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Chapter 3: Bristol

A lot of people think I'm crazy smart or that I don't sleep at night, but that's not true. I have mostly coasted my way through my academic and professional life because my daddy is rich. There's no subtler way to put it. I come from upper Manhattan, which is to say I come from money, because my daddy is the executive at Reuters.

My mom is beautiful, in a wealthy New York woman way, but also in a French model way, because she used to be one. My dad's journalism took him all over the world, to Europe, Africa, and Asia, and he saw my mom in Paris when he was 33 and she was 18. I know, what an unhealthy relationship. But it wasn't. I have never seen two people more in love than my parents. You couldn't even blame either of them—my mom really was stunning in her youth, a rising top model for French magazines, and my dad had his elite sense of humor, that kind of dry but witty humor you only see in geniuses. They got married two years after they met, had my older brothers who are twins, and then five years later had me.

But that isn't to say that I don't work hard. I have always been adamant on giving some meaning to my life, doing something that actually matters. Because ever since I was little, people have told me that I shouldn't work at all, or if I were to work, I should just model or do reality TV. And I do love to model, I love the fashion industry, but since I was a kid, I've wanted to be a lawyer, because I love to mind other people's business.

The second guy I dated in law school is still fresh in my memory, our experiences burned into my brain, because I just broke up with him three months ago. Now, that was what you would call an unhealthy relationship. I put up with him for a year and a half because I thought we were in love, but after he threatened to sleep with my friend Annelyse, I was done. I mean, I could not stay with someone who wanted to hurt my best friend, because what kind of friend would that make me?

That isn't to say, though, that I've completely broken from that kind of relationship pattern. I know I'm into older guys, but my friends always tell me that my type is men who are "not nice." Not necessarily mean, but not nice. If that makes sense.

My new boss, Jared...he definitely seems like he's not nice. And I hate the way I shivered when I was around him, partly from fear but partly because he intrigued me.

So that's why I'm a little wary when he calls me later in the day, while I'm just chilling on my bed in my apartment.

"Bristol, hi," he says in his gravelly voice.

"Hi, Mr. Simmons," I say in that perky voice I learned from my pageant days and now use in every professional setting.

"How would you feel...if I offered you a new position at my firm?"

My brow furrows, because what in the world? We barely spoke to each other, and he knows next to nothing about me, yet he's offering me a position?

"What kind of position?" I ask.

"As my personal assistant."

And my lips curl up into an involuntary smile, because even as the daughter of a rich family, I am not immune to the adrenaline rush that comes with professional success. "Oh. Wow, really?"

"Yes. Of course, I would need you to come into my office either today or tomorrow, whatever works—I know it's late already—and I will ask you a few questions and explain to you more about what the job entails."

This is altogether unexpected, so I am thoroughly surprised at my lack of a reaction. Maybe I'm just tired, or maybe I expected, all along, for an opportunity like this to fall right into my lap. All my life, I have been lucky. Except for once.

I tell him that I will come in tomorrow morning. I DoorDash a salad from Panera, take a long, hot shower, and fall into bed with the curtains open, watching as the buildings glitter and the cars zoom around endlessly below.