HIS PERSONAL ASSISTANT

chapter eight

Alicia’s POV – CHAPTER: PREP NIGHT

By the time Camille knocked on my door, my room already looked like a clothing bomb had gone off.

I’d dragged out nearly everything I owned: folded clothes, crumpled clothes, clothes I had forgotten I even had. My tiny wardrobe was open, my bed was covered, and my one chair was buried under a sad mountain of fabric that screamed “broke but trying.”

I stood in the middle of the mess, holding up a black skirt in one hand and a white blouse in the other, staring like they were math problems I couldn’t solve.

Another knock. Louder this time.

“Open up, penguin, before I kick this door down!” Camille’s voice came through, half playful, half serious.

I scrambled over a pair of jeans and almost tripped on a shoe before reaching the door and pulling it open.

Camille stood there, slightly out of breath, a large tote bag hanging off one shoulder, her hair up in its usual messy bun that somehow still managed to look like a magazine photo. She gave me one look from head to toe and then leaned sideways to peek past me into the room.

Her eyes widened. “Wow. Wardrobe tornado, I see.”

I stepped aside. “Welcome to chaos.”

She walked in, set her bag down with a dramatic sigh, and put her hands on her hips.

“This is worse than I expected,” she announced. “Good. That means you definitely needed me.”

I shut the door and leaned back against it. “You didn’t have to rush over like this…”

She turned and gave me that look. The one that said: ‘Say that again and I’ll smack you with a hanger.’

“Your brother is in the hospital, and you just got an interview at one of the biggest companies in the country,” she said. “Do you really think I’m going to sit at home and text you ‘good luck’ like some side character? Be serious, Alicia.”

My chest tightened a bit, in that way it did when I remembered I didn’t deserve her, but was somehow lucky enough to have her.

“I know,” I murmured. “Thank you.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get emotional yet. We need your eyes dry and focused. You can cry in the bathroom after you get the job.”

I laughed, the sound looser than I’d felt all day.

“So,” she clapped her hands once, business mode activated. “Interview at B&D Inc. 7:30 a.m. Dress code: formal. Vibe: ‘I’m capable, smart, and you’d be Damned not to hire me.’ Not ‘please don’t fire me on the first day.’”

I nodded, even though my stomach flipped at the word “B&D” again.

“What do you have that looks even remotely professional?” she asked, moving to the bed and starting to sort through the pile like a detective at a crime scene.

“Um… a white shirt,” I said, picking it up from the bed and holding it out. “And a black skirt. Kind of.”

She turned to inspect them, took them from me and held them up in the light.

The white shirt was… fine. A little worn but clean. The skirt was knee-length and plain, not too tight, not too loose.

Camille nodded slowly. “Not terrible. Basic, but we can work with basic. Billionaire offices love basic. It makes them feel superior.”

She tossed a few colorful tops aside with a dramatic shake of her head. “Not this. Too casual. This one says ‘I serve drinks.’ This one says ‘date night.’ This one says ‘about to post a TikTok.’”

“Hey,” I protested weakly. “I like that one.”

“And you can wear it after they hire you and you get your first paycheck,” she replied. “Right now, we’re on ‘please help pay for my brother’s surgery’ mode.”

That shut me up fast.

She looked at me then, softer. “We’re getting you this job, Alicia. Or at least, we’re going to make them regret not giving it to you if they’re dumbbell”

She dropped the playful tone and went serious. “You’re not going there as a beggar. You’re going as someone who has value. They need to see that, okay? You walk in there like you belong.”

I swallowed, nodding once. “I’ll try.”

She pointed at me. “No. Not ‘I’ll try.’ Say, ‘I belong there.’”

I made a face. “Camille…”

“Say it.”

I sighed. “I belong there.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Say it like you mean it, girl.”

I inhaled, squared my shoulders a bit, and said it again, louder. “I belong there.”

She smiled. “That’s better.”

She went back to sorting. “Okay. Outfit first. Existential crisis later.”

While she dug through my clothes, I grabbed a hair tie from the table and quickly pulled my hair up into a loose bun to get it away from my face. My fingers brushed over my contacts case, sitting right beside my small makeup pouch.

Camille noticed. “So… are we covering the eyes or not?” she asked, without turning around.

I looked in the mirror hanging nearby. One oceanic green, one oceanic blue. My curse, my uniqueness, my reason for a thousand stares and rejections.

My chest tightened.

“I should wear the contacts,” I said quietly. “They’ll never hire me if they see them. You know how people get.”

Camille stopped what she was doing and finally turned to look at me. Her gaze was steady, searching.

“Do you want the job?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then wear them,” she said simply. “You can’t fix the whole world’s prejudice in one interview. We pick our battles. This one is about money and survival, not making a statement.”

A part of me deflated at that, but another part knew she was right. This wasn’t the time to test whether some billionaire CEO would be open-minded enough to see past my eyes. I needed numbers in my favor. I needed every bit of advantage I could get.

“But listen,” she added, walking toward me and tapping my forehead gently. “Contacts or no contacts, they don’t change the fact that you’re still you. You’re still Alicia. You’re still smart, kind, stubborn as mule, and you’ll probably roast them in your head if they act rudely. The contacts just make it easier for them to see what they’re too dumb to notice on their own.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

“Good,” she said, then suddenly smacked my arm lightly. “Now sit. Face. Hair. We’re turning you into ‘expensive but approachable.’”

“Is that even a thing?” I asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“With me? Everything is a thing.”

She picked up the white shirt and black skirt again. “We’ll go with these. They’re simple, clean, and don’t scream for attention. You’ll iron them. No wrinkles. Billionaire buildings and wrinkles don’t mix.”

