I love my job. I love my salary. I love my work.

Those are the daily affirmations you tell yourself as you step of your Uber, offering a friendly wave to your driver before heading into the lobby. A ridiculous skyrise building that Tashi Duncan resides in when she's not travelling. A penthouse on one of the highest floors, of course. It doesn't help that elevators make you nauseous.

The mantra repeats as you hit the button and watch the floors illuminate one by one as the death trap you find yourself in most mornings rises. For a brief moment, you wonder if this is worth it. Yes, the voice inside your head insists. You were insanely lucky to snag a job as Tashi's personal assistant. She's the it girl of the fashion world right now. There's no better way into the industry than through this.

But you always thought The Devil Wears Prada was supposed to be satire. Apparently fashion girls really are like this. Because the first thing your boss says to you when you find her in her office, extending a cup of coffee is:

"Is that decaf?"

You nod your head. "Of course."

"I don't want decaf," she says, without looking up from her laptop. She looks more at ease like this, even if she's making you want to drive your skull in with a hammer. Messy bun and dressed down to sweatpants and a shirt as she reads through the runway offer you summarised for her the night before, eyeing all the pieces critically. Sometimes she acts as if it's your fault that they aren't to your liking.

As if you're not her assistant, not a bloody Gucci designer.

"But... you always drink decaf," you offer, bewildered.

"Not anymore," she says, looking up just to give you a side-eye. "I need that caffeine. I don't have time to waste with decaf."

You know that the coffee thing is Tashi's way of being needlessly petty. You also know that it's not worth protesting for. Not unless you want her to use it against you for an entire month. With an irritated huff, you step out of her office to grab a fresh cup of dark roast. Hopefully this will improve her mood.

You offer the decaf to one of her kitchen staff, who offers you a sympathetic smile and a comment about it being too early in the morning for this. You just mutter your agreement and bring a hot mug back to her office. Not even a thank you as she takes a sip, still engrossed in her screen. And, of course, you're just expected to stand there and wait for instructions like a dog. How very productive.

It's a few minutes later when she beckons you with a crook of her finger. "Come look at this. Tell me if you think it goes with my image."

That's a trap, and you know it. A test, as you hesitantly come to stand next to her desk chair to inspect her screen. An offer from a perfume company. It's a big enough deal; you know there are a lot of stars and other models that would give their firstborn for the deal. Yet there's something about the way she asks it with a hint of distaste that has you second-guessing yourself.

But maybe that's the entire point. She wants you to rethink your answer. Oh, this is not the coffee runs and sending emails you signed up for.