in good hands.
I lean back, exhaling slow. Maybe this really is happening. Maybe, after everything, I finally landed somewhere I can belong.
For the rest of the morning, I can’t escape the whispered mentions ofthe boss. Everyone says it differently—sometimes with awe, sometimes with nerves. Sometimes with an anxious laugh that trails off into nothing. His name is everywhere, but his presence is nowhere. It makes my skin prickle in anticipation and unease.
By noon, my nerves are shredded and I need coffee more than air. The pantry is tucked behind a frosted glass door, flooded with sunlight and filled with the scent of espresso and vanilla. I’m so busy trying to figure out the fancy machine—definitely not designed for people like me—that I don’t notice anyone else walk in.
Well, until I turn, cup in hand, and collide with a wall of muscle and expensive cologne.
I stagger, hot coffee sloshing dangerously close to the edge, and look up…and up again.
