My Coworkers Threw a Party at a Mansion That Wasn't Mine

I kept insisting the estate wasn't mine.

Jessica threw a video into the chat. In it, I was in loungewear, holding a shopping bag and leading a poodle, punching in the gate code with practiced ease. Beyond the massive gate stood the multimillion-dollar oceanfront estate.

The second video was grainy, shot from far away: me standing on the second-floor master bedroom balcony, stretching, looking like I'd just rolled out of bed.

I racked my brain, stunned. I'd only ever been in that bedroom once.

Once, while walking the dog, I'd dropped off some documents for Richard. What were the odds someone caught that on camera!

Neither video was long. Half a minute total, tops.

But together they painted a perfectly ordinary day in the life of a rich man's wife.

Jessica sent back a curt question mark.

"Not your house? Then why are you walking out of the master bedroom in loungewear?"

I had no way to defend myself. I really did dress casually for my weekend gig.

A coworker chimed in. "You can't marry into money and just forget your poor coworkers."

"Right. Honestly, we're doing you a favor here. We don't go to just anyone's house."

Before I could explain, someone from advertising piped up. "Don't tell me you rank so low at home you can't even make this call?"

The chat went quiet for two seconds.

"No wonder Emma won't let us come over. She has to ask her husband first. Mine would never humiliate me like that."

A coworker nearby raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe... she's afraid you'll steal her sugar daddy!"

In the quiet office, somebody snickered.

Every word implied I was some pitiful housewife with no say in my own home.

I took a deep breath and typed each word carefully. "The estate's owner and I have a strictly professional relationship. He pays me to walk his dog and look after the property."

As for whether he had a wife, how would I know?

A few male coworkers replied in the same knowing singsong. "Ohhh, a professional arrangement. We get it."

My stomach turned.

Still, I kept my patience. "I met Richard, the owner, walking dogs in the neighborhood. He saw I was good with animals, so we agreed that when he's busy, I'd walk his dog and watch the house. We have a signed contract."

I zipped up the contract and our chat history and sent the file to the group.

Everyone kept joking around. Five minutes later, the chat had scrolled several screens.

Not one person opened that file.

I was getting angry, but they kept framing everything as a joke, leaving me nowhere to direct it.

That was when Jessica pretended to come to my defense. "Stop picking on Emma. Once we go to the estate this weekend, everything will be clear, won't it?"

"I've already booked catering from a Michelin-starred restaurant. I assume the estate has a wine cellar, so I didn't order wine. I just saved Emma a fortune."

"Emma, you're in charge of cleaning the house beforehand, setting out the tableware, and decanting the Romanée-Conti in advance."

"If everyone shows up and nothing's ready, that's on you."

The manager Charles Whitmore had been silent until then. He immediately gave the message a thumbs-up. "No one is more thoughtful than Jessica. You should all learn from her. This is what it means to think of everything."

Jessica replied, "You're too kind. Send me every request, everyone. I'll make it happen," followed by a string of flexed-bicep emojis.

With that, all restraint was gone.

Linda Parker from Sales asked, "I have errands out of town around noon on Saturday. Emma, can you pick me up? I'm worried I'll miss the party."

Jessica replied at light speed. "Emma's got nothing better to do. She'll pick you up."

HR jumped in right after.

"Is there a pool? Wondering if I should bring a swimsuit."

Someone teased, "Are you dense? It's an oceanfront estate. Who needs a pool? Just swim in the ocean."

"Oh, and my son is allergic to dogs. Emma, make sure the dog stays tied up."

"No problem," Jessica replied on my behalf. "Not that little mutt, not anyone. Nothing is ruining our evening."

Watching the screen light up again and again, my fingertips went numb.

I kept reminding myself: this was my first job out of school, and it hadn't come easy.

Don't blow up at everyone over something small.

I bit my lip. "The estate really isn't mine. If everyone wants a team get-together, there's a great steakhouse nearby. I'm the new hire, so dinner would be my treat."

That killed the mood, and someone got nasty. "We're coming to your place because you're new. It's a courtesy. You think anyone needs your dinner?"

"Emma, way to ruin the mood. Just give us a yes or no. I still have to pick up my son from his grandparents' place in the country."

A second later, Jessica messaged me privately.

"You're an intern. How are your people skills this bad?"

"I'm helping you build relationships with your coworkers and with Mr. Whitmore. All you have to do is open the door and welcome everyone. Learn to read the room."

My fists clenched and unclenched. This woman had pushed me past anger and straight into laughter.

First she spread rumors about my private life. Now she was trying to empty my wallet and bully me into going along.

And now it was all about "helping me," all "for my own good."

Catering from a Michelin-starred restaurant, vintage wine, a mansion. Did she think those things materialized out of thin air?

They weren't spending a dime of their own. They were just ordering me around.

Before I could respond, Jessica operated like a customer-service bot, tagging everyone and answering every question herself.

"Relax, everyone. The weekend party is on as planned. Bring your families. If you live far, send Emma your address and she'll pick you up."

The chat wasn't enough to contain their excitement anymore. Cheers rippled through the office.

The chat flooded with thank-yous to Jessica.

With everyone whipped into a frenzy, I had no choice but to open a private chat with Charles, the manager.

I gathered my employment contract with Richard, the payment records, and every dog-walking chat log, and sent him the whole package.

"Mr. Whitmore, it's not that I won't invite everyone. The estate simply isn't mine. I'm only the caretaker. I have no right to invite anyone."

"Please, could you clear this up in the group before the misunderstanding gets worse?"

Both messages were marked read within seconds.

I refreshed a few times. His reply never came.

I rose onto my toes and looked over. Charles sat at his desk, glanced at my messages, then went back to his phone.

The sign-up count for the estate party had passed fifty.

People were still tagging me with their requirements.

"Emma, I'm allergic to peanuts. Not only can there be no peanuts in the food, I can't even see a peanut."

"Emma, pick me up in the Lamborghini that day. Ferraris just aren't my vibe."

"Emma, remember to stock the limited-edition Le Labo Santal. Other scents give me headaches."

"Emma... Emma... Emma..."

Overnight, everyone in the office seemed to develop a different rich-person ailment.

Somehow, I'd replaced ChatGPT as the office's favorite on-demand servant.