Naomi came home at six-thirty.
I was still on the couch, still wearing her sweatshirt, still staring at my phone. The interview confirmation glowed on the screen, but I'd read it so many times the words had lost their meaning.
Tomorrow at 10 AM. Mr. Farrow is looking forward to meeting you.
Looking forward to meeting me.
Why? What had I done to deserve the attention of a billionaire CEO? I hadn't applied. I hadn't networked. I'd been hiding on a couch for three days, eating toast and letting a cat judge me.
Something didn't add up.
But I didn't have the energy to solve the puzzle.
"Sloane?" Naomi dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes. "You look exactly the same as when I left."
"I moved. Twice."
"Wow. Productive." She walked to the kitchen, grabbed two waters from the fridge, and handed me one. "Any word from the devil?"
"Derek called six more times. I didn't answer."
"Good girl." She sat down on the other end of the couch, tucking her feet under her. "What about the job thing? Did you hear back from anywhere?"
I handed her my phone.
She read the email. Her eyebrows went up. Then up again. Then she looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Farrow Industries? As in Julian Farrow? The Julian Farrow?"
"The one and only."
"Did you apply for this?"
"No."
"Did you sleep with someone at the company and forget about it?"
"Naomi."
"I'm just asking." She handed back the phone. "This is weird, Sloane. People don't just get recruited for CEO-level executive assistant positions out of nowhere. Especially not people who haven't worked a real job in five years."
I flinched.
She saw it. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Yes, you did. And you're right." I set down the water. "I haven't worked a real job in five years. I've been Derek's ghostwriter, his strategist, his unpaid intern. I don't have a resume. I don't have references. I don't have anything."
Naomi was quiet for a moment.
Then she stood up. Walked to her bedroom. Came back with a laptop.
"Get up," she said.
"What?"
"Get up. We're updating your resume."
"Naomi—"
"You built his whole company, Sloane. Every contract. Every deal. Every late night where he took the credit and you did the work." She opened the laptop, set it on the coffee table, and pulled up a blank document. "Time to build yourself."
I stared at the blinking cursor.
"I don't know how."
"Then I'll teach you." She sat down next to me, close enough that our shoulders touched. "What did you do for Derek's company? And don't say 'nothing.' I know you better than that."
I took a breath.
"I wrote all the contracts. Every single one. NDAs, mergers, vendor agreements, employment terms. Over two hundred documents in five years."
Naomi typed: Contract drafting and negotiation. 200+ agreements.
"What else?"
"I managed his calendar. Not just scheduling—I coordinated with clients, handled conflicts, made sure he was in the right place at the right time."
Executive calendar management. Client coordination.
"I did market research for three major acquisitions. He didn't even know how to read a P&L before I taught him."
Market analysis. Financial research. M&A support.
"I built his relationship with the Wilson account. That was mine. I made that happen."
Key account management. Client retention.
Naomi kept typing. The document grew. Words appeared on the screen—professional, polished, nothing like the way I felt inside.
Strategic planning. Risk assessment. Budget oversight.
Team leadership. Project management. Crisis resolution.
Confidential document preparation. Board presentation support.
By the time she stopped, the resume was two pages long. It listed skills I'd forgotten I had. Accomplishments I'd buried under years of being told I was "just helping."
I read it twice.
"This isn't me," I said.
"It is you. You just forgot." Naomi saved the document, then turned to face me. "Sloane, you ran that man's entire professional life. You made him look competent. Without you, he's nothing. And everyone who actually matters knows it."
"Then why does it feel like I'm nothing?"
"Because he spent five years convincing you that you were." She took my hands. "But you're not. You were never nothing. You were just invisible to someone who didn't deserve to see you."
My throat tightened.
No tears. Still no tears.
But something else. Something that felt like a small, fragile flame.
"The interview is tomorrow," I said. "What am I supposed to wear?"
Naomi smiled. "Finally, a question I can answer."
She dragged me to her closet.