Part 2My Dashcam Caught The Fake Miscarriage

Chelsea clutched her stomach, her voice rising in pitch.

"Nina, if you have a problem with me, take it out on me! Don't drag other people into this. It's not like I'm not paying you. How am I supposed to work in this kind of toxic environment?"

I stood up. My chair scraped against the industrial carpet, a loud, grating sound.

"Aren't you already working?"

She stared at me. Her chest heaved once, twice. Then, suddenly, she bent over, gripping the edge of Beth's desk as if her legs had given out.

"Ugh—"

She yanked Beth's wastebasket toward her and began to dry-heave loudly.

A small crowd materialized instantly. Beth rubbed her back, while the guy from IT frantically shoved a box of Kleenex into her hand.

Beth shot me a vicious glare. "Could you just back off? Look at what you're doing to her."

I reached over, picked my keys back up, and dropped them into my purse.

"What am I doing to her? I didn't get her pregnant."

The sharp, rapid click of leather loafers echoed down the aisle. Greg, our department manager, emerged from his glass-walled office, a manila folder tucked under his arm.

"What the hell is going on out here?"

Chelsea lifted her head. Her eyes were bloodshot, a crumpled tissue pressed delicately against her nose. Her voice was a whisper, fragile as spun glass.

"Greg, it's... it's fine. Nina just didn't wait for me this morning, and I was out in the cold wind for a while. I think I just caught a chill. My stomach is in knots."

Greg’s gaze snapped to me.

"Nina. My office. Now."

The second the heavy glass door clicked shut, he tossed the folder onto his desk.

"What is your problem?"

I stood in front of his desk, refusing to take a seat. "It's my car. I drive who I want to drive."

He drummed his knuckles against the mahogany. "Chelsea is in a delicate condition. What does it cost you to show a little grace?"

"Does grace include reimbursing her Uber rides?"

"Don't get smart with me." He pushed his ergonomic chair back and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Do you know who her husband is? He's a VP at Apex Logistics. The guys who signed that massive contract with us last quarter. We're currently negotiating a budget expansion with them. We brought her into this department to keep relations smooth. If she gets stressed and it gets back to him, can you shoulder that fallout?"

I unzipped my tote bag. I pulled out a thick stack of printed receipts—the $150 detailing bill, parking stubs, toll logs—and dropped them onto his desk.

"She used my car for a month and paid me fifteen dollars. Last week, she spilled a sticky oat milk latte all over my door panel. Detailing cost me a hundred and fifty. Yesterday, she dragged mud onto my passenger seat and left footprint smudges on the upholstery. If you're so committed to team morale, here’s the itemized invoice. Are you writing the check, Greg?"

He didn't even glance at the receipts.

"Nina. You are up for the Team Lead position. The number one thing I am looking for is a team player. Right now, you're failing that test."

"Being a team player means being her unpaid chauffeur?"

"She is pregnant."

"Does being pregnant mean she gets to hijack my property?"

Greg’s face darkened. "Watch your tone. You're young. Taking a little hit for the team builds character."

I slid the receipts back into my bag. "Then you build some character."

He slammed his hand on the desk. "Nina!"

Outside the glass, shadows shifted. The blinds were open, and I could see the tops of heads bobbing near the cubicles, pretending not to watch.

Greg swallowed his temper, forcing his voice into a tight, controlled hiss. "I am telling you to check your attitude. Starting tomorrow, you will resume picking her up. Furthermore, the first draft for the Apex proposal is due this afternoon. She's clearly unwell, so you will pick up her slack."

I glanced at the clock on his wall. 9:21 AM.

"So, I'm the driver, the ghostwriter, and the scapegoat?"

"It's called stepping up."

"Stepping up to be a doormat?"

He leaned back, lacing his fingers together over his stomach. "If that's how you want to frame it, fine. But remember, you aren't the only candidate for Team Lead. If you can't handle the heat, I can easily pass the torch to someone who can."

I grabbed my bag. "Fine."

He thought I was yielding. He offered a tight, patronizing smile and nodded toward the door. "Make sure this doesn't happen tomorrow."

When I pulled the door open, the cluster of heads immediately scattered. Chelsea was sitting back at her desk, taking tiny sips of hot water from a paper cup, leaving a faint rim of pink lip gloss on the edge. Seeing me emerge, she made a show of rubbing her belly and offered me a pale, fragile smile.

"Nina, I hope Greg didn't come down too hard on you. You know what, let's just forget about the Uber money. I'll just take the loss."

I stopped in front of her desk, looking down at her.

"Do you know what drivers hate the most?"

She blinked, her sweet mask slipping for a fraction of a second. "What?"

"Pests that dart out into the road when you least expect it."

The blood drained from her face.