Page 7 of The Billionaire Alpha's Assistant

“I-I thought it was mushroom coffee.”

“It is,” says Rafael. “Half mushroom powder, half espresso.”

“Oh,” I whisper, wishing Vivian was still here so I could strangle her. She could have mentioned that. “I’m sorry, I —”

“Have you ever worked as an executive assistant before?” Rafael snaps, looking at me as though I’m some imbecile his people found wandering around outside the building.

I feel my cheeks flush and bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from lashing out. “No.”

“No?” He lets out a haughty breath of laughter through his nose and shakes his head. “Have you worked as an administrative assistant or done any secretarial work of any kind?”

“No,” I whisper.

This is it. He’s going to call my bluff and fire me. So much for the story that was going to save my career. I wonder how much TMZ would pay to learn that the billionaire CEO of MatchAI drinks mushroom coffee.

Rafael gives an angry shake of his head. “So what did you do before this? Clearly, you weren’t a barista.”

I bristle at his condescending tone. “I . . . worked for UltraComm,” I say, working to keep my voice steady. It’s technically the truth. “It was mostly a research position.”

Rafael furrows his brow. “And you thought you’d apply to work for me.”

“I’ve been following MatchAI from the start,” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eye. “I thought it would be interesting to work alongside the CEO.”

Rafael makes an aggravated noise in his throat. “You thought it would be interesting.”

My cheeks heat, but I don’t drop my gaze. I may have only applied for the job as research for my story, but it was his stupid algorithm that chose my application. Rafael Cabrera Garcia is not going to make me feel dumb.

“You have no relevant experience, and you thought it would be interesting to work for the fastest-growing generative-AI company in the world,” Rafael continues. His eyes flash, those flecks of gold gleaming, and something about the tight set of his jaw makes me want to take a step back.

He reaches into a stack of papers on his desk and pulls one off the top. “Alexandra Langley. Bachelor’s degree in communications.” His gaze flickers back to me. “Was that the easiest major you could think of, or did they not offer basket weaving at Hutchings’ College of the Arts?”

My jaw drops at the insult, and Rafael goes back to perusing my application.

“IQ is one oh two.” He makes an unimpressed humming noise in his throat. “Enneagram type three, which signals a high need to achieve and be praised for your efforts.” He shakes his head and tosses down my application. “This is not a youth soccer league, Ms. Langley. I will not praise you for doing your job. I will not praise you for producing excellent work. Excellence is expected here.”

I shake my head, throat dry. My face burns with fury and indignation, but I keep my mouth shut.

“I expect nothing short of perfection from my assistants. I oversee six thousand and twenty-seven employees across five countries. My development team is currently rolling out seventeen different iterations of our product, each tailored to a specific sector’s needs. We currently have contracts with the US Armed Forces, NASA, and twelve Fortune 500 companies that want to use our AI for talent development. We are in talks to roll out our products in another six. I need an assistant who can be one step ahead of me — who can anticipate my every desire and ensure that each moment of my day is optimized.” He narrows his eyes. “I need you to get up to speed quickly.”

I swallow at the intensity of his gaze, though my insides are bubbling with rage.

Rafael Cabrera Garcia is even worse than I imagined. Arrogant. Condescending. Cruel.

Who is he to assume that I’m some airhead just because of where I went to school or what his bullshit IQ test says? I was accepted at Northwestern, but I couldn’t afford it. I graduated in the top two percent of my class, not because I’m uniquely gifted, but because I worked my ass off.

Rafael doesn’t know me, and yet he acts as though he has me all figured out because of some stupid personality test.

All I want to do is throw his pretentious mushroom coffee in his lap and storm out that door, but a niggling realization in the back of my mind keeps me rooted to the spot.

Rafael doesn’t think that I belong here, but he won’t say so because he doesn’t want to admit that his algorithm did a shit job of selecting his assistant.

The move to use AI to hire me was a highly publicized PR stunt. If he dismisses me, it will signal to the entire world that MatchAI’s technology is crap. He can’t afford that kind of bad press — particularly not with so many giant corporations showing interest in using the technology.

Rafael can’t fire me — no matter what I do.

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