Chapter 4
ZATANNA
I wake up with my stomach in knots and a sour taste in my mouth. It’s not hunger—though I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s cup noodles—but dread. The kind that digs its claws in and doesn’t let go.
One day left. Twenty-four hours before I’m officially homeless.
I stare up at the stained ceiling, listening to the city rattle by outside my grimy window. My phone lights up with a notification: another text from my landlord. The words barely register anymore. It’s just a countdown clock ticking louder and louder.
I drag myself out of bed, every movement slow and heavy.
I haven’t slept much. Most of the night was spent scrolling through roommate ads on my cracked phone, each one more hopeless than the last. Guys with mugshots in their profile photos.
“Creative types” who want to pay rent in “trade.” A woman named Skylar who said her last roommate “left without saying goodbye” and posted five blurry pictures of a bathroom covered in what I hope was red wine.
I can’t do it. I can’t move in with strangers who sell weed out of the kitchen, or think showering is optional. And the alternative—the real alternative—makes my skin crawl.
I sit at the wobbly table in my kitchen, shoving eviction notices and utility bills aside, and stare at my phone again. My mother’s number is right at the top of my contacts, the only one starred. I haven’t called her in months. Not since the last fight.
If you can’t make it in the city, come home. Your father will find you a job at the plant. This voice acting nonsense… It’s not real work. It’s not decent.
Her words echo in my head. “Not decent.” If she ever found out what I really do—the stories I record, the men and women who pay to hear my voice in the dark—she’d probably have a heart attack on the spot.
Or worse, she’d tell my father. He always said a girl’s reputation was her “only currency.” He controlled every penny, and every hour of my day until the moment I escaped.
I can still picture his face, red and twisted with rage the last time he raised his hand to me. The humiliation of begging for a ride to the bus station. The sick thrill of freedom, cut through with terror, as I rode into Manhattan with nothing but a backpack and a head full of impossible dreams.
I promised myself I’d never go back. Never crawl home a failure.
But I’m out of options.
I try to pull myself together, wash my face at the tiny sink, brush my teeth with the last squeeze of toothpaste.
My reflection in the cracked mirror looks tired, haunted.
My eyes are red, cheeks hollow. A stranger stares back at me—a girl who never wanted this life, but couldn’t seem to find another.
My phone buzzes again: another alert from the job site. I scroll through the listings, but it’s the same dead ends. Internships with no pay. Gigs that would barely cover a subway pass. “Flexible opportunities for self-starters” which is, in translation, commission only.
There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter.
I riffle through it, hands shaking. There are past-due notices, bank statements, and a letter from a college friend I haven’t talked to in years.
I pause on that one, running my thumb over the envelope, wishing for the hundredth time that things had turned out differently.
I’d wanted to be an actress. Onstage, under lights.
I wanted people to clap for me, to remember my name.
That dream faded fast in the city—burned away by rent and bills and the sharp-edged reality of what it means to survive alone.
The only place my voice commands any attention now is in a sound booth, whispering fantasies for strangers I’ll never meet.
Sometimes, when I’m recording, I pretend they’re listening because they like me. Because I’m special, talented, or beautiful. Not just a voice for hire, a pretty sound to fill the silence.
A single tear escapes, tracks down my cheek. I wipe it away and grit my teeth.
No more crying. No one’s coming to save you, Zee.
I spend the morning firing off applications to anything I can find. Admin jobs. Call centers. Even a temp position at a funeral home. I take a breath and write to a cousin I barely know, asking if she needs a roommate. I watch the cursor blink and blink and finally hit send.
By noon, I still haven’t eaten. My last five dollars are in my pocket. I can’t bring myself to call my parents. I can already imagine my mother’s voice.“I told you so. I always told you so.”
I want to scream.
Instead, I go back to the job boards. One new message sits in my inbox—Vasiliev Holdings LLC:
I blink. Once. Twice. My brain doesn’t process it.
I sit up, hair falling into my face. My hands shake as I swipe open the email, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the noise of the city.
Dear Ms. Zatanna DeLaurentis,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the position of Personal Assistant to the CEO of Vasiliev Holdings LLC. Please see the attached document for details regarding your compensation, benefits, and start date. Kindly confirm your acceptance at your earliest convenience.
Congratulations, and welcome to Vasiliev Holdings.
I stare at the words. Reread them. I check the sender’s address, convinced it’s a scam. But it’s official. There’s an offer letter attached. My name. The job title. The salary.
I sit there, frozen, for what feels like ten minutes, before I even remember to breathe.
Finally, I grab my phone and dial Frankie, my best friend since high school. She picks up on the third ring, voice as bright and sharp as ever.
“Zee? Everything okay?”
I don’t bother with hello. “Frankie. I got a job.”
Silence, then a whoop so loud I have to pull the phone away. “No way! Tell me everything! Did you finally get the gig at that tech start-up? Or—wait, did Jake actually give you a raise?”
“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 just really liked 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 of the 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.
He towers over me, at least a foot taller, broad shoulders wrapped in a tailored suit that fits like it was sewn onto him.
Dark hair that’s quickly growing silver in an almost perfect way, just messy enough to look accidental, a sharp jaw dusted with stubble.
Eyes as cold and clear as winter sky, a mouth made for giving orders or starting wars.
There’s something mythic about him—like he stepped out of marble, or thunder, or some old story where men are kings and gods.
My heart hammers against my ribs. It takes all my willpower not to stare. He has to be late thirties, maybe early forties, but there’s nothing soft or fading about him. He wears power like a second skin.
“Oh—sorry!” I blurt, my voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t see—”
He glances at me, icy blue gaze sweeping down with the barest flicker of annoyance.
For a moment I think he’s going to say something, maybe even smile.
But his mouth is set, unreadable. He doesn’t say a word.
He just steps around me, grabs his own mug, and pours coffee with the easy grace of a man who expects the world to get out of his way.
Heat floods my face. I want to shrink into the floor. I murmur another apology, but he’s already gone, striding from the room without a backward glance.
I stand there, breathless, heart pounding, coffee trembling in my hand. My skin prickles with the aftershock of pure, physical attraction. The kind that makes your mouth go dry and your thoughts scatter. I’ve never felt so invisible or so…charged.
Everyone was right though. The boss is impossible to ignore—even when he’s doing his best to pretend you don’t exist.