FIVE
RYDER
Mei-Lee meets me at the front door like clockwork. I don’t know how she always seems to know I’m coming. It’s not like she can hear the garage or the engine of my Ferrari humming down the driveway. Still, I have a feeling she senses the vibrations through the walls and floorboards of the mansion.
I’m psychic, she signs with a small, teasing smile as I step into the main foyer. I always know when you’re near. You’ve got an aura.
If you say so, I sign back, lifting a brow.
I polished all the windows today, she goes on, her hands moving swiftly and precisely. Checked the pool chemicals again, swept every floor, and your suit for tomorrow is ironed and hanging in your closet.
I nod, quietly impressed. Somehow, she gets more done in a single day than most people manage in a week. Mei-Lee is in her mid-sixties, but she works like she’s thirty.
She’s been my housekeeper and honestly, the soul of this house for over seven years now. Without her, the place would be chaos.
And it’s not a small place. Sixteen bedrooms, sixteen bathrooms, three floors plus a basement. Out back, there’s an infinity pool overlooking Los Angeles from the highest point in Beverly Hills.
I bought the property after Tarantula—my first real film made it big. It was a modern horror flick. Not my proudest work, but maybe that’s just the perfectionist in me talking. Still, it pulled in big numbers at the box office. I’m still collecting residuals.
Want me to make you dinner? she signs.
I’m good, I reply.
She narrows her eyes at me and signs with a huff, You shouldn’t skip meals, Ryder.
I let out a quiet chuckle. She’s the only person who can call me that without getting a look.
I’ll be fine, I sign back. Go get some rest.
She clicks her tongue and signs over her shoulder as she walks away, Don’t stay up too late.
I’ve given her a room in the south wing—her own space. Housing prices in L.A. are ridiculous, and while I pay her more than fairly, she sends most of it back home to her family in China. It just makes sense for her to live here. It’s easier on both of us.
I make my way to the third floor, every step heavy. I used to think running my own studio would mean freedom and flexibility.
Now I oversee Star Rider Studio—a full-fledged production company. We don’t just make films; we do TV, too. Dramas, comedies, family content, romances... I’ve got my fingers in every pie.
And it’s draining.
My days are a blur of meetings, spreadsheets, creative pitches, press junkets, scheduling conflicts, budget approvals, and agents trying to push their overpaid clients down my throat. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in what feels like years.
Sometimes, I honestly don’t know how I keep going.
My bedroom is stark and dark—plain by choice. I don’t bother decorating it. I’m barely ever here. In fact, my office at the studio feels more lived-in than this entire wing of the house. Occasionally, I wonder if the only reason I come back at all is so Mei-Lee doesn’t feel alone.
Same routine as always: I strip down, hit the shower, dry off, throw on a pair of boxer briefs, and crawl into bed.
But even then—I don’t sleep.
There’s too much to do to even think about sleep. In the short time it takes me to step into the bathroom and come back out, my phone lights up with over fifty notifications—emails, missed calls, text messages, all demanding my attention.
I lean back against the headboard, sighing as I pinch the bridge of my nose. My eyes are screaming from the strain, and I can already feel a migraine clawing its way into my skull.
This would all be so much easier if I had a personal assistant.
Just as I’m about to dive back into the chaos, a rare moment of calm settles over me—brought on by thoughts of Eve.
Her resumé was almost laughable. Sparse. Weak, even. She didn’t have the recommendations or industry experience the other applicants boasted.
Sure, she had a degree but in bioscience, of all things. Not exactly the field you need to master if your job is to grab lattes and pick up dry cleaning.
She mentioned internships, unpaid work. And I need…
I wonder what she was about to say. What does she really need?
A steady income, probably. Maybe she’s saving up for something. You’d think her father could help out.
It’s been a long time since I’ve let my thoughts linger on Thomas. It’s not that I hate him—though I doubt he’d extend the same courtesy.
We haven’t exchanged a single word since that blow-up. I surged ahead in the industry, while he faded into the background. We drifted apart, and I haven’t seen any reason to rebuild the bridge we burned.
He said you wouldn’t be coming around anymore. Said we shouldn’t talk to you.