“I don’t have an iron,” I admitted awkwardly.

She froze for a second, then snorted. “Of course you don’t. Good thing I came prepared.” She dug into her tote bag and pulled out a small portable steamer. “For fashion emergencies and broke best friends.”

“You’re too dramatic,” I said, but I couldn’t hold back a small smile.

“You love me,” she replied casually, plugging it in.

While it heated up, she opened my small makeup pouch and inspected the contents.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” she murmured. “Concealer, powder, mascara, brown pencil, nude lipstick… okay, okay. Not bad. We can do a soft, natural look. You’re already pretty, we’re not painting a new face, just… polishing.”

She turned to me. “Go wash your face properly. Then we start. And don’t take forever in there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I joked as I got up and headed to the bathroom.

The water was cold, but refreshing. As I washed my face, I stared into the mirror over the sink. Each splash felt like I was trying to rinse off the weight of the day—the rejections, the fear, the constant pressure.

Tomorrow could be the start of something new.

Or just another disappointment.

But at least I was getting a chance.

I patted my face dry with a small towel, took a deep breath and went back out.

Camille had already steamed the shirt and skirt, hanging them neatly on a hanger. They looked… better. More professional. Less “cheap” and more “simple but neat.”

“Sit,” she said, pointing to the chair, now cleared off.

I sat.

She pulled a small stool closer and sat in front of me. “Contacts first.”

I opened the case with a steadying breath and carefully put in both brown lenses, covering the blue and green. When I blinked and looked back up, all I saw were two normal brown eyes staring back at me in the mirror.

It always made me feel like I was hiding, but tonight? I decided to think of it as armor.

Camille leaned in, examining. “Okay. Good. Now, skincare, then light makeup.”

She dabbed moisturizer onto my face with gentle fingers. “You’re tense,” she said.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“You’re lying,” she replied automatically.

I laughed softly.

Piece by piece, she worked: a bit of concealer under my eyes, covering the signs of stress and hospital visits; a light layer of powder; a small stroke of brow pencil to define my eyebrows; a soft swipe of mascara; a hint of blush.

She held up the nude lipstick. “Open.”

I obeyed. She applied it carefully, then pressed her lips together in exaggerated demonstration. I mimicked her.

She leaned back, tilted her head, and smiled in satisfaction. “There. You look like someone about to walk into a corporate building and demand her fate back.”

I looked at my reflection. It was still me—just a more polished version. Less tired. A bit sharper. My hair, once it was smoothed and pulled into a neat low ponytail, framed my face in a simple, professional way.

“You did good,” I murmured.

“Of course I did. I’m me.”

We laughed again.

She handed me the shirt and skirt. “Change. I want to see the full picture before I approve.”

“Yes, boss,” I said, taking them and disappearing into the bathroom again.

When I came out, dressed, the clothes fit better than I remembered. The shirt tucked neatly into the skirt. The length was appropriate. It hugged my waist without being too tight.

Camille’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. This works.”

She walked around me like a fashion judge, fixing the collar, smoothing my shoulders, tugging the skirt slightly to sit perfectly.

“You look like a proper P.A.,” she declared. “The kind they use in those drama series where the CEO is rude and cold and secretly in love with you.”

I rolled my eyes. “You watch too many dramas.”

“And now you’re living in one,” she shot back.

Her gaze softened as she stepped in front of me again. “Listen, Alicia,” she said quietly. “Tomorrow, you’re going to walk into that building and your legs will probably feel like jelly. Your heart will race. You’ll overthink everything. But… you belong in places like that. Just because life has been unfair doesn’t mean you’re not good enough.”

There it was again. That tightening in my chest, that stinging feeling behind my eyes.

“Don’t cry,” she warned quickly. “If you cry and ruin the makeup, I’m slapping you.”

I let out a shaky laugh instead.

She checked the time on her phone. “It’s getting late. You need to sleep. You have to wake up early.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I’ll sleep when I get home,” she said, waving it off. “I’ll set alarms for you too. One at 5:30, one at 5:45, one at 6. Just in case you try to ignore the first two.”

“Camille…”

“No arguments. Text me the moment you wake up. Then text me when you reach B&D. And if that billionaire boss says anything bad to you, screenshot his face in your mind and tell me later so I can insult him properly from afar.”

I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest.

She picked up her bag and walked to the door, then paused and turned.

“One more thing,” she said. “Don’t let them see you as small. I don’t care how big that building is, how rich that man is, or how sharp his suit looks. You’re there because you earned that interview. Don’t forget that.”

I nodded. “I won’t.”

She smiled, then opened the door. “Goodnight, penguin. Tomorrow is your day. Own it.”

“Goodnight, Camille,” I replied.

When the door closed behind her, the apartment felt extra quiet again. But this time, it wasn’t an empty quiet. It was… expectant.

I changed back into comfortable clothes so I wouldn’t wrinkle the outfit and hung it carefully where I could see it. I placed my documents—CV, certificates, ID—in a neat file and slid it into my bag. I set my alarm. Then another. Then another, just in case.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I felt my nerves creeping back in.

Tomorrow.

B&D Inc.

A billionaire CEO.

A chance to change everything.

I turned on my side, pulled the thin blanket over myself, and whispered into the darkness:

“Please, let this be the start of something good.”

Somewhere, far above my world, in a penthouse and in a glass office, a man I’d never met had just fired his secretary and asked for a P.A.

He had no idea his new candidate was a mismatched-eyed girl wearing brown contacts in a tiny apartment with hope clinging to her like a second skin.

And honestly, neither did I.