Chapter 2

The next day, the harassment began. It was petty at first, designed to chip away at my dignity.

"Jennifer, the break room is a mess. Go clean it," Madisyn ordered, dropping a dirty coffee mug on my desk, right on top of a client affidavit.

I stared at the brown ring spreading across the paper. "That' s not my job, Madisyn. I' m preparing for a deposition."

"Your job is what I say it is," she snapped. "Now, chop-chop."

She stood there, waiting. My colleagues pretended to be absorbed in their work, but I could feel their attention. To refuse was to cause a scene, to give her the satisfaction of a public fight. So I picked up the mug, my jaw tight, and walked to the break room. I scrubbed the counters and cleaned the microwave, the smell of burnt popcorn and stale coffee filling my nose.

When I returned, she had a new task.

"The photocopier is jammed again. Fix it."

"I' m not a technician, Madisyn."

"You' ve always fixed it before," she said with a shrug. "My uncle says you' re good with that stuff."

Mr. Scott was in his office, watching again. He gave her a thumbs-up. He was praising her for this, for her "proactive management." He saw her bullying me and approved. My loyalty to him, to this firm, felt like a sickness in my stomach.

I spent forty-five minutes on my hands and knees, wrestling with the ancient photocopier, toner staining my slacks. Each menial task was a deliberate humiliation, a message to everyone in the office: Jennifer Jones, the indispensable paralegal, was now the office gofer. Her competence meant nothing. Only blood ties mattered here.

The other staff, once friendly, started keeping their distance. They' d see me coming and quickly turn away, their faces full of a cowardice I was beginning to understand. They were protecting their own jobs, and I was the sacrifice.

I endured it all, my eyes fixed on the calendar. Christmas was approaching. The bonus was my finish line. I just had to hold on.