Faking Love

Chapter 5: Day one

I show up Monday at 5:45 AM because I'm not about to be late on my first day.

The office is already half-full, which is absolutely psychotic. What kind of people voluntarily work before sunrise?

Billionaires and the people who enable them, apparently.

Marcus meets me in the lobby, looking unfairly awake for this ungodly hour. "Coffee?" He hands me a cup from the lobby café.

"You're a saint."

"I'm a realist. You'll need it."

He walks me through the space, pointing out departments, introducing me to people whose names I immediately forget because my brain doesn't function before caffeine. Everyone is polite but busy, already deep in their work.

We end up outside Dante's office. The door is closed.

"He's on a call with Tokyo. Should be done in ten." Marcus hands me a tablet. "This is your lifeline. His calendar, contacts, preferences, everything. Study it like your life depends on it."

"Does my life depend on it?"

"Your employment does."

He shows me to my desk, right outside Dante's office, glass walls giving me a clear view of him pacing while he talks, one hand gesturing even though whoever he's speaking to can't see him.

The tablet is intimidating. I scroll through today's schedule:

6:00 AM - Call with Tokyo investors

7:00 AM - Review Anderson proposal

8:30 AM - Team meeting re: Westwood development

10:00 AM - Site visit, downtown property

12:00 PM - Lunch meeting with city planning commissioner

2:00 PM - Conference call with architects

4:00 PM - Review contracts

6:00 PM - Investor dinner

"He's not serious," I mutter.

"Deadly serious," Marcus says. "That's a light day."

"What's a heavy day then?"

"You don't want to know." He claps me on the shoulder. "Good luck. If you survive the week, I'll buy you a drink."

He leaves me alone at my new desk, surrounded by sleek technology I barely know how to use, waiting for my new boss to finish his call.

The office door opens at exactly 6:10AM.

Dante emerges, already looking like he's been awake for hours. Three-piece suit, no tie yet, hair slightly mussed like he's been running his hands through it. He stops when he sees me.

"You're early."

"You said six."

"I said six so you'd be here by 6:30. Most people interpret start times creatively."

"I'm not most people."

"I'm starting to realize that." He heads to his desk, expecting me to follow. I do. "What do you know about the Anderson proposal?"

I pull it up on the tablet, thank God I actually read it over the weekend. "Mixed-use development in Culver City. Retail ground floor, residential above. You're concerned about the parking situation and the projected timeline seems optimistic."

He glances at me. "You read it."

"You're paying me to know what's happening. That requires reading."

Almost a smile. "Coffee. Black, three sugars."

"That's disgusting."

The words are out before I can stop them. His eyebrow arches.

"Excuse me?"

Too late to back down now. "Three sugars? That's not coffee, that's diabetes in a cup."

For a second, I think I've just blown this whole thing on day one. Then he laughs and it’s short, surprised, and genuine.

"Most assistants don't critique my coffee choices."

"Most assistants probably want to keep their jobs."

"And you don't?"

"I want to keep my job. I also have opinions about sugar intake."

He shakes his head, but there's amusement in his eyes. "Coffee. However disgusting you think it is. Then sit in on the team meeting, I want you to start understanding how we operate."

The morning is a blur of activity. I fetch his diabetes coffee, sit in on a meeting where people throw around terms like "ROI" and "zoning variances" like I should know what they mean (I don't, but I'm very good at nodding like I do), and try to anticipate his needs before he asks.

It's exhausting and exhilarating and I'm definitely in over my head.

At the site visit, I meet the reality of his job. We're at a half-demolished building in downtown, and Dante is in his element, hard hat, sleeves rolled up, talking to contractors about load-bearing walls and foundation issues.

This version of him is different. Less controlled, more passionate. He cares about this, the actual building, not just the money.

I take mental notes. Subject shows genuine enthusiasm for construction process. Not just a numbers guy, understands the physical reality of his developments. Seems like a normal human so far.

"What do you think?" he asks suddenly.

I realize he's talking to me. Everyone's looking at me.

"About?"

"The space. Layout options."

I look around the gutted building. "What's it going to be?"

"Condos. Luxury, obviously."

Obviously. "Who's your target buyer?"

"Wealthy professionals. Singles, couples without kids."

"Then they'll want natural light and the illusion of space. Floor-to-ceiling windows, open concept, minimal walls." I point to the eastern exposure. "Morning light here, evening there. Sell them the lifestyle, not just the square footage."

He's staring at me.

"What? Did I say something wrong?"

"No. You said something right." To the architect: "What she said. Adjust the plans."

We're back in the car before I fully process that I just influenced a multi-million dollar project.

"Where did that come from?" he asks.

"What?"

"The design input. Your résumé said marketing, not architecture."

Shit. Think fast. "I like spaces. How they feel, how they function. It's just... observation."

"Observation." He's watching me too closely. "You're very observant."

"It's a useful skill."

"For an assistant?"

"For anyone."

The day continues at a breakneck pace. By 6 PM, when we're at the investor dinner, I'm running on fumes and the memory of that morning coffee.

The restaurant is the kind of place where they don't list prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you can't afford it. Dante is charm personified, working the table, making deals look effortless.

I sit slightly behind him, taking notes on my tablet, playing the perfect assistant.

One of the investors, an older white guy, too much cologne, keeps looking at me.

"And who's this lovely creature?" he asks, like I'm decoration.

"My assistant, Raven Moreau," Dante says smoothly.

"Assistant." The way he says it makes it sound dirty. "You're certainly easier on the eyes than Harrison was."

Harrison must have been his previous assistant. I smile blandly.

Dante's hand tightens on his water glass. "Ms. Moreau is here for her organizational skills, not her appearance."

There's ice in his voice. The investor backs off.

After dinner, in the car back to the office, I say, "You didn't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Defend me. I can handle handsy investors."

"I'm sure you can. But you shouldn't have to."

I look at him in the dim light of the car. He's staring out the window, jaw tight.

Subject displays protective instinct toward employees. Interesting contradiction, demands perfection but defends against external criticism.

We get back to the office at 9 PM. The place is still half-full of people working.

"Go home," Dante says. "You've earned it."

"What about you?"

"I have calls with London in an hour."

"It's 9 PM."

"Yes, and in London it's 5 AM. Time zones are inconvenient that way."

I should leave. I've been here since before dawn. But something makes me hesitate.

"Do you ever stop?"

He looks up from his phone. "Stop what?"

"Working. Do you ever just... stop?"

For a moment, something vulnerable crosses his face. Then it's gone.

"Why would I stop? This is what I'm good at."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have." He turns back to his computer. "Go home, Raven. I'll see you tomorrow. Same time."

I gather my things, suddenly exhausted. At the elevator, I turn back. Through the glass walls of his office, I can see him already on the phone, pacing, and talking.

Building an empire, one 15-hour day at a time.

Lonely at the top, as they say.

I pull out my phone and open my notes:

Day One observations: Subject is workaholic (clinical level). Protective of staff. Shows passion for actual building process, not just profit. Drinks disgusting coffee. Hasn't smiled genuinely once except when surprised. Probable insomnia. Definitely lonely.

Note to self: Do NOT feel sorry for the billionaire. This is research, not a character study. Keep it professional.

PS: His laugh though. f**k.

I delete the last line.

Add it back.

Delete it again.

The elevator doors close, and I lean against the wall, wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into.

Three months. Just three months.

I can do this.

Probably.