Chapter 1: Soup, Scandal, and the Queen Bee

While I was talking with the new supervisor in the break room about the layoffs, a sudden shock of heat made me flinch—someone had just dumped a ladleful of steaming vegetable soup down my shoulder. The scalding liquid seeped through my shirt, burning my skin, and I gasped, heart pounding. The sting was sharp, the embarrassment even sharper, as everyone turned to look.

The soup was still steaming, leaving a wet, orange trail down the sleeve of my button-down. The sharp scent of celery and tomato clung to me, making the whole situation even more embarrassing. The fabric stuck to my skin, heavy and sticky, amplifying my frustration. The break room, with its humming refrigerator and flickering fluorescent lights, suddenly felt much smaller, like the walls were closing in on me.

The woman didn’t even bother with an apology. Instead, she jabbed a finger at the supervisor, let out a brash laugh, and said, “Is this the new guy? Big head, big ears—bet he’s lucky, huh?” Her words landed with a thud, drawing a few snickers from the tables nearby.

Her voice boomed with that unmistakable Midwest-mom energy—like the kind you’d find running the PTA or refereeing the little league, always the loudest in the room. She sized him up with the confidence of someone judging a pie contest at the county fair, her gaze unflinching and almost theatrical.

The new supervisor looked completely blindsided.

He’d only been here a day, and already he was getting roasted in the break room by a woman he’d never met. His jaw hung open, eyes wide, and for a second, it seemed like he might try to defend himself, but all that came out was a stunned silence.

I quickly tried to explain, “Marge, it’s not like that—”

I held my hands up, trying to defuse things before they got any weirder. My voice came out a little too high, betraying my nerves and a flash of frustration at being put on the spot.

“All right, all right!” She grabbed a used napkin from her tray and tossed it to me. “It’s just an old shirt. Don’t act like it’s some kind of treasure. Wipe it off yourself. I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s pouring outside and the linoleum’s slick.”

The napkin landed on my lap, already soggy and dotted with ketchup. The paper felt cold and clammy in my hand, and the faint smell of old grease and tomato sauce made me wrinkle my nose. The other folks at her table snickered, and I could feel my face burning with embarrassment and anger. Marge didn’t even glance back as she turned away.

With that, she strutted off with her friends, their laughter and chatter trailing behind her like perfume.

Their laughter echoed down the hall, a little too loud, a little too practiced. I caught the tail end of a joke about someone in HR and the jangling of a friend’s bracelets, the sound sharp and dismissive.

The new supervisor turned to me, incredulous. “Who is that? She’s so full of herself.”

He still looked like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. He ran a hand through his hair—thankfully soup-free but visibly rattled. His accent hinted at upstate New York, the kind of guy who’d seen some tough offices but nothing quite like this circus.

I replied, “She’s our team lead.”

I said it quietly, like I was admitting to a crime. The words tasted bitter. I tried to smile, but it was thin, not reaching my eyes.

He frowned. “That can’t be right. Why didn’t I see her at the morning meeting?”

His brow furrowed, and he looked at me like I was pulling his leg. He tapped his pen against his notepad, as if trying to make sense of it by sheer force of will.

I shrugged helplessly. “She usually only shows up around lunch.”

I gave a little laugh, but it sounded hollow. “She’s always fashionably late,” I added, glancing at the clock. “Lunch is her big event.”

The new supervisor looked even more displeased. “What’s her name?”

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the notes app, ready to jot it down like a red flag.

“Marge Evans.”

The name hung in the air, heavy as a thundercloud. I said it quietly, almost wishing he’d forget it.

He gave a strange smile. “What a coincidence—she’s on the department’s layoff list.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. His lips curled up in a half-smirk, half-grimace. For a second, I wondered if he was joking.

I immediately waved my hands. “You can’t lay her off!”

My voice shot up, panic lacing every word. I glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. “Trust me, it’s not that simple.”

He looked confused. “Why not?”

He set his coffee down, watching me closely, clearly trying to figure out what he’d stepped into.

I leaned in and whispered, “Her brother-in-law is our VP of Business—Mr. Cavanaugh!”

I checked over my shoulder, lowering my voice to a hush. “She’s family with the top brass. That’s why she gets away with everything.”

The new supervisor leaned back, thinking. “So that’s why the CEO transferred me here. It’s all about who you know.”

He let out a slow sigh, rubbing his chin. “Figures. Office politics, right?” He looked like he’d just solved a puzzle he wished he hadn’t started.

Everyone in the department knows: Marge is Mr. Cavanaugh’s wife’s younger sister. Thanks to that, she acts like the department’s queen bee—just like the leader of the most exclusive high school clique, untouchable and always in control.

Everybody and their dog knows not to cross her. She struts around like she owns the place, and honestly, in some ways, she does.

The previous supervisor had a run-in with her, so she complained to her brother-in-law. That supervisor was immediately reassigned to the warehouse. Because of this, everyone is afraid of her.

One week you’re running the department, the next you’re counting boxes next to the loading dock. Folks still whisper about it in the break room, like it’s some urban legend.

Connections are everything.

That’s the motto around here, even if no one says it out loud. Doesn’t matter how hard you work—if you’re not plugged in, you’re just a number.

Marge brought several of her girlfriends onto our team, and even brought in a guy from a nightclub—her so-called ‘puppy dog,’ like something out of a reality show. They barely do any work, but still get paid like everyone else.

It’s like she’s running her own little club. The guy from the nightclub? He once showed up in aviator sunglasses and called Marge ‘boss’ in front of the director, like he thought he was in a music video. Her girlfriends are always painting their nails with Target polish at their desks, Starbucks cups in hand, gossiping about everyone else’s shoes.

All these shady things happen right in front of us, but everyone is too afraid to speak up.

If you say anything, you’re next in line for the chopping block. Most folks just keep their heads down, praying for a better transfer, or at least a quiet day.

The new supervisor seemed to get my concern. He pulled a resignation notice from his folder and showed it to me. “Don’t spread this around yet. The CEO gave it to me in private.”

He held the paper so only I could see, his eyes darting to the door. It felt like we were in some kind of spy movie, passing classified documents under the table—my hands actually started to tremble.

I stared at the notice in shock. Mr. Cavanaugh’s name was actually on it!

The letters looked huge, even though they were typed in Times New Roman. My hands started to sweat. This was bigger than I’d imagined.

What did this mean? Was the company about to change?

My mind raced with possibilities. Layoffs were one thing, but if the VP was out, maybe the whole power structure was about to flip. For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of hope.