Chapter 3
Too fake, too needy, and another one so blisteringly submissive I’d been tempted to check her for a pulse.
None of the candidates for the EPA position are suitable; another morning of my incredibly valuable time is unrecoverable.
Fuck! The job description and list of clear instructions are sent to vetted agencies first. They can whittle away the hopeful, stars-in-their-eyes engagement-ring seekers and the blatant gold diggers into a list of applicants who possess at least some of the requested attributes.
A process invented to streamline every new hire.
Trystan Hynd, my EA and friend from boarding school, came up with the idea one night after too many Macallan’s.
“Why don’t you just advertise for an assistant to be available when you want to fuck?” This question had come to light when we’d been nine, maybe ten glasses down.
“Because HR would disapprove.” HR would do more than disapprove; they’d flip their fucking lid. A sex secretary. How fucking cliché.
“They don’t need to know. Draw up a contract, get legal to go over it, and keep it as an executive hire. Out of the parameters of HR.”
For a drunk guy slurring his words, his idea was fucking fantastic.
A sex secretary, only Legal would baulk at that.
Executive Personal Assistant has a much more professional intonation.
I already have a PA and an EA, why not add an EPA to my senior executive family?
And so, the idea developed. It took shape over months of position rewrites and legal advice, blossoming into the current position description and attached non-disclosure agreement.
The position had been filled and vacated many times because of incompatibility issues that arose after the selection process, or misdemeanors resulting in contract termination.
Each time an EPA left, the contract was tweaked, and by now you would think that a suitable candidate would be easy to find, and more importantly, in it for the long haul.
You couldn’t be more wrong. At twenty-nine, I’m one of the youngest CEOs of a media network under the billion-dollar Mercer Group umbrella.
The appointment remains under wraps publicly.
A somewhat reluctant trial began earlier this year by Michael Mercer, who took the Mercer Group reins from his father, Magnus.
Mercer Media is my legacy, with the mining arm being all my brother, Mitchel.
Between Mitchel and I, we have a sister, Monica, who, simply by being born female, would be the wife of a suitable member of an elite social club, and not a corporate pawn, according to long-held misogynistic beliefs.
Nic, as she likes to be known, because aliterative names is fucking stupid and even more of a trust fund cliché, works in the arts as a curator.
The optics of a Mercer studying a fine arts degree is viewed more as a quirk and nothing more, because our family pours millions of dollars into charities funding elite college buildings and business connections.
Any wagging tongues ready to spill disapproval and ruinous hate were silenced quickly.
The Mercer name was not to be questioned or criticized, ever.
Alice Mercer, our mother, helmed a benefit gala for homeless youth, and more recently a pediatric leukemia foundation, but only because Monica’s daughter was diagnosed when she was three.
To the world, we are a philanthropic family bonded by love and a thirst for sound business practices.
Once the public mask is removed, we are a messy blend of disloyalty, infidelity, addiction, and callous disinterest. All disgraceful traits woven into our impeccable DNA, cloaked in pretense and false platitudes, the life of a Mercer.
That I need an on-call whore is itself a messy predicament.
While Mitchel pilots Mercer Mining, the media arm would be mine, but my father, being the condescending, inflexible cunt that he is, made me jump through hoops and crawl over the metaphorical coals for his own shits and giggles.
Nepotism is always a predominant factor in legacy businesses; how can it not be?
Working harder and smarter than everyone else was my only answer, and to this day, I regularly clock an eighteen-hour day around personal martial arts training and back-to-back evening meetings.
A dedicated and arduous schedule not undertaken for praise or recognition, no.
This regimen was not only expected of a Mercer man, but it was also demanded.
You don’t succeed when you sleep, so push on.
Achieve, acquire, and obliterate anyone and anything standing between you and the end goal.
Michael Mercer, pushing sixty, routinely worked an eighty-hour week around visits from his mistress disguised as a massage therapist. Magnus Mercer, in his early eighties, still sported the face and physique of a man decades younger.
Whether it was the legacy of his family running his empire, or blessed genetics, he was the guy his alumni referred to as Midas, touching on his ability to alchemize any industry he set his sights on.
He was both myth and legend, credible and callous.
“Trystan,” I bark into the intercom, the umbilical tethering me to my EA.
“Yes, boss.” His sonorous baritone settles over the air like smoked whiskey.
“Let all agencies know that if they send any more unsuitable candidates, we’ll create and run exposure pieces on all of them. Their proffered candidates are laughable at best.”
“Yes, sir.” I can hear the click-clack of his manicured hands working over the keyboard, already crafting a terse memorandum.
“Oh, and Trys.”
“Yes, Mas,” he all but croons, his pitch rising at the end.
“I want you to scrutinize each candidate in the morning. If they aren’t a fucking eleven out of ten when they arrive, or display basic etiquette and conversational skills, don’t bother sending them through.
My time is too important to be frittered away on the next Miss Mumble County who can’t even fucking speak. ”
“Yes, boss.”