Chapter 10 – The Job, The Monster, and Me

I never thought I’d get it. After dozens of CVs, endless nights working random online gigs, and surviving on instant noodles while raising eight kids, I had honestly stopped hoping.

I still remembered the day I got the call. It was raining—just a soft drizzle tapping on the cracked windowpanes of our apartment. I was folding laundry for the kids while Adam gnawed on a teether and Jay was reciting multiplication tables backwards because “it’s more fun that way, Mama!”

My phone vibrated.

I didn’t even check the number. Lately, unknown numbers usually meant debt collectors or job rejections. Still, something inside me made me answer.

“Hello?” I asked cautiously, balancing a warm towel over my shoulder.

“Is this Ms. Twain? Mannie Twain?”

“Yes.”

“This is Blackmoore Enterprises. We reviewed your application and would like to schedule a formal onboarding. You’ve been accepted into the marketing department under contract. You start next Monday. A message will also be sent to your email address.”

I sat down hard on the couch. My ears rang.

Blackmoore Enterprises?

I thought it was a joke but when the email from Blackmoore Enterprises landed in my inbox that morning, I just stared at it.

Subject line: “We are pleased to offer you a position.”

I blinked. Twice.

I reread the sender, then the subject line again, just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating from lack of sleep. My heartbeat picked up as I clicked the message open with trembling hands. There it was. A formal offer. Salary. Start date. Benefits.

And the logo stamped at the top—Blackmoore Enterprises. The number one conglomerate in City A. The same company from the news. The one that belonged to him.

I didn’t want to think about that part. About Dominic Blackmoore, the cold-eyed man whose image still haunted me since that bar incident. I didn’t even make the connection at first, not until I signed the NDA and got my badge and saw the same name embossed on every elevator wall in that tower of glass and steel.

It wasn’t like I was hired by him. It was a big company. Thousands of employees. No way he’d notice someone like me.

Still, the irony burned.

All that mattered was that I finally had a real job. Something that could pay rent, keep food on the table, and maybe—just maybe—get Lily those new shoes she kept drawing on paper.

I’d worked too hard to get here. Sent resumes to every company I could think of. Learned coding basics from free YouTube videos while breastfeeding twins. Balanced freelance transcription with selling handmade bracelets online. Slept three hours a night.

So no, I wasn’t going to lose this job.

Not even for him.

And especially not for Evan.

God, that man.

I hated him from the moment he introduced himself. Human Resources Manager Evan Lin—slick hair, tight shirts, and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

The first thing he said to me wasn’t “Welcome,” or “Nice to meet you.”

It was: “You’re cuter in person.”

That should’ve been a red flag. But I needed this job. So I laughed it off. Politely. Kept things professional.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept lingering around my desk. Touching my chair when he passed. Asking what perfume I wore. I didn’t even wear perfume—just baby powder and stress.

I told him I wasn’t interested.

He smirked.

Then the emails started.

“Let’s get a drink. Just you and me.”

“Working late? I can keep you company.”

“I can make your life really easy around here, you know…”

I ignored every single one.

Until he cornered me in the break room.

“You really think you’re too good for me?” he said, voice low, his hand brushing my hip like he owned it.

I stepped back, eyes flashing. “Touch me again, and I’ll break that hand.”

His smile dropped. “You really don’t know how this company works, do you?”

I didn’t blink. “Oh, I do. Men like you get away with harassment because women are too scared to fight back.”

“Scared?” he barked a dry laugh. “You’re a single mom with eight kids, right? What happens when I tell Payroll you’re not meeting performance targets?”

I stepped closer. “Do it. But if I lose my job, I’ll make sure every journalist in this city knows exactly how you treat women here. You want to play games? Bring it, Evan.”

He sneered. “You’ll regret this.”

“Not as much as you will.”

His eyes darkened. He leaned in close, his breath foul with something synthetic and cheap. “You’re going to wish you stayed quiet.”

I didn’t flinch. I stood there, heart pounding, teeth clenched, and let him see I wasn’t scared. Not of him. Not of anyone.

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

I exhaled slowly.

The high of adrenaline faded quickly, leaving me shaky and nauseous. I wanted to scream. To cry. To quit.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I went back to my desk and worked. Harder than before.

He didn’t approach me again that day. But the glares he threw across the floor said enough.

Later, as I was organizing print files, I passed by a conference room and heard him whispering to someone. My name came up. Followed by words like “defiant” and “troublemaker.”

Let him talk.

That night, after tucking the kids in, I stayed up finishing a pitch deck just so I could prove to anyone watching that I belonged there.

The next morning, Evan sent me an email marked URGENT. I opened it.

“Report to Floor 19. HR Review. Room 1906.”

My stomach sank. But I went anyway.

Room 1906 turned out to be a narrow office with one desk, two chairs, and a too-bright window. Evan sat behind the desk, arms folded.

“Sit,” he said.

I didn’t move. “If this is about yesterday—”

“You don’t listen well, do you?” he interrupted. “I told you to keep your head down. But no, you had to make things difficult.”

“Are you seriously doing this?”

He leaned forward. “You want to stay here, you’ll need to cooperate.”

“Cooperate,” I repeated, my voice sharp. “You mean sleep with you.”

He smiled like it was a compliment. “Don’t act like you’re better than this.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Careful,” he warned. “My cousin’s the president’s younger brother. One word from me, and you’re gone.”

I laughed then. Laughed loud enough that it startled him. “You really think name-dropping your cousin scares me? I’ve raised eight kids without help, Evan. I’ve scrubbed toilets, worked six jobs, and walked through storms to keep them fed. You think I’m scared of some sleazy little man in an overpriced tie?”

His face turned red. “You’ll regret this.”

“No, Evan,” I said, turning to leave. “You will.”

I wasn’t going to stay silent.

I made up my mind. I was going to report him.

But as I stormed out of the HR floor and reached the elevators, the silver doors opened—and there he was.

Dominic Blackmoore.

Tall, sharp-jawed, eyes like polished steel.

Our eyes met.

His gaze flicked over me, then to the folders in my hand. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

But as the doors slid shut between us, I felt his stare linger, just for a second too long.

Something in me flared. Anger. Shame. Confusion.

Whatever it was, I didn’t care.

I went straight to my cubicle, opened a new tab, and searched for the company’s whistleblower hotline.

If the HR manager wanted war, he’d get it.