That’s fine by me. Eve doesn’t need to know what really went down. There's no sense in dragging her into the wreckage Thomas left behind.
My phone rings, slicing through the silence. It’s after 2 a.m., and I’m not thrilled. I answer, clipped and tired. “What now?”
“Apologies for the late hour, Mr. Vane,” Renee says with her usual calm. “But we’ve got a situation.”
“This can’t wait until morning?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I bite down my irritation. Renee is head of finance at Star Rider Studios—sharp, dependable. If she says it’s urgent, it’s urgent.
“Well?”
“The Shansen Group is threatening to pull out of the investment,” she says. “They’re unhappy with how the film depicts their government.”
My migraine roars to life. I knew this was coming. Hollywood depends on foreign investments now more than ever—but creative control comes with strings.
At some point, art stopped being art and became a political tightrope walk.
From the narrative of the film, to casting quotas, to which luxury brands score background cameos—it all hinges on sponsorships and appeasement.
“Juliet After Romeo is based on real events,” I say. “I’m not rewriting history just because they don’t like the reflection.”
“If they pull out, we lose thirty million.”
“Did you count the fifteen Hartley pledged?”
“I did, sir. Even with that, we’d be operating at a major loss. It could delay the entire pipeline by a year if we shelve the film again.”
There’s no room for temper. Not in my job. I have to put out a dozen fires every single day. Fury wastes time. I need quick, clean decisions.
“Fine,” I say. “Tell them we understand their concerns, but we won’t compromise the integrity of the script. We’re already talking with Red Dragon Investments.”
“With respect, sir, we’re not.”
“I know. I’m bluffing.” I suppress a yawn. “Draft the email. Make it polite. I’ll sign off on it once I’m in the office.”
"Very clever, sir. I’ll take care of it."
“Good night, Renee.”
“Good night, Mr. Vane.”
I toss my phone face-down and switch it to silent with an annoyed exhale. If those bastards think I’m desperate enough to bend over backwards for them, they’ve clearly forgotten who the hell I am.
I’m Ryder fucking Vane—no one jerks me around.
Still, no matter how hard I try to wind down, my brain refuses to cooperate. It never stops, not even for a second. Always buzzing—planning, calculating, problem-solving.
There are too many things in motion. Too many people to meet, too many fake smiles to wear, and too many employees to keep in line.
I used to think all the money and acclaim would buy me peace. But in reality? It’s just more stress in a shinier package. Everyone wants a slice of me, and I’m already running on fumes.
That’s why I posted the job listing for a personal assistant to begin with. Someone to take some of the pressure off so I can focus on what actually matters—directing, producing, creating something that ignites me.
I want someone who actually respects me. Someone who’ll have my back.
And then—just like that—Eve flashes through my mind again. Those delicate lashes, that sleek black hair, the way her dress clung to her body just enough to keep me curious.
I don’t know what I’m thinking when I grab my phone. I don’t know what I expect to happen when I scroll through her old application and find her number. I don’t even know why my cock stirs the moment I hear her sleepy groan through the receiver.
“Hello?”
I wet my lips. “You still looking for a job?”
“Ryder?” she mumbles, yawning. “It’s three in the morning…”
“I asked you a question, Eve.”
“Um… Yeah, I am. Still looking. Why?”
I briefly consider hanging up—but I talk myself out of it. There's nothing wrong with offering her a job she clearly needs. I’m capable of keeping things professional. I can ignore the heat crawling under my skin. I have boundaries, a conscience. I’m not a monster.
I need a personal assistant, and the idea of sitting through another parade of fake smiles and useless resumes makes me want to bash my head against a wall. At least with Eve, I know what I’m getting—and I can stomach her.
As long as I set the rules up front, there’s no reason this can’t work. She can work for me. Strictly business.
“I’ll give you an advance, full health benefits from day one, and two and a half weeks paid vacation if you start Monday morning.”
There’s a beat of silence so long, I wonder if she’s passed out on me. Then—
“I want three weeks vacation. And dental. And a reserved parking space—parking outside the studio nearly wiped me out last time.”
I chuckle under my breath. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“You called me, remember?”
I smirk. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”