I was having a perfectly healthy mental breakdown in the bathroom stall—AirPods blasting at maximum volume, listening to a true-crime episode titled How to Punch Your Boss and Get Away With It—when the intern group chat went nuclear.
ping.
ping.
ping ping ping ping.
I knew it was bad when Kevin from IT (who hasn't typed a single word in that chat since 2023) sent the skull emoji.
I should've ignored it.
I should've thrown my phone into the toilet and started a new life raising goats with Linda from HR.
Instead, like the dumbass I am, I tapped the notification.
Y/N sent a voice note.
Thirty-four seconds long.
I hit play before my last functioning brain cell could stop me.
"Arghhh—Mr. Blackwood—harder—yes, daddy, right there, f—"
The moan that followed will haunt me until I'm ninety.
It sounded like a dying seal being seduced by a chainsaw.
My soul left my body, floated to the ceiling, looked down at me holding the phone like damn, and whispered:
"Girl… we gotta transfer."
The chat exploded instantly:
Kevin (IT): YO
Sarah (Marketing): I'm blind
Miguel (Finance): My Christian eyes
Jada (Reception): I just dropped my croissant
Me: 🙂🔪
Y/N deleted the voice note in 0.2 seconds and typed:
y/n:
erh sorry guys i didn't mean to send that here 🥺🥺 it was meant for alexander hehe pls ignore!!
Then she immediately sent a $50 Starbucks gift card and followed it up with:
treat yourselves besties!! love you all with hand heart shaped emoji.
Besties.
She called us besties.
After sending a 34-second porno audio of her getting railed by the CEO.
I stared at the ceiling so hard I saw God.
God looked tired.
I opened my Notes app and added a new entry to my resignation letter:
Reason #47: Accidental exposure to CEO dick via intern group chat.
Fun facts about me nobody asked for:
Name: Riley Quinn
Age: 24
Ethnicity: Half Korean, half Latina
Fun Fact: Quinn isn't Korean or Latina—it's Irish. My dad was drunk on soju when he signed the birth certificate. Don't @ me.
Current Status: Considering selling a kidney to pay for the therapy I now need.
But this disaster didn't begin today.
No, this began eight months ago, on January 13th.
It was raining.
Y/N walked into the office looking like a drowned Victoria's Secret model, claiming she was "delivering coffee for her sister."
She ended up delivering something else entirely on Alexander Blackwood's desk by 9 p.m.
Now, eight months later, I'm holding her panties, buying her Plan B, and listening to her moans in the intern group chat.
If you need me, I'll be in the stairwell screaming into Kevin the plant for emotional support.
---
The next morning, I dragged my corpse into the office at 8:02 a.m., the way normal people drag themselves to the gym.
First victim of the day: Sarah from Marketing, pale and traumatized at the coffee machine.
"Did you see the group chat?" she whisper-yells.
"I didn't just see it," I reply. "I heard it in 4D surround sound."
"I was scrolling on my Christian mom's Facebook and it auto-played," she groans.
"I'm Latino-Korean," I say. "My ancestors are fist-fighting in the afterlife."
Miguel from Finance walks by, takes one look at me, and silently hands over half his breakfast burrito. That's friendship.
I push open the doors to the 47th floor.
And there they are.
The entire floor is pretending not to stare at the glass elevator, where Y/N is suction-cupped to our CEO like a horny octopus.
Her skirt is around her waist.
His hand is very much under said skirt, doing things that require at least three NDAs and a prayer circle.
The elevator speaker is playing Girl from Ipanema like this is a rom-com instead of a war crime.
I stand there holding:
— her $6 oat-milk latte
— her tiny Chanel purse
— her black lace thong (warm, damp, emotionally scarring)
Flashback to 7:48 a.m. when y/n texted me.
y/n: bestie can u bring my panties i forgot them in alexander's car last night 🥺👉👈
me: (staring at ceiling) i could just not reply
also me five minutes later: speed-walking into the Maybach like a ghetto Mary Poppins digging for lost underwear
The elevator dings.
The doors slide open.
Y/N stumbles out looking like she fought a tornado and lost. One heel missing, lipstick smeared to her ear.
Alexander Blackwood steps out behind her looking… perfect.
Not a wrinkle, not a hair out of place. The kind of man who could commit a felony and still look like a Hugo Boss ad.
He doesn't even glance at me.
"Riley. My office. Bring her things."
He walks off like he didn't just commit public indecency in 4K.
Y/N twirls toward me with that empty, doe-eyed smile.
"Bestie, you're literally a lifesaver—I'll venmo you for the coffee!"
She has never venmo'd me once.
Not even the $3 I spent on her emergency tampons last month.
I look down at the thong.
It's still warm.
I am one minute away from setting it on fire in the lobby trash bin.
Kevin from IT suddenly appears at my side.
"You good, bro?" he asks, already filming.
"No," I whisper. "I'm holding evidence."
"Blink twice if you want me to leak the elevator footage."
I blink four times.
Mayday.
Send tequila.
Send holy water.
Send a new identity.
I march into Alexander's office, drop the latte and purse on his desk, and yeet the thong into his trash can like it's the Olympics.
He doesn't look up.
"Riley. Have the Maybach detailed before noon."
"Yes, sir," I say. "Should I burn the thong or frame it?"
A pause.
"…Detailed is fine."
Y/N pokes her head in. "Riley, can you grab me a green juice? Light ice, no kale, extra ginger "
I smile the smile of someone planning a legal-but-morally questionable revenge.
"Sure thing, bestie."
Footnote:
The thong is now sitting in a Ziploc bag in my drawer labeled:
BLACKMAIL – DO NOT OPEN UNTIL IPO DAY
Kevin the plant says I'm valid.