My head feels like it's been hit by a truck. I squint against the morning light streaming in through my window, regretting going out after the event and every drink I let myself get talked into last night. Lesson learned.
The hazy memories aren't helped by the fact that my dad is sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, already looking like he's ready to talk business. I shuffle in, pulling my Victoria's Secret robe tight around me, hoping for a quiet morning, but his raised eyebrow says that's wishful thinking.
"You look tired," he says, eyeing me up and down. "Rough night?"
I sigh and grab a glass of water, trying to ignore the pounding in my head. "Something like that."
He nods, a slight smirk pulling at his mouth, before getting straight to the point. "I've found you a lead for a job."
My half-asleep brain stumbles over his words. "A... lead?"
"Yes, a friend of mine told me about a personal assistant position with a musician. Seems like a straightforward role—perfect for someone just starting out, like you." He says it so casually, as if this is just a little temp gig to get me out of the house.
"A musician?" I ask, feeling a bit wary. "Like... a local artist or something?"
"Something like that," he replies, scrolling through his emails, apparently finished with this discussion. "It'll be a solid experience and give you some structure. I've sent the address to your phone. The interview's this afternoon, so be ready."
I feel my stomach twist with a mix of nerves and mild resentment. I'd been hoping for something low-key to ease me into working life, not a PA job for some unpredictable musician. But then again, if this is what my dad wants... maybe it'll keep him off my back.
A few hours later, I'm dressed in a simple baggy jeans with a sweater I found somewhere in the back of my closet —and hopping out of a cab in front of what I assume will be some modest little studio or artist loft. But as I look up, I realize the building is anything but small or modest. It's a towering skyscraper with sleek, mirrored glass reflecting the skyline. I blink up at it, confused, before glancing at my phone to double-check the address.
This can't be right, I think, but the address matches perfectly.
Inside, I step into a massive lobby with polished marble floors, upscale lighting, and pristine white walls. People are moving in and out, every one of them looking as if they belong in a high-end fashion magazine. My confidence falters as I catch my reflection in one of the glossy walls. My outfit feels a little too casual, and I wonder if I should've put in more effort.
Taking a breath, I walk up to the reception desk. The receptionist gives me a polite but knowing look as I tell her my name and that I'm here for an interview. She gestures toward a set of elevators with a faint smile, sending me up to the twentieth floor.
As I ride up, I can feel my nerves bubbling up. This feels like way more than a "little job."
The elevator doors open into a brightly lit corridor, and I step out, looking for any clue as to what I've gotten myself into. Framed photos of huge, recognizable stars line the walls, and I realize where I am: RCA Records.
RCA Records?! I swallow, my pulse racing as I take in the sprawling office space, filled with people who all seem to be on a mission. This isn't some casual gig for a local artist; this is serious. My heart hammers as I remember my dad's words: Be prepared. They'll expect you to show initiative.
Suddenly, I feel completely underprepared.
A woman in a sharp blazer spots me from across the room and strides over with a clipboard. "Who are you?"
"Hi uhm, I'm Jada, I'm here for an interview to be a PA" I nod, forcing a polite smile as I attempt to keep my nerves in check.
She looks me up and down, her expression neutral but slightly expectant, as if waiting for me to prove something. "Follow me."
We walk past a row of sleek, glass-walled offices, the hum of purposeful conversation filling the air. I'm trying to keep my nerves under control, but everything about this place feels intimidating. People in sharp suits and stylish clothes walk briskly by, barely giving me a glance, as though I'm just one more face in the lineup of eager, uncertain interns. Finally, we reach an office door with the name Yasser Malik emblazoned on it in understated, silver letters.
The woman leading me opens the door, gestures for me to step in, and closes it behind me as I enter.
Yasser Malik, head of RCA Records and unmistakably powerful, looks up from his desk. His gaze is piercing, assessing, like he's trying to unravel my character before I even have the chance to introduce myself.
He's silent for a moment, studying me. "Who are you?" he finally asks, his voice calm but with a hint of impatience.
I clear my throat. "Uh, my name is Jada Smith. I just graduated from high school, and I'm here for the personal assistant position."
He raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "And what are you doing here, exactly?"
I swallow, struggling to find my words. "Well... I think I could do a good job as a personal assistant. My dad mentioned the position, and, well, I thought... why not try?"
He looks at me for a long moment, his gaze assessing. "So, you have experience in the music industry?"
"Not... exactly," I admit, my cheeks flushing. "But I'm eager to learn. I thought this could be a good first step, and I could really bring—"
He cuts me off smoothly. "Do you follow RCA's artists?"
I blink, surprised. "Um, no. Not really."
A hint of a smirk tugs at his lips. "So, before today, you'd never even heard of me."
I shake my head, feeling my stomach twist. "No."
"And I assume you don't have any experience in artist management."
I shift awkwardly. "Well... no," I reply, feeling my cheeks heat. "But I'm willing to learn."
"No no," he says flatly. "That wasn't a question."
I blink, momentarily caught off guard, but I force myself to keep going. "I, um, did some volunteer work at school, organizing events and helping run a few fundraisers. And I also... I helped plan my school's music showcase," I say, my voice wavering as I try to sell myself. "I was in charge of managing the stage and coordinating the performers."
Yasser stares at me, looking me up and down, clearly unimpressed. He glances at the papers on his desk, then looks back up, his gaze colder now.
"That's all."
I turn to leave, cheeks flaming and nerves frayed, when he speaks again, his tone almost bored. "If you come back, be prepared."
As I walk out of Yasser Malik's office, I glance down at the polished marble floors, trying to steady my thoughts. This was supposed to be a "simple job," just a way to keep my dad off my back for a while. But seeing the stakes here—how real this is—I know I can't just let this go.
I'll be back, more prepared than ever, if for no other reason than to prove to my dad—and maybe to myself—that I'm not the "lazy snob" he thinks I am.
