The gate was taller than my apartment building.
I stood in front of it, neck craned back, trying to process what I was looking at. Wrought iron. Gold accents. The Valentine family crest worked into the design, a heart surrounded by four suits of cards.
Subtle. Very subtle.
The guard booth to the right was the size of a small house. Inside, a man in a black suit sat behind what appeared to be a security console with more screens than a NASA control room.
I approached the window.
"Isaiah Angelo. I have a two o'clock appointment."
The guard looked at me. His face was the kind of expressionless that took years of practice to perfect. Former military, probably. Or secret service. Or whatever private security firm billionaires used to keep the peasants out.
"ID."
I handed over my driver's license. He scanned it. Typed something into his computer. Stared at the screen for an uncomfortably long time.
"Purpose of visit?"
"Job interview."
More typing. More staring.
"Wait here."
He picked up a radio. Said something into it that I couldn't hear. Set it down. Returned to staring at his screens.
I stood there.
The September sun was warm. A nice breeze rolled through. Birds were singing somewhere in the distance.
It was actually pretty pleasant.
"So." I leaned against the booth's window ledge. "Nice weather we're having."
The guard did not respond.
"I'm Isaiah, by the way. But you probably know that from the ID."
No response.
"Have you worked here long?"
Nothing.
"Is the silence a job requirement or a personal choice?"
The guard's eye twitched. Just slightly. The only indication he'd heard me at all.
Tough crowd.
I gave up on small talk. Leaned back. Looked at the gate again.
Through the bars, I could see a road. Paved. Pristine. Disappearing into what appeared to be a forest of perfectly maintained trees.
A golf cart appeared in the distance. It took about two minutes to reach the gate. Two minutes of watching a tiny vehicle grow gradually larger against a backdrop of manicured landscape.
They have golf carts just for the driveway.
Of course they do.
The golf cart stopped on the other side of the gate. The driver, another suit-clad security type, stepped out and approached the booth.
"The candidate?"
"Confirmed."
"He'll need processing."
"Understood."
They discussed me like I was a piece of luggage that needed to be routed to the correct destination.
The first guard turned to me. "Step through the side entrance. You'll be processed before continuing to the main house."
"Processed?"
"Standard security protocol."
That doesn't answer my question. But okay.
A smaller gate beside the booth buzzed open. I walked through.
"Processing," it turned out, meant several things.
First, they checked my bag. Every pocket. Every compartment. The granola bar wrapper from the train got a particularly suspicious examination.
Then they checked my pockets. Phone, wallet, keys. Each item was logged on a tablet.
Then they checked my person. A metal detector wand passed over me like I was boarding a flight to somewhere classified.
"Arms up."
I complied. The wand beeped near my chest.
"What's that?"
"Zipper. On the tie."
The guard examined my tie. Iris's gift. The silver threads, apparently, were enough to trigger security concerns.
"It's just decoration."
He stared at me. Then at the tie. Then back at me.
"Fine."
The wand continued its journey. No more beeps.
"Any recording devices? Cameras? Audio equipment?"
"No."
"Any weapons? Controlled substances? Items that could be used for blackmail or coercion?"
"Uh. No?"
"Sign here."
A tablet appeared in front of me. On the screen, a document. Dense text. Legal language.
"What is this?"
"Non-disclosure agreement. Standard for all visitors."
I scrolled through it. Pages and pages of legal jargon about confidentiality, media rights, liability waivers.
"This is... comprehensive."
"It's baseline."
"Baseline?"
"For any of the Valentine sisters' romantic interests."
I looked up. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Romantic interests. Boyfriends. Dates. Suitors." The guard's expression remained completely neutral. "Anyone spending extended time with the family signs this. Prevents leaked photos. Tabloid stories. That sort of thing."
They have an NDA for DATING?
"I'm not dating any of them. I'm here for the personal assistant position."
The guard looked at me. Something that might have been surprise flickered across his face before disappearing.
"You're the assistant candidate?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you a bit young to be a personal assistant?"
"Yes. Yes I am."
The guard stared at me for a long moment.
"Sign the document."
I signed the document.
"Processing complete. You may proceed to the main house."
