"We're all colleagues here, Matilda. Don't make this ugly."
"Besides, Mercedes was only thinking of you. You earn more than most of us. Treating everyone to a coffee run wouldn't even dent your paycheck."
My stomach turned.
My salary was higher than most, sure, but higher than a department manager's? Not a chance.
I was done wasting my breath. I slammed my laptop shut, kept my face blank, and said one thing:
"If anyone wants coffee, they can buy their own. I'm not paying."
What I didn't expect was the delivery guy showing up the next afternoon, arms loaded with two overstuffed bags, asking,
"Are you Matilda Chavez? Twenty-eight drinks. You paying by app or cash?"
Twenty-eight drinks. All Starbucks.
The delivery guy's voice carried across the entire open-plan office.
Heads swiveled. Conrad was the fastest, craning his neck until he spotted the logo on the bags. His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.
I stared at those two bulging bags, and the anger looped all the way past fury and came out the other side as dead calm.
"I didn't order these. Whoever did can pay for them."
The delivery guy blinked.
"The person who placed the order said Matilda Chavez is covering it. Said it's her treat."