The third assistant this week lasted exactly eleven minutes.

“Why,” Celeste Arden asked calmly, “would you hand me almond milk?” The boy froze beside her desk. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-three. Perfect hair. Expensive shoes. Terrified eyes.

“You asked for a latte,” he said carefully. Celeste looked at the cup like it contained human remains.

“I asked for oat milk.”

“I—I thought—”

“That was your first mistake.” Across the office, Nina Vale quietly lowered her eyes and continued typing. Celeste rose slowly from her chair.

“You know what your generation mistakes for confidence?” she asked. The assistant swallowed.

“Authenticity.” Celeste stepped closer. “Every successful person in this city is performing. The intelligent ones simply perform well.”

“I can go get another one,” he said quickly.

“Oh, I know you can. You seem deeply qualified for beverage retrieval.” Nina closed her eyes briefly. Poor bastard.

Celeste took the latte from his hand. Then dropped it directly into the trash. The assistant flinched.

“I hired you because your résumé described you as ‘exceptionally detail-oriented,’” Celeste said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And yet somehow you arrived in my office carrying the culinary equivalent of wet drywall.”

Silence. Far below the towering glass windows, Los Angeles shimmered in the afternoon heat. Inside the office, nobody breathed. Celeste tilted her head slightly.

“Tell me your name again.”

“Ethan.”

“No,” she said softly. “I mean your last name. The first one won’t matter by tomorrow.” Nina bit the inside of her cheek.

“Parker,” he whispered.

“Ethan Parker.” Celeste nodded once. “Wonderful. That sounds employable.” She looked him over once.

“Let me take a wild guess,” she said. Ethan said nothing.

“You’re from Arizona.”

“…Colorado.”

“Close enough. Somewhere with motivational sunsets and no industry.” Nina stared very hard at her keyboard.

“You moved here six months ago,” Celeste continued. “You tell people you’re a screenwriter, but mostly you just open Final Draft and panic professionally.” Ethan’s face lost color.

“You took this job because you thought proximity creates opportunity. Fetch coffee for the powerful long enough and eventually someone says…” She lowered her voice mockingly.

“‘Kid, you’ve got something.’” Silence.

“There it is,” Celeste said softly. “That little look people get when Hollywood finally introduces itself.” Nobody moved.

“You guessed wrong.” Then the kill shot:

“This city doesn’t reward desire, Ethan. It feeds on it.”

Nina immediately looked down. Because every now and then Celeste said something that made her sound less like a producer… and more like a vampire.

“Ms. Arden, I really—”

“You know the fascinating thing about assistants?” Celeste interrupted. Nobody spoke.

“They always believe they were hired to help me.” She smiled faintly.

“They were hired to survive me.” There it was. The line.Celeste always had one. The assistant looked moments away from cardiac arrest.

“I can do better,” he said.

Celeste studied him for a long moment.

Then:

“I know.”

Hope flickered across his face.

And Nina immediately looked away.

Because that tone never meant mercy.

Celeste walked behind her desk and sat elegantly.

“But I have absolutely no interest in watching you try.”

Silence. Then…

“You’re fired.” The words landed softly. Which somehow made them worse. Ethan stared at her. Just stared. Like people always did right before reality arrived.

“But it was just coffee.”

Celeste gave him a look usually reserved for people who coughed during funerals. “No,” she said. “It was attention to detail. Timing. Pressure. Standards. The tiny things people reveal about themselves when consequences seem small.” She leaned back in her chair. “And if you collapse over coffee, you’ll drown during blood.”

Nina stopped typing. Even after eight years, lines like that still hit like cold water. Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Celeste waved one elegant hand toward the door.

“You have ninety seconds before security develops a personality.” He left without another word. The office doors shut. Silence returned instantly. Celeste picked up another stack of scripts.

“Who’s next?” Celeste called out.

Nina stared at her. “You fired three assistants this week.”

“Correction,” Celeste said without looking up. “I corrected three hiring mistakes.”

Nina sighed.

“I have interviews scheduled at four, Nina.” “Try not to choose anyone with dead eyes this time. I need ambition. Desperation is acceptable. Delusion is ideal.”

Nina stood slowly. “At some point,” she said carefully, “you are going to run out of assistants in Los Angeles.”

Celeste finally looked up. “That’s the beauty of Hollywood, Nina.” A small smile curved her lips.

“There’s always another beautiful idiot arriving tomorrow.”