Working in New York had been one helluva experience. Moving straight out of college to go make it big was the best and worst thing you could have done. You just had to hustle to get known. You had to know someone who knew someone else.

Eventually, after countless nights raiding bars with girlfriends and networking till you thought your smile was permanently plastered on your face—after suffering through countless stories from fuckboys in finance, and scrambling to make it paycheck to paycheck—you got into executive assisting. You started bouncing around between jobs, learning as much as you could.

But this opportunity fell in your lap, and you had to seize it. A major corporation was hiring a full time, round the clock, kind of assistant for the CEO, and through grapevine you heard about it. Whether it was by sheer luck or charm—you impressed the hiring department and got the job.

You would be the personal assistant to the CEO, Antonio Moretti. The self-made billionaire. Forbes’ 30 Under 30 kinda guy.

You were nearly a week and a half into the job before you actually met him, he’d been traveling abroad for work and was just getting back to the office.

You set up and cleaned his office as best you could, setting down fresh coffee and a bacon egg and cheese bagel on his desk and we’re in your way out when he walked in. He paused at the door and squinted, obviously sizing you up.

“And who might you be?”