Chapter 3: Target Acquired
1017 Words
I spend the entire next day doing what I do best: falling down internet rabbit holes in the name of research.
Dante Castillo's digital footprint is surprisingly minimal for someone worth nine figures. No i********: thirst traps, no Twitter rants, no t****k of him doing that stupid corporate trend where executives pretend to be relatable. The man is a ghost, which is honestly sus as hell but also perfect for my purposes.
What I do find:
A LinkedIn that's all business, no personality. Employment history that reads like a highlight reel of competence. Recommendations from people who use words like "visionary" and "uncompromising" which is code for "probably an asshole."
Several Forbes articles about his "meteoric rise" in LA real estate. Apparently, he started flipping houses at twenty-two with money he'd saved working construction. Now he develops luxury properties that sell for amounts that make my bank account weep.
One interview from two years ago where he's asked about work-life balance and responds, "I'll balance it out when I'm dead." Yikes. Man's got issues, which honestly makes him more interesting to write about.
A few paparazzi shots from charity galas where he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Always alone. Never with the same woman twice. Either he's extremely private or extremely single.
I screenshot everything, creating a folder on my laptop labeled "Research" because I'm not even trying to be subtle with myself.
Then I found the good stuff.
A business journal article from ten years ago about his father's construction company going bankrupt. The photo shows a younger Dante standing outside a courthouse, face looking like it was carved from stone, eyes burning with something that looks like rage and determination effed around and had a baby.
The article mentions how Eduardo Castillo's company collapsed due to "poor financial decisions and excessive risk-taking," leaving Dante to pick up the pieces. Reading between the lines: Dad f****d up, son had to fix it.
Daddy issues. Every good romance novel needs daddy issues.
I'm three hours deep, surviving on cold coffee and the last of my Trader Joe's trail mix, when my phone rings. Julian.
"Hey, baby bro."
"Don't call me that, I'm literally only three years younger than you." My brother sounds amused though. "Maya told me about your insane plan."
"It's not insane, it's immersive journalism."
"It's fraud."
"It's creative nonfiction."
"Raven." His voice goes serious. "You're really going to catfish a billionaire?"
"I'm not catfishing anyone. Catfishing is romantic. This is professional observation."
"Sure. And when you inevitably catch feelings?"
"I won't."
"You always do. Remember that barista you were 'just observing' for your coffee shop story? You dated him for six months."
"That was different."
"How?"
"He wasn't a billionaire, for starters. Also, I was twenty-three and stupid."
"And now you're twenty-seven and...?"
"Experienced. Jaded. Dead inside."
He laughs. "Mom asks why you never visit."
Guilt trip: activated. "I'll come by this weekend."
"Bring the billionaire."
"I haven't even met him yet!"
"But you will. And when this blows up spectacularly, I'm going to say I told you so."
"Why does everyone think this is going to blow up?"
"Because we know you."
After he hangs up, I stare at Dante's photo on my screen. Sharp jaw, sharper eyes, expression that gives away nothing. He looks like the kind of man who's never been surprised by anything in his life.
Challenge accepted.
I decided I needed a more sophisticated resume than the one I created with Maya, so I open a blank document and start crafting my fake résumé. Raven Moreau, executive assistant extraordinaire. Three years at a tech startup (defunct, conveniently unverifiable). Two years at a marketing firm (also out of business). Impeccable references (Maya's going to kill me for using her number).
Skills: Calendar management, correspondence, event planning, discretion, ability to anticipate needs.
That last one isn't even a lie. I'm a writer. Anticipating what people need is literally my job.
I spend another hour polishing the résumé until it's perfect, professional enough to be credible, impressive enough to stand out, vague enough to avoid detailed questions.
Then I navigate to Castillo Development Group's website. Sleek, minimalist, and professional. The careers page has the assistant position listed:
Personal Assistant to CEO. Demanding role requiring flexibility, discretion, and ability to thrive in high-pressure environments. Competitive salary, benefits, opportunity for growth.
Translation: We'll work you to death but pay you well for the privilege.
My cursor hovers over the "Apply Now" button.
This is it. Point of no return. Once I submit this, I'm committed to the lie.
My phone buzzes. Text from Diane: How's the billionaire romance coming? Need an update.
I look at Dante's photo again. At the application. At Diane's text.
Fuck it.
I hit submit.
The confirmation email arrives thirty seconds later. "Thank you for your interest in Castillo Development Group. If your qualifications match our needs, someone will contact you within 5-7 business days."
I close my laptop and lean back, heart racing like I've just committed a crime.
Technically, I haven't done anything wrong. I applied for a job with a slightly embellished résumé? That's just capitalism, baby.
But the buzzing in my chest says otherwise. Says this is different. It says I'm about to step into something I can't control. Maybe I’m a little unhinged, ain’t we all?
I grab my phone and text Maya: I did it. I applied.
Her response is immediate: Oh honey. May God have mercy on your soul.
Too late for mercy. I'm committed.
You're committed alright. To an asylum, probably.
I send her the middle finger emoji and she sends back a gif of someone diving off a cliff.
Accurate.
I spend the rest of the evening trying to write, but my brain won't cooperate. Instead, I keep refreshing my email, wondering if they'll respond early, wondering if this whole thing is stupid, wondering if Dante Castillo is as interesting in person as he is on paper.
Wondering if I'm making the biggest mistake of my career.
Or the best research decision ever.
Only one way to find out.
- Writer
