Rip My Colleague Apart

During lunch, an older female colleague asked me, "How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend? When are you planning to get married?"

I shook my head.

"Twenty-seven, no boyfriend, and no plans to get married."

She was momentarily stunned. "What are you talking about? How can a woman not get married?" she asked.

I smiled without responding.

Realizing I wasn't joking, her expression darkened. "Did you work as a escort and get caught? Is that why no man wants you?"

During lunch, an older female colleague asked me, "How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend? When are you planning to get married?"

I shook my head.

"Twenty-seven, no boyfriend, and no plans to get married."

She was momentarily stunned. "What are you talking about? How can a woman not marry?" she asked.

I smiled without responding.

Realizing I wasn't joking, her expression darkened. "Did you work as a escort and get caught? Is that why no man wants you?"

Now it was my turn to freeze.

"W-What did you say?"

She sneered coldly and looked at me disdainfully.

"I said you were a escort and got caught, so no one wants you! Ha! Saying you don't plan to get married? What woman your age doesn't get married? There's definitely something wrong with you—unwanted, unable to marry, so you're pretending it's by choice!"

Halfway through her rant, she picked up her lunchbox and moved to a seat farther away from me.

"Who knows what diseases you're carrying!" she continued from a distance. "Gonorrhea, syphilis... You probably have them all! Best stay away, I wouldn't want to catch anything from you!"

That lit a fire in me.

"What's wrong with you? What nonsense are you spouting?" I yelled.

She pouted dismissively. "Nonsense? What nonsense? If you think I'm wrong, why don't you go get married and prove me wrong? If someone's willing to marry you, I'll believe you weren't a escort and don't have STDs!"

'Unbelievable!' I thought. 'Why should I have to prove myself just because she's spouting nonsense?'

I glared at her, my mind racing.

"Don't think getting married hides the fact that you used to be a escort!" I shouted at her. "You just got lucky that your husband hasn't found out yet! You'd better treat your filthy diseases; you're already starting to stink!"

Her brows furrowed tightly, and her chest heaved with anger. She shot up from her seat.

"What nonsense are you spouting? You're the one who was a escort! You're the one with diseases! You're slandering me…"

"You didn't sell yourself and don't have diseases?" I interrupted coldly. "Then prove it! If you can't prove it, then it means you did!"

'Trying to smear me and then forcing me to defend myself? No way! Prove yourself first!'

She was stunned speechless, her face livid with rage. She glared at me intensely, her hand pressed down hard on her lunchbox.

I glared back, my hand on my own lunchbox.

I could tell what she was thinking. When words failed her, she wanted to resort to physical violence. If she dared to, I wasn't going to let her get away with it!

The tension continued to thicken when suddenly, someone behind me said, "Hey, hey!"

The next moment, Chelsea Pattinson, my closest work colleague, stepped in and pulled me aside.

Chelsea positioned herself between us, forcing a smile at the older woman.

"Having lunch, Ms. Larson?" Chelsea asked her. "She's just bad with words—don't be mad, okay?"

Cynthia Larson's expression remained grim. "Bad with words?" she said. "That mouth of hers reeks like hell! No manners. What a brat!"

'Still angry and spewing insults!'

I raised my hand, ready to fire back at her immediately.

But before I could speak, Chelsea turned to me and raised her voice, "Yes, yes, you're absolutely right." Then Chelsea pulled me away as she continued more quietly, "Our team's about to have an emergency meeting, and everyone needs to be there! Stop eating. Let's go, or we'll be late for work…"