Page 2 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

“O-oh,” I stammer. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” says Margie, sounding annoyed. “Our algorithm selected you as the ideal candidate for this position. I’ve already sent over an official offer, along with the required paperwork. If you accept, Mr. Cabrera Garcia would need you to start right away.”

I shake my head, still stunned that the AI would have picked my application out of the thousands they must have received.

I’d only applied so I’d be able to write up some scathing commentary on how AI distills human beings down to their résumés without taking soft skills into account, but I’d been disappointed to realize that the application was more of a souped-up personality test than a questionnaire about past job experience. I’d chalked it up to some new-fangled talent-development strategy and thrown out the story. I’d completely forgotten about it until now.

“I don’t . . . I mean, doesn’t he want to interview me first?” I ask.

“No. MatchAI is so confident in the accuracy of our algorithm that we are prepared to hire you on the spot.”

I let out a heavy breath, still at a loss for words. While I have no interest in serving as the assistant to Satan himself, my mind is churning with possibilities.

Maybe I’ve been coming at this story from the wrong angle. MatchAI is a fascinating company that people love to hate. It had the most successful IPO in history and has a market cap of two-hundred and eighty-six billion dollars. Their generative AI technology is what caused my dad to lose his job as a sports reporter. It’s fair to say I hold a grudge.

But maybe I should write an exposé on the man behind the company — Rafael Cabrera Garcia, the ruthless billionaire CEO.

The man is an enigma who rarely grants interviews, but I’ve read that he works ninety-hour weeks and survives on just four hours of sleep per night. I’ve also heard that he swims with tiger sharks and that he ate pangolin when traveling in Vietnam, though I doubt either of those things is true.

Working as his assistant would give me unprecedented access to the man and get me a behind-the-scenes look at MatchAI.

“Hello? Ms. Langley?” Margie is getting impatient, and it takes me a second to remember that “Langley” is the alias I used when I filled out the application.

“I-I’m here,” I stutter, shaking my head.

As much as I don’t want to pose as the assistant to a man who stands for everything that’s wrong with the world, this could be the story that saves my career. Hell, it’s the type of story that makes careers. It’s an opportunity I can’t pass up.

“Uh, when do I start?”

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