“People are so empty-headed, they’ll believe anything.”

As I watched Zoe Saldana snag her first Golden Globe from my wifey’s Larchmont condo, surrounded by my closest friends, I couldn’t believe I had given up a meeting with a billionaire to go work for her.

Sitting in the Centurion Lounge at the Atlanta airport, I scoured the internet for job opportunities. Fresh off a sabbatical in Europe and Sag Harbor, I had ventured to Los Angeles to begin a new chapter.

A foreign number popped up on my phone, leaving a voicemail from a man with a thick Italian accent. After some back-and-forth, I demanded to know how this Italian had gotten my number and why he was so insistent that I speak with his wife.

Before I knew it, I was thrown into a group chat with the Italian and his wife, an A-list actress. Exhausted from a long flight and several vodkas deep, I settled into my wifey’s dining room for a Zoom call with the couple. I should have known then: never trust a Gemini, especially a female of that zodiac nature.

Setting clear boundaries, I expressed what I needed in a new job: reasonable hours so I could find a husband and get my Hungarian sporting dog back. The couple seemed to agree, acknowledging that a long-term executive assistant couldn’t afford to burn out. But little did I know, they had no intention of keeping their word.

I had made it to the final round of interviews with a prominent billionaire, with only one step left: meeting the mogul in L.A. the following week. But my heart pulled me toward the actress and her husband, who seemed desperate for someone they could rely on. After a series of negotiations with their business manager, I left $55K on the table and turned down the billionaire meeting.

A week later, all I could hear at 5 a.m. was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman declaring, “Big mistake. Huge.”

A consultation with a lawyer became necessary to negotiate contracts ensuring I retained the rights to my creative work while under employment. Their business manager agreed to the terms, making me feel secure in my writing. I was excited to get to work, eager to meet my dream director when filming began in a few months.

But I never made it to that set.

Months later, I consulted a family lawyer, only to find out I owed $100K in punitive damages every time I spoke publicly about this couple.

After just three days on the job, I was fired for not responding to a text message quickly enough. I had set my boundaries, attended a friend’s birthday dinner, and even agreed to be set up on a blind date, only to return home to three missed texts confirming I’d be in Montecito the next day. Though I responded first thing in the morning, it wasn’t enough—because for an A-list narcissist, nothing is ever enough. It’s modern-day slavery, disguised by the shiny allure of working for a celebrity.

I will never forget the love I shared with that couple’s boys, playing soccer in the daylight. Nor will I forget the internal pain I felt as I sat down for family dinner, listening to those same boys being screamed at, just as I had been as a child.

The meatballs had been rolled perfectly by their mother and me, only for her to turn full Gemini, unleashing her rage on minors whom she publicly declared were the loves of her life.