Isabella

"Very," I answer. I've been nodding so furiously this entire interview that my neck is starting to feel kinda sore. Yeah, one might say I suck up to the boss. But after all, this position comes with many privileges.

"And why do you suppose you're right for the job, Miss Swan?" It's another one of those template interview questions. And I answer with the one thing that makes companies want to leech off me.

"To be honest, Miss Cullen, I don't have much of a life. I don't care about superficial stuff, I don't care for drunken nights and pursuing hobbies. I'm right for this job because it will almost literally be my life. I'm always available, flexible, and discreet. Isn't that what a personal assistant is supposed to be?" God, my Granddad is probably turning over in his grave. He always told me not to be such a pushover.

She blinks several times, her pen motionlessly resting in her manicured fingers. I can't quite read her.

"Lives change, Miss Swan." It's a statement that feels like it's bigger than the room.

I shrug, not knowing whether she wants me to react to that.

Turns out, more people than I thought would, have responded to the opening. Once the company dropped Edward Cullen's name, announcing him as our new CEO, people have been whispering. Shouting even. They all want a shot at working for the handsome, young millionaire. Or billionaire. I don't quite know. I don't care, either. The only thing I want is to get out of my miserable apartment, get rid of three roommates I don't even like, and move into a place of my own. Own a place of my own. Which is more expensive than I even want to think about in New York City. But this job might help me get there. Or at least, get me out of the hellhole I'm living in right now.

I want my coffee in peace, and not worry if there's someone in the shower when I need to desperately use the bathroom at five in the morning.

It's been four days since my interview with Rosalie Cullen. Four days of mindlessly refreshing my inbox, checking my phone, and peeking at the visitor's schedule to see if someone else has a face-to-face with her.

"The new boss is coming in today…" Sue gives me a look. "I hear it's the first time in months he'll actually be here, working. He's been cooped up at his home office, they say."

I shrug.

"I wonder if he's really all that talented. Or if he's just gonna make us have to apply for new jobs when he sinks the ship." She can say all this without looking away from the mail she's sorting in the cart. I can't even believe her right now.

"You do know you'd get executed quite publicly for treason like this in Medieval Times, right?"

"Treason?" Sue laughs. "God, you watch too much Bridgerton, girl."

I don't even own a television.

As I ignore my colleague, I answer phone calls and hand out badges until it's time for my coffee run. We always order from the place across the street because the C-crew upstairs prefers real coffee over Starbucks. I take two interns and put myself on auto-pilot.

It's just after eight-thirty by the time we get back. I send the interns up to the floors who ordered, feeling like a drive-through hostess, and take a minute for myself in the bathroom. The cold water feels heavenly on my palms, my nerves temporarily washed away. I'm taken aback by the look in my eyes when I stare into my reflection. My eyes are big, decisive. And I tell myself one thing. I'll give the big guys upstairs another four days. If I haven't heard anything back, I'm taking matters into my own hands and applying for jobs elsewhere. I don't have to deal with a gossiping bitch on the daily, I don't need to be working my ass off for no recognition. I'm twenty-six and I would really like to start living.