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Tyler got himself promoted to media manager last week—which meant I had about three days to pretend I wasn’t already drowning without an assistant.

The catch? Whoever I hired would be two feet from my calendar, inbox, and post-workout lighting setup. Too smart, and they’d eventually blackmail me into promoting them, like Tyler did. Too dumb, and I’d wake up canceled on a Monday I was supposed to be enlightened.

So today... I need a unicorn. Someone low-maintenance, high-functioning, and morally flexible. Dumb enough to be loyal to Adrian Zayne, smart enough to handle Andrew Zilchman.

Which is why I’m staging my office like it’s an Airbnb for influencers.

I slide the annotated Art of War into the drawer. Replace it with The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F ck*—strategically dog-eared, spine barely cracked.

I angle the ring light for “accidental glow.” Hide the collagen gummies. Leave the protein powder.

On the shelf: a succulent (plastic), a candle labeled “Focus” (unscented), and one strategically placed chess piece—a black king. For symbolism.

My phone chirps. One minute to interviews.

Let the parade begin.

** *

The first candidate shows up ten minutes early, knocking like she owns the building.

She walks in before I even say “Come in.” Blonde, bouncing, wearing a perfume that smells like a threat. In her arms: a poster board.

“I made this for you,” she says.

I look down. It’s laminated. There are glitter stickers. And a heading in bubble font: “MRS. ZAYNE VISION 2025.”

My face is on it. Multiple times. Some printouts are clearly pulled from Instagram stories that were up for twenty-four hours—three years ago.

“I color-coded your brand pillars,” she says. “See? Masculinity, clarity, legacy. Pink, gold, and chrome.”

I clear my throat. “Are you applying for the assistant role?”

“Absolutely,” she chirps. “I already memorized your schedule. I even track your content drops with my moon cycle. I’m a Pisces, by the way.”

“Noted,” I say, mostly to the part of me that wants to die.

“Oh—and don’t worry about salary. I’ll work for exposure. Just tag me occasionally. Or mention me as your muse.”

I blink.

She takes that as encouragement.

“Or future wife. I’m flexible.”

Interview length: five minutes. And that includes the time it took her to show me her Zeta ankle tattoo. With sparkles.

***

Candidate number two walks in chewing gum and wearing a muscle tank. He fist-bumps me uninvited.

“Brody,” he says. “Or just ‘Alpha Prime,’ if that’s easier.”

It’s not.

“Tell me about your experience,” I say, already regretting every decision I’ve ever made.

“I’ve studied pickup artistry in the field,” he announces. “Real-world reps. Nightclubs. Co-working spaces. The DMV.”

I stare.

“I mean, obviously that translates to branding. Energy. Tone. Frame control. I’m basically already managing your charisma.”

“So... have you ever managed a schedule for someone else?”

“I don’t believe in calendars,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Time is a lie. I follow energy. Like, if the vibe says email, I email. If the vibe says nap, I nap.”

“And how do you coordinate anything with clients?”

“I don’t. I let them miss me.”

Interview length: seven minutes. Five too long.

***

Candidate number three is in a suit. Buttoned. Polished. Eye contact that says “I’m here to steal your brand.”

“Adrian,” he says, like we’re best friends. “What you’re doing is powerful. But it’s time to scale. Which is why I’d like to pitch you on ZetaCoin.”

I take a moment to respond. He takes that as interest.

“Think about it. You tokenize your masculinity. We build community through scarcity. ZetaCoin becomes the currency of the heartbreak economy.”

“I’m... sorry, is this your interview or an ICO?”

“Both,” he says. “That’s the future. ”

Interview length: ten minutes. I mostly spend them imagining what it would feel like to live off-grid and raise goats.

***

I slump into my chair between interviews. Stare at the stack of resumes like one might suddenly stop being a threat. Tyler used to vet these people. Now he’s a “media manager” on a leave, and I’m auditioning for my own downfall.

I rub my eyes. Mutter into the ether:

“I’ll hire the next person who can spell calendar .”

The door creaks open.

Next on the list: Jessica Caldwell.

Clean resume, no misspellings. Promising.

Maybe.

She walks in with a tablet—not a vision board, not merch, not a deck titled ‘ZetaCoin.’ A tablet. Like she came here to work.

Slim black jeans, oversized blazer, glasses. Her hair’s pulled back like she’s got somewhere to be after this. Her resume is printed on actual white non-scented paper. No glitter.

“Jessie Caldwell,” she says, extending a hand. Firm shake. Confident. Not trying too hard. Which, nowadays, is suspicious in itself.

“Adrian Zayne,” I say. “You’re punctual.”

She smiles. “That’s generally expected in admin roles.”

Huh.

I gesture to the chair across from me. She sits. I glance at her resume. Bachelor’s in Communications. Then titles like “Brand Campaign Specialist,” “Community Manager,” “Experiential Marketing Lead. ”

That’s... a lot.

“You’ve worked with creators before,” I say.

“A bit,” she replies. “Mostly post-production. Editing, scheduling, narrative planning.”

Narrative planning? She seems to be leaning towards the “too smart” end of the spectrum.

I blink. “And what brings you here?”

She folds her hands. “I’m looking for a growth opportunity in a fast-paced environment. Ideally something hybrid—strategy and operations. Your brand is obviously evolving, and I’d love to be part of building that next phase.”

I stare at her. It’s a good answer. A very good answer. Which is, frankly, even more suspicious.

But she’s already steering the conversation forward.

Jessie scrolls something on her tablet. “Looks like your content streams don’t talk to each other. Is that a feature or a glitch?”

I blink.

Okay.

Rude.

Accurate.

But rude.

I glance at her tablet. She’s not even pretending to backpedal. No smile to soften the hit. Just calm, quiet competence in a blazer.

Definitely the too smart kind. The kind that will one day build a system so flawless I can’t fire her without breaking it.

She keeps going. “And some of your guest booking seems reactive—tied to trending topics—but not necessarily integrated with your launch funnel. That’s something I could help streamline.”

My radar pings. Loudly. This woman talks like she just stepped out of a Notion dashboard.

“You’ve clearly done your homework,” I say.

“I watched some episodes,” she replies.

“Well, let me walk you through the role a little,” I say. “It’s mostly just... admin stuff. Emails. Posting clips. Booking things. Nothing too...intellectual.”

The word hangs there.

Intellectual?

Damn it. That’s the kind of thing that scares off half my audience—and would be too much for the last five candidates. It slipped out like a bad tell.

Jessie raises an eyebrow. “Noted. I’ll keep font sizes in check.”

She says it lightly. Like a joke. But I clock the subtext: she caught the slip. Logged it. Filed it next to whatever other soft spots I just broadcast.

She scrolls through something on her tablet. “If this is about relevant experience, I did some freelance editing last year. Just a small podcast project, but very fast-paced. High volume, lots of moving parts.”

“What podcast?” I ask, mostly out of habit.

She blinks. “It didn’t have much reach. Very... local.”

“Name?”

She coughs into her sleeve. “MmmphCast.”

“Sorry? ”

She waves it off. “Not important. What mattered was the workflow. The host was unpredictable. Like, emotional support Google Doc levels of intense.”

I lean in. “Unpredictable how?”

She pauses just long enough for my radar to ping.

“Random schedule. File chaos. Regular identity pivots,” she says brightly. “At one point they tried to make a bonus episode out of crying in a Whole Foods parking lot. I gently intervened.”

Okay. So she knows what she signs up for.

Still sus.

But no crypto. No crystals. No one crying about time being a social construct.

Given I need a new assistant by yesterday... I’ll probably hire her.

I’ve made worse decisions. On camera.