CHAPTER ONE – AN AD IN THE PAPER #2
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.”
My mind races. “Of course. May I ask doing what, exactly?”
She leans forward, elbows on the glass table. “The client is a writer. He requires meal preparation, light housekeeping, and assistance with creative projects, which I understand to be proof reading, taking notes, and maybe a bit of research. Maybe some typing as well.”
“Of course,” I nod. “That sounds reasonable. But is there additional physical labor involved?” I ask, thinking of the ad’s physical requirements. “I was just wondering because it says an applicant has to be fit.”
She nods.
“The client prefers someone fit because the cabin is located in nature,” she says. “In the woods, up a small slope,” she clarifies, “so you’ll be able to go on walks, hikes, and maybe even participate in other outdoor sports. I’m not totally sure what recreational activities they have.”
I nod.
“Will I be meeting the client as part of the interview process?” I ask. My voice cracks a little.
She shrugs.
“We’re not sure yet because it depends on his availability.
As you can imagine, as a world-famous author, he has many demands on his time.
” She slides a sealed envelope across the table.
“But please, read this first because it sets out some of Sweet Lies’ expectations.
If you wish to proceed after reading, sign it electronically.
Do not share details with anyone. Discretion is appreciated. ”
I take the envelope. It’s heavier than I expect.
The interview ends as abruptly as it began. Ms. Reyes stands, and so do I.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. Vreeland. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Her palm is soft, but her grip is iron. Then, she’s gone.
Outside, the clouds have parted and the sun stabs through like a revelation. I stand on the sidewalk, envelope pressed to my chest, and try to decide if this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, or the bravest.
I text Simone, fingers trembling: “Got a weird job interview. You free tonight?”
The reply comes instantly: “Is it culty? If so, bring snacks.”
I laugh, the sound sharp and wild in the thin morning air.
My reflection in the glass is ghostly, but my eyes are brighter than I remember.
Five thousand a month. All I have to do is figure out what this is about.
Simone’s apartment smells like microwaved curry and the faintest whiff of incense, a combo she swears helps her “concentrate on the grind.” Her place is a shoebox, but it’s cozy, every surface jammed with thrifted finds and psychology textbooks stacked in tilting towers.
The couch is so broken-in it has actual hip divots; sitting on it feels like falling into the lap of a retired sumo wrestler.
I drop onto the cushion cross-legged, magazine in hand, the blue circle blazing out like a dare.
Sim plunks down beside me, still wearing her campus work-study shirt (“Peer Mentor: I Care, Ask Me How”).
She tosses her long blonde hair into a messy bun and pulls a six-pack of mini wine bottles from her bag.
“All right, girlfriend, spill. What’s this job that has you texting at the speed of light? ”
I pass her the magazine, open to the ad. “Don’t freak, okay?”
Her eyes take maybe half a second to go full bug. “‘Women only.’ ‘Curvy and fit.’ Under twenty-five? Kat, are you kidding me? This is either a pyramid scheme or you’re about to get kidnapped by Romanian organ harvesters.”
I groan, roll my eyes, but the words sting. “It’s sketchy, right? But they said it’s a world-famous author living in a cabin in the woods. That’s why it’s so hush-hush.” I realize how desperate that sounds even as I say it.
Simone cracks open a wine, downs half in one gulp. “Five grand a month in a rustic cabin, with no one else around? Yeah, totally normal. That’s not a horror movie at all.”
I snatch the magazine back and toss it on the coffee table, next to her copy of DSM-5 and a glitter pen. “Look, I know it’s sketchy. But this is the first interview I’ve landed in months that doesn’t involve a food service hairnet.”
Simone leans forward, blue eyes locked onto mine. “Yeah, but what do they want exactly, Kat? Did you ask them that?”
“They said some light cleaning and cooking, and helping with the book. Proofreading, reviewing drafts, most likely.” My voice is too small, defensive. “I only did one interview so far. I’ll walk if it’s creepy.”
Sim scoffs. “Sweetie, the ad already is creepy. I mean, you told me they asked for your measurements, but why do they need them? It’s so weird!”
My cheeks flush. “I know, but it was just height and weight, and not, like, cup size or anything. They said it’s because the cabin’s located on a mountain in the woods, and so they need someone reasonably fit.”
My pretty friend fixes me with a look. “Let me come with you to the next interview round then! I’ll pretend to be your lawyer, or your parole officer.”
“No way,” I say, laughing but meaning it. “They’re big on ‘discretion.’ If I drag you, they’ll immediately say no.”
We’re quiet for a second, the only sound the fizz of Simone’s wine bottle settling.
She flips the magazine shut and looks at me sideways.
“Just… please, Kat. If you get the tiniest bad vibe, bounce. I know you need the money. But I’d rather you couch-surf in my bathtub for a year than end up on a milk carton. ”
I nod. My throat is tight. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks, really. Then I can get back to real life.”
Simone shakes her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “This is real life. That’s the problem.” She raises her bottle, and I clink mine against hers. “Here’s to making money,” she says.
“To making money,” I reply, although my voice is a bit hollow.
We spend the next hour watching trash TV, shouting advice at contestants on some dating show where the prize is “a year’s rent in Manhattan.
” My buddy claims she only watches ironically, but she screams at the screen every time someone picks the model over the neuroscientist. I let myself sink into the moment, the warmth of her little apartment, the predictable drama.
For a minute, I almost forget what I’m about to do.
At nine, I stand to go, gather my stuff, and take one last look around. Simone walks me to the door, arms folded.
“Text me when you find out the client’s name. And a selfie with today’s newspaper so I know you’re alive,” she says, only half-joking.
“I promise. Cross my heart.” I draw an X over my chest.
Sim’s face softens. “Take care of yourself, Kat. The world is a hard place, but I know you can make it.”
I nod, and give her a hug, my heart in my throat.
Outside, the city is half-shrouded in fog, every streetlamp a yellow halo. I walk the block to my place, the magazine pressed under my arm, and the words “Sweet Lies” echoing in my head. The more I replay Sim’s warnings, the more my stomach knots, but under that is a hot, sharp core of want.
I want to believe this is the thing that fixes my life.
In my room, I open the envelope from the interview.
There’s a contract—three pages, tiny font, lots of legalese.
It looks like some kind of non-disclosure agreement that drones on and on for ages.
Yet, I see a number: the pay is real. The address is real.
The last page is blank except for a link online where I can sign electronically.
I sit on my bed, cross-legged, and stare at it for a long, long time. My phone is in my hand before I know it. I bring up the link, type my name, fill out the required info, and press SEND.
The reply comes instantly: “Thank you for your submission! Further instructions to follow.”
I toss the phone onto the covers and lie back, arms flung wide, waiting for the future to crash over me.
Whatever comes next, I just hope it works out.