There I was, slaving away in the cubicle jungle of a bloated corporation, dreaming of the managerial position that would finally put me on the corporate ladder of doom. Little did I know, my real nightmare was about to knock on the office door. Enter Thaddeus, the new director. He was the stuff clichés are made of: tall, dark, handsome, and carrying enough charisma to fill a stadium.
“Have you seen him?” asked Mara, my ever-watchful coworker, as we brewed our stagnant coffee by the office equivalent of a water cooler. “You might want to look human when you meet him.” Oh, dear.
Thaddeus was not just charming; he was the type that would make even a hostile takeover feel like a gentle massage. Perfect. Exactly what I needed when aiming for that project manager position. But there was a hiccup, a cardboard cut-out villain in the way — Beatrix.
Beatrix, my fashionably late rival, seemed to be everywhere Thaddeus was, chatting him up like a master chess player moving pawns for breakfast. Every now and then, she’d sashay past my cubicle with a smirk painted on her face like a traffic sign to impending doom.
“Let the best woman win,” she chirped one day, prancing by my desk. “Let the best work win,” I countered, praying to the gods of corporate karma.
Figuring she’d put the final nail in my coffin, I worked tirelessly, burning the midnight oil, turning spreadsheets into masterpieces. I even fantasized about impressively flipping my presentation on the boardroom table like a pro illusionist as they gasped in awe.
But no. Drama unfolded quicker than a soap opera. After what felt like an impromptu nighttime ghost tour of our office (thanks to my unintended nap on the desk), I awoke to sounds of mischief. The auditorium of doom echoed the laughter of my rival mingling cozily with the boss.
I ducked under my desk, regretting every detective novel I’d ever read that failed to prep me for such shenanigans.
As the meeting room curtains rose the next day, Beatrix delivered MY work as her own—a Broadway-level horror story with interpretative dance. My jaw hit the floor faster than Thaddeus could blink.
“She stole my work!” I did the unthinkable: I told the truth. But, in the world where charm trumps sense, nobody believed me. My laptop had become an electronic amnesiac; everything was gone.
This was beyond office politics—a cruel charade. As I pointed the accusatory finger, accusing her of being Queen Machiavelli, it somehow became my fault. True sabotage at its finest, or worst, depending on how you view it.
My weekend spiraled into a marshmallow-laden chaos of sobbing sitcom paralysis.
But then, thanks to the good old internet, I unmasked Beatrix’s whereabouts the night of her alleged evil deeds. She wasn’t with Thaddeus; she was caffeinating miles away.
Fast forward a bow and arrow moment, Thaddeus appeared out of the blue, embarrassing roses clumsily tucked under his arm on my fire escape. The sight of him scrambling up was amusing enough to break my funk.
Thaddeus, looking like a rom-com disaster, admitted his errors and even insinuated that somewhere along this chaos, I had garnered his affections. Imagine that! After a tumultuous ride, he finally offered me the deserved role—promotion, department, pomp and all.
“What?” I responded, dumbfounded.
He suavely suggested using the door instead of the fire escape—practicality at its finest.
My career’s newly polished track surprised me. The office game of thrones was far from over, but finally, I’d landed on the right side of the round table. Life, with its endless twists, had granted me a win and maybe more.
Now, dear reader, remember: when your workplace turns into a playground for treachery, always keep your chin up and your plan backed up. And don’t forget—use the door, not the window climb.
