Play the Victim? Watch Me Make You One

My coworker, Sloane, had a knack for turning brutal physical contact into her way of greeting.

She branded this as "American warmth" and an "outgoing personality."

At first, for the sake of office harmony, I assumed she was just clumsy and gritted my teeth to endure it.

That was until the incident in the breakroom. I had finally mustered the courage to discuss a design proposal with Liam, an engineer I had been secretly crushing on.

Out of nowhere, Sloane threw me into a chokehold masked as a bear hug, simultaneously driving her knee hard into the back of my legs.

Caught completely off guard, I lost my balance and lunged forward directly into Liam, practically ripping the buttons right off his dress shirt as I fell.

Instead of helping me up, Sloane gasped:

"Oh my god, Maeve! Look, I know you told me yesterday you dreamt of ripping Liam's shirt open, but you don't have to be so desperate in the office!"

Liam looked mortified.

Burning with humiliation, I scrambled to my feet, "Could you please keep your hands to yourself?!"

She jumped back, shouting even louder than I had. "Oh, come on! I was just trying to help you break the ice! Don't take it out on me just because you ruined it."

Heads turned across the entire bullpen. She doubled down, playing the victim with absolute righteous indignation:

"We are all adults here. If you can't even take a joke, who's ever going to want to work with you?"

...

Clenching my fists, I drew a cold, hard line. "Sloane, from now on, unless it's strictly about work, stay away from me. And don't ever touch me again."

Sloane threw her hands up in an exaggerated display of grievance. "Jesus! You're just pissed because things didn't work out with Liam, and now you're taking your anger out on me!"

Muffled whispers immediately rippled through the room.

The glances from my colleagues were suddenly tinged with disdain, as if I really were some hysterical woman throwing a tantrum over a failed hookup.

Defenseless against the swelling gossip, I swallowed my fury, stormed back to my desk, and poured every ounce of my energy into my upcoming deadline.

I thought my explicit warning would buy me at least a few days of peace, but I clearly underestimated how low Sloane could go.

It was twenty-four hours before the deadline.

And there, sprawled across my desk, the hand-drawn master draft due tomorrow afternoon was being devoured by dark brown liquid.

It was the product of two straight weeks of staying up until 3 A.M. As the ink rapidly bled, my meticulously rendered lines warped into a meaningless, muddy blur.

"Maeve, why did you stop so suddenly!"

The culprit, Sloane, stood right behind me, letting out an exaggerated gasp.

Just seconds earlier, I had been holding my mug, about to sit down. Out of the blue, Sloane had barreled into me, slamming her body hard against my shoulder.

I stared at the expanding stain on my desk, my fingertips trembling.

Suppressing the overwhelming urge to throw the rest of my coffee in her face, I turned and fixed her with a dead stare. "The aisle is perfectly wide. Why the hell did you have to ram right into me?"

"Hey, relax, okay?" Instead of apologizing, Sloane shrugged nonchalantly, wearing a mask of absolute innocence. "I just wanted to give you a hug! How was I supposed to know you can't even hold a cup? Besides, it's just a piece of paper. Just print another copy."

"It's a hand-drawn master draft. There is no backup," I said through gritted teeth.

The commotion drew eyes. People across the bullpen paused their work and peeked over their monitors.

Sensing an audience, Sloane's dismissive demeanor vanished instantly. Acting completely victimized, she backed away, her eyes tearing up right on cue.

"Are you serious, Maeve? I know you're still mad about the Liam thing, but there's no need to take it out on me."

Barely audible murmurs of agreement fluttered around us.

"Yeah, Sloane's always been the affectionate type..."

"It's just a drawing. Just redraw it, no need to kill the vibe."

Hearing these ignorant, holier-than-thou whispers made my blood boil.

This wasn't the first time Sloane had weaponized her "affection."

Last month, she slapped my back to "say hi," causing the exacto knife I was using to slice my index finger open—a wound that required three stitches.

Last week, she thought it'd be hilarious to pull my chair out from under me. I hit the floor hard, and my tailbone throbbed for three days straight.

Every single time, she played the exact same card, and everyone else always fell for her innocent-girl routine.

"A joke? You call this a joke? You are coming to the manager's office with me, right now."

Clearly not expecting me to snap, Sloane panicked. "Are you crazy?! Let go of me!"

I dragged her straight into our manager Diane's office.

After listening to my account, Diane glanced at Sloane, then back at me.

"Maeve, this was clearly an accident. Sloane is just an expressive person. You really need to learn how to integrate into the team instead of always being so aggressive."

"Let's do this: Sloane, apologize to Maeve. And Maeve, you work some overtime tonight to get the drawing done. We are putting an end to this right now."

Sloane slipped right into the exit lane Diane paved for her, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "I'm so sorry, Maeve. I promise I'll give you a heads-up before I hug you next time."

Staring at Diane's placating expression, a cold clarity washed over me.

In a workplace ruled by the mandate of "surface-level peace," the moment the victim speaks up, they become the problem—the thorn ruining the vibe.

Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked out. When I returned to my cube, the spilled coffee had been wiped completely clean.

"I cleaned up your desk for you," Julian said, his voice low and steady. "I saw a scanned backup of your rough draft on the diagnostic computer yesterday. It's only about sixty percent done, but it beats starting from absolute scratch."

The knot of tension I had been holding onto finally loosened just a fraction. "Thank you, Julian."

Just then, our Design Director stepped out of his office. "Listen up, everyone. We have some great news. The company just won the bid for the Manhattan Center Art Gallery. It's our flagship project of the year, and after management discussion, the Lead Designer will be Maeve."

Applause broke out across the office.

I looked up, locking eyes with Sloane just as she walked out of the manager's office.

Her smug smile died instantly. For a split second, her eyes flashed with raw, unfiltered, venomous jealousy.