The Assistant.

Chapter 1

"You said you wanted an assignment." 

Oliver barely looks up at me from the paperwork curled under his fingers. His radiating success shames me, evident in how he carries himself, how he's able to make me feel like I'm a million steps below him by simply looking at his fancy haircut. 

He's 2 years old than me, yet he's dominated the industry. In adverts, everts, PR, he's a shark swimming the oceans of marketing. 

To work for him is a privilege. 

To be around him is a sacrifice.

"I know that, and I'm grateful - my concerns are with the budget for this project." I remind him - not trying to undermine my own talents, but needing him to grasp the situation. I could tell him that he would be offering resources up to anyone else. 

The real issue is with his problem with me. 

Austin Ferguson's Magic Touch is about to go on tour in theatres around the city - my job will be to get asses in seats. It's a budget magic show with tricks that have been done before, or debunked online. The presenter has virtually no online presence, and the show itself is unheard of. 

I don't like to think of myself as someone who can't take a challenge. 

There is a difference between giving a challenge and pawning off a shit assignment so Oliver's friends can do off and do the fun things. 

The game shows, the celebrities, and the big companies. 

This assignment - in simple terms - is an insult to my intelligence. I am just as qualified as every other person in this building. 

I deserve a shot. 

A real shot. 

"I need access to company resources to get this business off the ground." I keep my voice firm even though I'm a little paranoid he's too fragile to be spoken to like an equal.

He is my boss.

Yet, it's not my job to make Oliver feel better. It's my job to generate viewer attention and generally advertise a variety of products and services. I'm good at it too, so Oliver will just have to get over his apparent problem with me and grow up. 

"We might lose money on this show if we do that." Oliver finally meets my eyes, annoyance heavy in his glare. "I'm sorry." He tells me, the beginning of something and definitely not an apology. "You've confused me. You don't want this assignment? I'll give it to someone who can handle it."

Handle it. 

The words burn in my chest. Of course I can handle this, my objection lies solely on the fact this is a waste of my time and I could do something better. I don't like Oliver thinking I'm less than, so I pick up the file I had put down a second ago and hold it tight against my chest. 

"I'll update you on my progress." 

"Have fun." Oliver calls out, not caring in the slightest that I've accepted the assignment. It's not even a goodbye - it's telling me get out. 

So I do. 

I close the door behind me heavily and march my way to my tiny corner in the bullpen. All the people who joined the same year as me now have their own offices, but I'm still in the swimming pool with all the newbies and underachievers. 

Oliver says it's because my work is merely satisfactory rather than exceptional. 

He put that in an email. 

My desk is a mess, a language only I understand. I know where everything goes - and which pile of mess to put which thing on. It's a whirlwind of papers and magazines I've been studying for a potential project.