The Lonely Island

At 12 PM sharp, every colleague rose, queuing to offload their most urgent tasks onto me.

Their tone was cold with contempt as they barked orders. They didn't spare me a second glance before returning to their seats, laughing and chatting over takeout.

Only the newbie offered a chagrined smile. "We need this before the end of the workday. Thanks, Ms. Singer. I'm off to lunch now..."

This familiar scene had played out daily for five years.

Initially, I'd told them to do their own work.

But when my boyfriend, Giles Smith, who was also the CEO, heard about it, he flew into a rage, yelling at me for three hours.

"You must take responsibility for that lost contract! The company and your colleagues lost so much because of you! It's the least you should do!"

In time, I gave in—working on everyone's tasks through my own lunch hour.

Without any time to rest or eat, I kept a dozen buns in my drawer, taking a bite whenever hunger became unbearable.

Five years passed in the blink of an eye. As a result of this life, I contracted late-stage stomach cancer and had only days left.

Feeling the spasms in my stomach, I didn't continue working as before. Instead, I endured the pain and walked over to the fridge.

I intended to retrieve my lunchbox, which I'd brought that morning, and heat it in the microwave. However, upon arrival, I found it outside the fridge.

Worse, when I opened it, the contents were rancid.

Glancing at the others sitting around the pantry, busy eating, I asked, "Who took my lunchbox out?"

They all shot me disdainful looks, but no one answered.

My rage flared, and I was about to repeat myself when Giles strode in, glaring coolly as he growled, "I did—how dare you use company property after making us sustain such a huge loss!

"It was an oversight on my part to let you have five years of freebies, but starting today, you will be billed for using the fridge and every electronic device in the office."

More crimes added to my name... Even though I had just overheard that the loss was nothing more than a staged occurrence.

Giles, furious that I had fined Sue Lambert—his dear secretary—twenty bucks, fabricated a typo-riddled contract.

He lied to me, claiming that because of the contract, the company's bid for an IPO failed, with share values plummeting. Unable to maintain usual operations, he allegedly had to fire half of the staff just to survive.

That day, countless old friends, teary-eyed, packed their things, cutting me off completely.