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My name is Ariella Monroe, and if life had a script, mine must've been written by a drunk screenwriter with a God complex.
I'm the first child of four, raised by a mother with tired eyes and a heart too soft for this world. Dad dipped out when I was ten — said he was going to "get help." I guess he found it at the bottom of someone else's bed, because he never came back.
We never heard from him again. No postcards. No Christmas calls. Just vanished, like he got raptured and forgot to take the rest of us.
Growing up, I wasn't the pretty one. I wasn't the rich one. I was the responsible one. The fixer. The backbone. The one who knew how to stretch ten dollars into dinner for six. I learned early how to budget, hustle, and lie through my teeth to keep the lights on. School was a blur, dreams were distant, and survival was a full-time job.
I worked everywhere — from gas stations to retail to restaurants. If it paid minimum wage and didn't require a degree, I probably wore the uniform. I've cleaned motel rooms so dirty they'd give horror movies a run for their money. I've sold perfume samples at the mall, and I once stood outside in a sandwich board costume in winter because I needed cash that bad.
At the time, I was cleaning hotel bathrooms by day and waiting tables at Rosie's Diner by night. That was my life — bleach, sweat, and the clinking of cheap cutlery. Sleep was a luxury. Dreams were liabilities. And happiness? A myth peddled by people who could afford avocado toast.
But hey, I had goals. Not dreams — goals. Concrete. Measurable. Like:
1. Get my siblings through school.
2. Pay off Mama's medical bills.
3. Never need to ask anyone for anything, ever again.
I wasn't looking for love. Wasn't looking for drama. Definitely wasn't looking for him.
But then he walked into Rosie's.
Three-piece suit. Rolex watch. Ice in his stare. The kind of man who didn't just own the room — he probably owned the entire block. His presence? Loud. His expression? Disgusted. Like even the air offended his lungs.
He slid into a booth like the seat owed him something. I didn't know who he was. Just thought he was another rich jerk with no manners.
"You gonna order or just glare at the table?" I asked, pen tapping against my notepad.
He looked up. Slowly. As if the sound of my voice personally offended him.
"Excuse me?" he said, in a voice that sounded like money and menace.
"You heard me," I snapped. "It's a diner, not your penthouse. Pick a meal or pick a fight — either way, I'm tired."
He said nothing. Just watched me with the kind of intensity that made my skin itch. I rolled my eyes and walked off, thinking great, now I've pissed off Mr. Monopoly.
I forgot about him within the hour.
Until two weeks later.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of our tiny apartment, phone at 5% battery, scrolling through job postings while my little brother argued with my sister over cereal. I hadn't paid rent. My mom's hospital bill reminder was staring at me from the fridge, passive-aggressive and pink.
Then I saw it — a listing for a cleaner at Blackwood Enterprises.
Long shot. They probably wanted someone with a resume made of gold foil and blood type verified by NASA, but I clicked Apply anyway. I was desperate.
Didn't expect a call. Definitely didn't expect an interview.
And I sure as hell didn't expect him.
Damien Blackwood.
CEO. Billionaire. Tech mogul. Power-drunk god in a custom suit.
And the man I told to "pick a meal or pick a fight."
There he was, sitting at the head of the interview table like a king bored of his kingdom. The boardroom smelled like leather and intimidation. The walls were glass, and the skyline behind him looked like it bent just to frame his silhouette.
The room was silent when I walked in. His eyes landed on me, and something flickered across his face — amusement? Recognition? Revenge?
"This is the applicant?" he asked his assistant, voice cold and amused.
I wanted the floor to open up and eat me alive.
But I stood tall. Didn't flinch.
"Yes, sir," the assistant replied.
He looked at me. I looked back.
And then — to everyone's shock, especially mine — he said:
"Hire her. But not as a cleaner."
Pause.
"Make her my personal assistant."
My jaw nearly unhinged. "I didn't apply for that."
"You're overqualified for a mop," he said flatly. "I want you close. I like… initiative."
Translation? He remembered me.
And now he wanted to play.
This wasn't a promotion. It was a trap. A punishment dressed in Prada.
But the pay?
It could save my family. Pay off my mama's debts. Put food on our table. Buy time.
So I said yes.
Even though every part of me whispered don't.
Because the man I insulted just hired me…
And I don't think he plans to make my life easy.
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I left the building with shaky legs and a shaky soul. The moment the doors slid shut behind me, I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. My phone buzzed in my pocket — a reminder from my banking app that I was $14.38 away from a negative balance.
Perfect. Maybe I'd get my first billionaire paycheck in time to buy exactly one and a half packs of noodles.
I walked home, because I couldn't afford a bus. Again. My sneakers were talking at the soles, flapping with every step. I passed luxury stores and cafés filled with people who never had to measure powdered milk or water down shampoo.
And yet, somehow, I was about to start working for one of them.
Blackwood Enterprises was the kind of company that made the news when they changed their logo. Damien Blackwood's face had been splashed across Forbes, GQ, TIME… and now he'd seen mine. In a diner. With grease stains on my apron.
And he still hired me?
What was his game?
When I got home, I collapsed on the couch, breathing like I just ran a marathon — a broke, emotional marathon.
"Did you get it?" Mama asked from the kitchen. Her voice was thin, soft. She moved slow these days. The meds dulled her, but not enough to silence the guilt in her eyes.
"I got something," I replied. I left out the part about insulting my new boss and getting a job I didn't apply for.
My siblings, oblivious, were laughing at a TikTok on the floor. For a second, the chaos felt normal. But my chest was still tight.
I went to bed early, but I didn't sleep.
Because starting tomorrow, I was going to be Damien Blackwood's assistant.
And if the look in his eyes was anything to go by…
He planned to break me.
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