Chapter 3: Mockery and the Smirk

As soon as I got in, I saw my umbrella—soaked—left on a chair. The ‘puppy dog’ was nearby, playing ‘Clash of Clans’ on speaker, the sound of swords clashing and “Victory!” echoing through the office.

He didn’t even look up, his phone blaring battle sounds. My umbrella dripped onto the carpet, forming a sad little puddle. No one seemed to care.

Marge’s girlfriends called out, “Hey, backup knight is back!”

Their voices were high and mocking, like cheerleaders at the wrong pep rally. I ignored them, focusing on the layoff list in my pocket.

I ignored them, swallowed my anger, set the umbrella down, and had just sat when Marge said, “What’s wrong? You seem upset today. Didn’t you hear us praising you?”

She smirked, spinning in her chair. Her lipstick was flawless, not a hair out of place. The whole scene felt surreal.

Of course I was in a bad mood—I was drenched!

I glanced down at my soaked shirt and ruined umbrella. My shoes squished with every step. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was coming.

Since this group of connections was about to be kicked out, I decided to drop the act.

I straightened up, feeling a surge of courage. For once, I wasn’t going to let it slide.

I asked, “Marge, did you take my umbrella?”

My voice was steady, but inside, my heart was racing. The room seemed to freeze for a moment.

She replied, “Yeah. Someone took mine, so I saw yours and used it.”

She didn’t even blink. She said it like she was entitled to anything in the office.

“But you can’t just take it without asking. It’s pouring outside.”

I tried to keep my tone even, but the words came out sharper than I intended. I glanced at my ruined umbrella, feeling the loss all over again.

She actually laughed. “You’re a grown man. So what if you get a little wet? You want me to get drenched out there?”

She rolled her eyes, as if I was being dramatic. Her friends giggled, echoing her logic.

“Yeah, you’re a man. Why make a fuss?” her girlfriends chimed in.

They leaned forward, smirking. The whole room seemed to close in, siding with her.

Are these people nuts? What does this have to do with gender?

I wanted to shout, but instead I just shook my head. This wasn’t about umbrellas—it was about respect.

I couldn’t be bothered to argue. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman. If you use someone’s things, at least say something first. Just show some respect, will you?”

My voice was low but firm. I made sure to meet her gaze, not backing down for once.

The room went silent.

Even the ‘puppy dog’ stopped tapping his phone. The tension was thick, like the air before a thunderstorm.

Marge stood up and walked over, sneering as she looked me up and down. “Tell me, did the new supervisor put you up to this?”

She towered over me, her heels clicking on the linoleum. Her perfume was sharp, almost cloying.

I realized she was trying to provoke me. On the way back from the break room, her friends must have told her about the new supervisor.

She probably thought I was trying to curry favor with the new boss. I stayed quiet, not wanting to give her more ammo.

Before I could explain, she said, “Don’t think just because you ate with him, he considers you one of his own! Pay attention to which way the wind’s blowing. In this company, besides the CEO, only Mr. Cavanaugh matters!”

She jabbed a finger in my face. Her voice was icy. The others nodded along, like a Greek chorus.

Her words made my heart race.

For a moment, I wondered if she was right. Was I making a mistake by standing up to her now?

Seeing I didn’t respond, Marge leaned close and whispered, “There’s a layoff this afternoon. The list is with me. Whoever I say goes, goes.”

Her breath was hot on my ear, her tone menacing. She flashed a smile, daring me to challenge her.

Then she sat back at her desk. She coughed twice, and the ‘puppy dog’ immediately put down his phone and rushed out.

It was like watching a well-trained dog respond to a whistle. The rest of the room barely looked up.

Watching this, I was confused. How could she still be so confident? Was her brother-in-law really powerful enough to override the CEO? I rubbed my temples, fidgeting with the layoff list in my pocket, trying to make sense of it.

I tried to piece it together. Maybe she knew something I didn’t. Or maybe she was bluffing. Either way, it made my stomach churn.

Impossible. The real layoff list was still in my hand.

I squeezed the paper, reminding myself what was real and what was just Marge’s smoke and mirrors.

I forced myself to calm down and opened my company email—two unread messages from the morning. My finger hovered over the mouse, a beat of dread holding me back before I finally clicked.

One was titled: “Brand PR Department Layoff List.”

My heart skipped a beat. The subject line glared at me from the screen.

I panicked and opened it. My name was shockingly on the list!

It was right there, bold as day. My chest tightened. I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me.

I was being laid off!

The words blurred. I blinked hard, hoping I’d read it wrong. But no, my name was there, plain as day.

I could barely breathe. The new supervisor had just told me the ones being laid off would be Marge and her clique. But after checking several times, it was definitely my name.

I kept scrolling, desperate for a mistake, a loophole—anything. But the names were clear. Mine, and others I recognized.

I had worked so hard for years, and now I was being let go? I still had a mortgage, a wife, and kids—what was I supposed to do?

A lump rose in my throat. I thought of my wife’s smile, my daughter’s school tuition, the bills piling up on the kitchen table. It all felt so unfair.

Looking closely, everyone on the list had clashed with Marge. Not one of her friends was on it.

It hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t about performance. It was personal—Marge’s own vendetta, dressed up as company policy.

What kind of world is this? The ones who work get laid off, while the ones with connections thrive?

I felt a bitter laugh bubble up. Was this really what the American dream looked like now?

I stared at the list, about to cry.

My eyes stung. I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

Wait—something’s off. Why was the ‘puppy dog’ on the list too?

I scrolled back, reading each name carefully. The ‘puppy dog’ was there, tucked between two others. That didn’t make sense.

I looked more closely at the sender and timestamp. Then I laughed at myself—a short, relieved laugh escaping my lips.

The email was sent by Marge herself, at 3 a.m. last night. This wasn’t an official company notice!

I exhaled, relief flooding through me. Of course—Marge was always up late, probably after a few too many drinks. She must’ve hit send by accident.

Marge often dumped her work on me and set me as a default recipient. A few days ago, when the company was collecting layoff info and the new supervisor hadn’t arrived yet, she drafted her own layoff list and submitted it. She’s disliked me for ages—she was trying to get rid of me!

I remembered the way she’d smirked at me during meetings—like last month, when she made me present her half-finished report, then snickered as I stumbled through her mistakes. She’d probably been plotting this for months.

But she must have gotten drunk last night and sent it to me by mistake.

I pictured her, glass of wine in hand, half-asleep at her laptop. For once, her arrogance had tripped her up.

I let out a long sigh of relief and glanced at Marge. She was calmly touching up her makeup. I had to admit—this woman was ruthless. She wanted to get rid of everyone who didn’t listen to her, even her own ‘puppy dog.’

She dabbed at her lipstick, not a care in the world. Her reflection in her compact was as flawless as ever. But underneath, I saw the cracks.

A true queen bee—so heartless she’d even sacrifice her favorite, just like a mean girl in a high school drama.

She’d built her empire on fear and favors, and now she was willing to burn it all down to keep her throne.