The golf cart was nicer than some cars I'd been in.
Leather seats. A small roof for shade. The Valentine crest embossed on the steering wheel.
Even the golf carts are branded. Incredible.
The second guard, who had been silent throughout the entire processing ordeal, gestured for me to sit in the passenger seat. I complied.
We started moving.
The estate unfolded around us like a dream. Or a movie set. Or the kind of wealth that normal people only saw in magazines.
The "driveway" was more of a private road. Smooth asphalt, lined with trees that had probably been planted by people whose job was specifically to plant aesthetically pleasing trees. Every few hundred feet, a lamp post appeared.
Beyond the trees, I caught glimpses of the grounds. A pond with swans. Actually swans. White ones, gliding across the water like they were posing for a painting.
"Are those real?"
The guard glanced at me. "The swans?"
"Yeah."
"Yes."
"Do they live here? Year-round?"
"They have a heated enclosure for winter."
We passed a tennis court. Professional grade, from the looks of it. Green surface, white lines, a small viewing pavilion on one side.
Then a pool. Olympic-sized. Crystal blue water that sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Then a garden. Not a normal garden. A Japanese garden, complete with a koi pond, stone lanterns, and a wooden bridge that looked like it belonged in a museum.
"How big is this property?"
"Seventy-five acres."
"Seventy-five."
"Yes."
Seventy-five acres. That's... I don't even know what to compare that to. Central Park is like eight hundred acres, so this is almost a tenth of Central Park for one family.
The golf cart crested a small hill, and the main house came into view.
I stopped breathing for a second.
It wasn't a house. It was a mansion. A manor. The kind of building that belonged in a Jane Austen novel or a European period drama.
White stone. Three stories, at least. Windows that seemed to go on forever. A grand entrance with columns that looked like they'd been imported from ancient Greece.
The architecture was strange, though. Not purely Western. There were curves to the rooflines that suggested Japanese influence. A blend of European grandeur and Eastern elegance that shouldn't have worked but somehow did.
I live in a fourth-floor walkup with a temperamental water heater and a couch for a bed.
We are not the same.
"We've arrived."
I stepped out of the golf cart. Stood at the base of the stairs leading to the front door.
The door was massive. Dark wood. Brass handles. The kind of door that said "important people live here and you are probably not one of them."
"Someone will receive you inside."
The guard drove away.
Okay, Isaiah. You've got this. It's just a job interview. A job interview in a building that could house your entire neighborhood. With four sisters who may or may not want you dead. And a mother who runs a billion-dollar empire.
No pressure.
I climbed the stairs.
Reached the door.
Raised my hand to knock.
The door opened before I could.
A woman stood there. Mid-thirties. Severe bun. The expression of someone who had seen too much and expected too little.
"Isaiah Angelo?"
"That's me."
"I'm Miranda. Mrs. Valentine's personal assistant." She stepped aside. "The sisters are waiting for you in the main parlor. Follow me."
I followed her inside.
The interior was somehow more impressive than the exterior. A grand foyer with ceilings that disappeared into shadow. A staircase that curved upward like something from a fairy tale. Artwork on the walls that was probably worth more than my lifetime earning potential.
And in the center of it all, a portrait.
A man. Dark hair, kind eyes, a smile that seemed genuine even in paint. He wore a suit that looked casual somehow, like he was the kind of person who could make formal wear feel comfortable.
The plaque beneath read: "Richard Valentine. 1972-2023."
"This way, Mr. Angelo."
Miranda was already moving. I hurried to catch up.
The hallways seemed endless. Left turn, right turn, past rooms with closed doors and rooms with open ones. A library with books floor to ceiling. A sitting room with furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. A music room with a grand piano gleaming under soft light.
How do they not get lost? Do they have maps? GPS? Breadcrumb trails?
Finally, we stopped in front of a set of double doors.
"The main parlor." Miranda's hand rested on the handle. "The sisters will conduct the interview themselves. Mrs. Valentine sends her regards but is unable to attend today."
"Understood."
"A word of advice, Mr. Angelo."
"Yes?"
"Be yourself. They've had seven assistants before you. All of them tried to be what they thought the family wanted." She opened the door.
"None of them lasted."