The Fake Pregnancy Meet My Millions

My first week on the job, and I was already dealing with a nightmare.

There was a woman in the office who claimed to be three weeks pregnant. Relying entirely on this delicate condition, she had the audacity to drop a carpooling mandate on my desk.

Her reasoning was shockingly entitled: she lived far from the office, and my car met her "high standards." It was a brand-new, fifty-thousand-dollar Volvo SUV, barely a year off the lot.

But the truly unhinged part? She flat-out ordered me to be her personal chauffeur, morning and night, effective immediately. She even had the nerve to add, "Don't be late."

I actually laughed when I read the email. Usually, I had a private driver. I only had my fathers procurement team select this particular Volvo because it was supposed to be understateda stealth-wealth commuter car that wouldn't draw attention to an entry-level analyst.

Naturally, I had no intention of entertaining such an absurd demand. I fired back a polite but firm, "I won't be able to accommodate this."

Her retaliation was swift. The very next day, leveraging her minor administrative privileges as an HR Manager, she flagged my timesheet for arriving late and leaving early, instantly docking my pay.

Fine. If she wanted to press her face against the glass, I was more than happy to show her how easily it could shatter.

I stared at the notification on my monitor, a bitter laugh dying in my throat.

How did people like this exist? The sheer, breathless audacity of trying to claim someone else's property as a personal perk. I decided the best response was absolute silence. I didn't reply.

I didn't expect her to march right up to my cubicle and rap her knuckles sharply against the fiberglass partition.

"I'm expecting," she announced, as if she were declaring a royal succession. "I need a dedicated ride."

I looked up. Brittany stood there, arms crossed. "I saw you pull in. Nice car. You have to drive home anyway, so taking me is hardly an inconvenience."

She paused, then added with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, "Oh, and you need to clock out at exactly five from now on. I have to get home to cook dinner for my husband."

A hot, prickling sensation of disgust crawled up the back of my neck.

I was used to being chauffeured in a Maybach. Who did she think she was, demanding I act as her personal Uber? Besides, I didn't even know where she lived. How could she possibly know it was "on the way"?

Then it hit me. She was HR. She had pulled my confidential employee file to get my home address.

I didn't have the energy for this theater. I gave her a flat, unblinking look.

"I'm sorry, Brittany, but I'm a terrible driver. I mix up the gas and the brake, and I have a habit of stopping short. For the safety of you and your baby, its really not a good idea."

I thought giving her a polite out would make her back off.

Instead, her voice spiked an octave, piercing through the low hum of the open-plan office.

"You can't drive, but you own a brand-new luxury SUV?"

Heads began to pop up over cubicle walls.

"Look at you. You're twenty-two. There's no way you bought that car on an analyst's salary. Let me guesssome older man bought it for you? A sponsor? God, girls your age really have no self-respect."

A heavy silence fell over our section.

I smiled, a tight, cold thing. Yes, technically, an older man did buy me the car. My father. And what of it? It was literally the cheapest vehicle in our family's garage.

I opened my mouth to respond, but our team lead, Kevin, materialized, wearing his usual appeasing, middle-management grimace.

"Margot, come on now," Kevin sighed, playing the peacemaker. "We're a team here. We help each other out. Brittany's pregnant, she's having a hard time. Is it really that big of a deal to give her a lift? You're young. You need to learn how to play the game and build relationships."

Listening to his condescending lecture, a wave of nausea washed over me. If he cared so much, why wasn't he giving her a ride? He was playing the benevolent boss with my time and my gas.

I turned back to my dual monitors. "I have reports to run," I said, my voice dropping to a glacial chill.

At 5:05 PM, I walked out to the parking garage. The second the key fob clicked and unlocked the doors, the passenger side was yanked open.

Brittany slid into the buttery leather seat with practiced ease and snapped her seatbelt into place.

I stood frozen outside the drivers side door. "What do you think you're doing? Get out. I'm going home."

"Me too." She adjusted the AC vents so they blew directly onto her face. "I told you this morning."

She tapped her watch. "Look at the time. You're five minutes late. Consider this a warning, but next time, I'll have to write you up for violating the schedule."

My grip tightened on the door handle. "I told you this morning, I'm not comfortable driving you. It's not happening."

She let out a sharp, mocking snort. "Please. I checked the garage security footage. I saw you parallel park this thing into a compact spot in one fluid motion. Don't play the helpless rookie with me."

The last frayed thread of my patience snapped.

"Get out," I said, my voice dropping an octave.

She crossed her arms, sinking deeper into the upholstery, even hitting the button to recline the seat a few inches. She looked like a squatter who had just discovered squatters' rights.

I didn't say another word. I turned on my heel and started walking toward the parking attendant's booth.

"Security!"

Before I could call out again, a coworker who was about to pull out of his space jogged over, grabbing my elbow. He looked terrified.

"Margot, don't!" he hissed, his eyes darting toward my car. "Brittany is a nightmare. She's got tenure, and she's super tight with the regional director upstairs. You do not want to go to war with her."

He looked at me with genuine pity. "Just take my advice. Drive her home tonight. Take the hit. Tomorrow, tell her the engine light came on and the car is in the shop. Take the commuter train for a few weeks until she finds another victim. You can't beat her, so just hide."

I had to pretend my own car was broken? I had to take the train just to avoid a workplace bully who wanted to exploit me?

The sheer absurdity of it sent a spike of pure adrenaline straight to my brain.

