Chapter 1
Lucy, the new office sweetheart, just found out she was pregnant, and the very first thing she did was send me a message.
She sent me her personally crafted "Pregnancy Commandments for the Office," and expected me to obey every single one.
She complained that the pothos on my desk was hogging all her precious oxygen and demanded I get rid of it. She whined that my typing was way too loud and was messing with her baby's development.
And she even accused me of being too pretty, saying it might tempt her husband and ruin their marriage.
I couldn't help but scoff. Lucy had been gunning for me since her intern days, and now that she had gotten a bun in the oven, she really thought she was the queen around here.
Without a second thought, I screenshotted her rules and dropped them right into the company group chat. I texted: [Attention everyone, the queen is pregnant. Make sure you all know the Pregnancy Commandments by heart.]
*****
The cold glow of my phone screen cast a chill over my face.
The screenshot of Lucy's ridiculous demands was saved on my phone.
Lucy's profile picture was a serene selfie of her cradling her face, but now it looked downright twisted.
I could practically see the smug, patronizing look on her face as she typed out those words.
With a casual flick of my finger, I hit send.
My move was swift and decisive, not a hint of hesitation.
The company group chat, with over three hundred people, exploded.
The first ones to jump in were a few of the guys who always loved drama, flooding the chat with a string of "bow down to the queen" emojis.
Right after, a few of the girls from the marketing team sent a bunch of question marks, clearly still trying to figure out what was going on.
One texted: [Molly, you're such a boss. Is this some new office trend or what?]
Another texted: [My cactus is trembling in fear over here. Should I move it, too?]
Someone texted: [Wait, what's rule number three? Is being pretty illegal now?]
The group chat was blowing up, with messages popping up like fireworks one after another.
I watched it all with a blank face, my fingers drumming idly on the desk.
Not everyone was cheering, though.
One of Lucy's close friends in the office texted: [Hey, Lucy's just thinking about her baby, okay? Pregnant women get emotional, can't we just be a little more understanding?]
Her words landed like a drop of water in a hot pan.
Someone texted: [Understanding? This is straight-up emotional blackmail.]
Another texted: [If she's that delicate, maybe she should just stay home and be treated like royalty. What's the point of coming to work?]
Just then, Lucy dropped a crying cat sticker in the chat.
Next came a voice message, her tone choked with emotion. She said, "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just really anxious about my baby. Sorry, am I being a bother to everyone?"
Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise like a sniper shot, instantly silencing all the teasing in the group.
There it was: her signature drama queen performance.
My phone buzzed.
It was a private message from George, the department manager.
He texted: [Molly, take that screenshot down from the group chat, right now. Get to my office, now!]
The exclamation marks practically stabbed through the screen.
I stared at his message, my gaze turning icy.
I replied calmly: [Mr. Walker, Lucy made these rules. I'm just putting them out there for everyone to see and follow.]
Then I stood up, straightened the collar of my blazer, and headed for George's office.
When I walked in, Lucy was already there.
She was sitting on the couch, one hand on her belly, the other wiping away tears, her shoulders trembling. She looked so pathetic.
George's face was as dark as a thundercloud.
"Molly! What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snapped as soon as I walked in, his voice low but full of anger.
"I just posted Lucy's demands so everyone could see," I replied calmly.
George pointed at the crying Lucy and said, "She's pregnant. Why are you picking on her? Can't you just cut her some slack?"
"Cut her some slack?" I echoed, almost laughing at the word.
I shot back, "She wants me to move my pothos because it's 'stealing her oxygen.' Is there any science behind that?
"She wants me to type softer, but if I can't finish this urgent report on time and the project gets delayed, who's going to take the blame?
"And the funniest part? She actually claims I'm too pretty and it's threatening her marriage. So, Mr. Walker, should I get plastic surgery just to make her feel better?"
I spoke slowly, but every word landed like a punch in the office.
Lucy's sobs suddenly stopped.
George's face kept switching between pale and flushed.
Lucy suddenly jabbed a finger at me and snapped, "Molly, what's with that attitude? You're just jealous that I'm pregnant and my husband spoils me. You're just some sad, single old lady nobody wants!"
I stared at her face, all red and worked up, and honestly, I felt nothing. If anything, I just pitied her.
This was her go-to move: using her so-called "happiness" as ammo to take shots at other people.