Faking Love

Chapter 4: The Interview

They call me two days later.

Not 5-7 business days. Two days. Which means either I'm exactly what they're looking for or they're desperate, and I'm not sure which is more concerning.

"Ms. Moreau?" The voice is crisp, professional and female. "This is Andrea from Castillo Development Group. Mr. Castillo would like to meet with you regarding the personal assistant position. Are you available tomorrow at 2 PM?"

Tomorrow. Jesus.

"Yes, absolutely. I'll be there."

"Excellent. Please bring references and be prepared to discuss your experience in detail. Mr. Castillo is very thorough."

I bet he is.

After I hang up, I immediately call Maya in a panic.

"They want to interview me tomorrow."

"Already? That's sus."

"Right? Either I'm perfect or they've had a revolving door of assistants and nobody lasts."

"Both are possible. What are you going to wear?"

I look down at my current outfit: oversized band tee and leggings with a hole in the knee. "Clothes?"

"Raven, I swear to God…"

"I'll figure it out. Can you be my reference? They're going to call."

"What do you want me to say?"

"That I'm competent, professional, detail-oriented, not at all a disaster in human form."

"So you want me to lie."

"Creatively interpret the truth."

She sighs, but I can hear her smiling. "Fine. But you owe me. Like, forever."

The next twenty-four hours are a blur of panic and preparation. I buy a blazer from Zara that makes me look like I have my s**t together. Practice my "I'm a serious professional" face in the mirror until I can do it without cracking up. Research common interview questions and rehearse answers that are 70% truth, 30% creative fiction.

By the time I'm standing outside Castillo Development Group headquarters, I'm either completely prepared or about to have a breakdown. Possibly both.

The building is in Downtown LA, all glass and steel and intimidation. I check my reflection in the lobby windows, blazer, fitted black pants, hair in a sleek ponytail instead of my usual chaos bun. I look like someone's competent assistant.

I look like a liar.

"Fake it till you make it," I mutter, pushing through the revolving doors.

The lobby is aggressively minimalist. Marble floors, modern art that probably costs more than my education, a reception desk that looks like it was carved from a single piece of obsidian.

The receptionist is stunning in that specific LA way, perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect everything. Is everyone in this city perfect?? Her smile is professional as I approach.

"I'm here to see Mr. Castillo. For the 2 PM interview."

She checks her computer. "Raven Moreau?"

"That's me."

"Please have a seat. Someone will be down to get you shortly."

I sit on a chair that's more art than furniture and try not to look as nervous as I feel. Around me, people in expensive suits move with purpose, talking on phones, carrying tablets, being important.

I'm so out of my depth it's not even funny.

Ten minutes later, a man emerges from the elevator. Mid-thirties, Black, wearing a suit that is for sure more expensive than everything I own. He has the kind of easy confidence that comes from actually being good at your job.

"Ms. Moreau? I'm Marcus Reid, CFO. I'll be conducting the preliminary interview."

I stand, shaking his offered hand. His grip is firm, and assessing.

We ride the elevator in silence to the fourteenth floor. The offices are open-concept but somehow still feel exclusive. Everyone looks busy and vaguely stressed.

Marcus leads me to a conference room with a view of the city that makes my stomach drop. Not afraid of heights, just afraid of the wealth required to have this view.

The interview is rapid-fire. He asks about my experience, my skills, and my availability. I answer smoothly, pulling from the fake résumé I've memorized so thoroughly I almost believe it myself.

"Why do you want this position?"

Because I'm writing a book and need to study a billionaire up close. "I'm looking for a challenge. Mr. Castillo's reputation for excellence is well-known, and I want to work with the best."

"The role is demanding. Long hours, last-minute changes, high pressure, you have to travel sometimes. How do you handle stress?"

"I thrive under pressure. I'm organized, adaptable, and I don't rattle easily."

All true, technically. Writing on deadline is its own special hell.

Marcus studies me for a long moment. "You're overqualified for an assistant position."

Shit. "I prefer to think of it as being exceptionally prepared."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

"Wait here. Mr. Castillo will want to meet you himself."

He leaves, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the view and the slowly creeping realization that this is actually happening.

The door opens five minutes later.

And there he is.

Photos don't do him justice, which is frankly unfair. Dante Castillo in person is... a lot. Tall, easily 6'2". Dark hair, sharp jaw that looks like it was designed to cut glass. And his eyes.

Dark brown, intense, looking at me like he can see through every lie I've ever told.

I stand automatically, muscle memory from years of my mother's etiquette lessons.

"Ms. Moreau." His voice is deep, controlled. He doesn't offer his hand. "Sit."

I sit.

He takes the chair across from me, and suddenly the large conference room feels very small.

"Marcus says you're overqualified."

Straight to it, then. "I prefer to think of it as being highly qualified."

"Why does someone with your supposed experience want to be a personal assistant?"

Supposed. He clocked the résumé already. f**k.

"I'm looking for a change of pace. I've done corporate, I've done startup. I want to work directly with someone who's building something real."

"Building something real," he repeats, and there's something suspicious in his voice. "And you think I'm building something real?"

"You've developed three major properties in the last two years. Your company's valuation has tripled. You're not playing games, you're creating lasting infrastructure in a city that desperately needs it. That's real."

I did my homework. His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Interest, maybe.

"Tell me about a time you failed."

Unexpected question. I think fast. "Last year, I missed a critical deadline because I didn't ask for help when I should have. I learned that efficiency sometimes means delegation, even when you think you can handle everything alone."

True story, actually. Just from writing, not assistant work.

"What's your biggest weakness?"

I meet his eyes directly. "I care too much about doing things perfectly. Sometimes good enough is actually good enough, but I have trouble accepting that."

Also true. My editor hates it.

"Why should I hire you?"

"Because I'm competent, discreet, and I don't waste time on bullshit. You need someone who can anticipate your needs, manage chaos, and not fall apart under pressure. That's me."

He leans back, studying me like I'm a contract he's considering signing. The silence stretches. I refuse to get nervous.

"You're hired," he finally says.

Wait, what?

"I… really?"

"You're sharp, you don't seem intimidated by me, and Marcus likes you. His judgment is usually sound." He stands. "You start Monday. Six AM."

"Six AM," I repeat faintly.

"Problem?"

"No. No problem at all."

"Good. HR will send you the paperwork." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "One more thing."

"Yes?"

He turns, and his gaze pins me in place. "I don't tolerate liars, Ms. Moreau. Whatever you're hiding, I'll find it eventually. Everyone has secrets."

My heart stops. He knows. He has to know.

But then he smiles briefly and leaves.

I sit in the conference room for a full minute after he's gone, trying to remember how to breathe.

Marcus appears in the doorway. "Congratulations. You're the first assistant to last more than five minutes of his interview in three months."

"What happened to the others?"

"They cried, mostly. Or quit on the spot." He hands me a folder. "Welcome to Castillo Development Group. Try not to become a casualty."

In the elevator going down, I text Maya: I got the job.

Holy s**t. You're really doing this.

I'm really doing this.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

I look at my reflection in the elevator's mirrored walls. Professional, competent and convincing.

A complete fraud.

"Three months," I whisper to myself. "Get in, get the research, get out."

The elevator dings. The doors open.

I step into my new lie.