"Thank you, but no," I said, pulling my arm free. My voice was harder than I knew it could be.

I marched back to my car, leaning down to look Brittany directly in the eye.

"Brittany, I will say this exactly one more time. Get out of my car. If you don't, I am calling 911 to report you for trespassing and attempted grand theft auto. There are cameras everywhere. I will press charges."

She hadn't expected me to call her bluff. The smugness slid off her face.

"Are you a sociopath?" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the concrete pillars. "Do you have any concept of corporate culture? Of basic human decency?"

She thrust her completely flat stomach forward. "Look at me! I am a pregnant woman. My body is going through trauma! Asking for a ride is the bare minimum you should be doing as a decent human being!"

She was working herself into a frenzy, spittle flying onto my leather dashboard.

"But no! You make up lies about your driving! You threaten me with the police! You're harassing a pregnant woman over a car ride? Where is your conscience? God, you Gen Z kids are so insanely selfish! You contribute nothing to this company, nothing to society!"

She took a breath, her face flushed red. "Me sitting in your car is a privilege for you! It's networking! Don't look a gift horse in the mouth!"

I actually laughed. I braced my hands on the roof of the car, looking down at her.

"You want to talk about decency? You climbed into a stranger's private property without permission, threatened to dock my pay to force me to serve you, and you want to lecture me about corporate culture?"

I leaned in closer. "You want a ride? Read my lips. Never. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Now get the hell out of my car."

A small crowd of late-staying employees had gathered by the elevators, watching the spectacle.

Brittany's face went through a kaleidoscope of colorsred, white, then a mottled purple.

"Fine!" She unbuckled her seatbelt so violently it snapped back against the window. She shoved the door open. "You're going to regret this, Margot! Watch your back!"

The office was buzzing the moment I walked in the next morning.

Brittany was holding court by the espresso machine in the breakroom.

"Twenty-two years old, driving a fifty-thousand-dollar car. Please. We all know how she affords that," Brittany's voice drifted through the open doorway, loud enough to ensure I heard. "I was just trying to look out for her. Warn her about going down the wrong path. And what does she do? Screams at me like a feral animal. Absolutely no class."

A woman from accounting chimed in, right on cue. "I know, right? Don't let it get to you, Britt. Just because she has a fancy car doesn't mean she's better than us. Who knows what she had to do to get it."

Another voice giggled. "Honestly, I'm just waiting for the day some wealthy guy's wife drags her out of here by her hair. We should keep our distance. God knows what kind of diseases she's carrying."

A chorus of hushed, vicious laughter followed.

I dropped my tote bag on my desk. I walked straight into the breakroom.

"Are you finished?"

The laughter died instantly. They whipped around to face me.

I let my eyes wander over Brittany and her little audience. "I heard every word you just said."

I stepped closer. "Regarding the accusations that I have a 'sugar daddy,' that I'm 'dirty,' or that I have 'diseases'which one of you has the proof?"

I held up my phone. "Do you have photos? Bank statements? A medical record?"

Brittany sneered, though her eyes flickered nervously. "Ooh, hit a nerve, did I? If you don't want people talking, don't be a walking clich. You're an intern, honey. You show up in a luxury car, people are going to talk."

"Spreading malicious, unfounded rumors in the workplace is defamation," I said, my voice dead calm. "I could sue you for everything you have."

"Sue me?" Brittany barked a laugh, planting her hands on her hips. "Are you delusional? I'm the HR Manager! I control who gets hired, who gets fired, and who passes their ninety-day probationary review! You want to sue me?"

She stepped into my personal space, her finger inches from my collarbone.

"Your entire career here is in my hands. If I say you're a poor culture fit, you're gone by noon. You want to play hardball with me? You're out of your league, little girl."

The air in the room felt suddenly thick. A few people who had been watching quickly looked down at their phones, shuffling away.

I looked at the absolute conviction on her face. The sheer belief that her petty, middle-management power made her invincible. I realized, in that moment, that arguing with a person like this was a waste of oxygen.

"Well," I said softly. "Let's see just how much power you really have."

I turned my back on her and walked straight to the stairwell, climbing up to the rooftop.

The wind was biting. I pulled out my phone and dialed the private line of my father's chief of staff.

"Mr. Caldwell."

"Miss Margot," the smooth, unflappable voice answered immediately.

"I need a deep dive on an employee. Apex Solutions, regional branch. Human Resources Manager, Brittany. I want to know who hired her, who she's sleeping with, what nepotism got her the role. I want every skeleton."

"Understood."

"And pull everything you have on the Regional Director, Richard. Look for any ties between him and Brittany."

"Consider it done. How quickly do you need this?"

"Before lunch."

"Of course, Miss Margot."

I hung up, pressing the cold glass of my phone against my forehead, taking a long, deep breath of the city air.

I had taken this job at the bottom of the corporate ladder because I wanted to learn the business from the ground up. I wanted to understand the mechanics of my father's empire before I inherited it. I wore Zara, I kept my head down, and I never used the family name.

But I was learning a painful lesson. In some environments, humility isn't respected. It's perceived as weakness. It becomes an invitation for the mediocre and the vicious to trample you.

They wanted to flex their pathetic, microscopic amount of power over me?

Fine. I was done turning the other cheek.

I spent the afternoon working quietly at my desk, ignoring the blatant glares and whispers. When the clock struck five, I packed my bag, badged out, and went down to the garage.

As I walked toward my row, my heart suddenly seized. I broke into a run.

And then, I saw it.