My Heart will go on

You know, it’s funny how a single, silly moment can spiral into something so… complicated. Let me tell you about my coworker, Jessica. We were never close, but we were friendly enough, you know? Always a “good morning” by the coffee machine. I thought she was harmless.

The whole mess started after the annual holiday party. Oh, the holiday party. I’d had a bit too much of the spiked punch—enough to make me think I was a gifted singer. The karaoke machine was just sitting there, beckoning. And I, in my infinite wisdom, decided to perform a deeply heartfelt, and apparently very loud, rendition of the theme song from *Titanic*. You know the one. “My Heart Will Go On.”

It was bad. Not just “off-key” bad, but full-on, arm-waving, eyes-closed, dramatic-belting-into-a-spatula bad. Someone, probably Jessica, filmed the whole tragic performance on their phone. I thought it was just a bit of fun. A story to laugh about on Monday. How naïve I was.

Monday came, and Jessica slid into my cubicle with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “What a performance on Saturday!” she said, her voice sweet as poison. “I got it all on video. You’re a real artist.”

I laughed it off, my face burning. “Oh god, please delete that. My dignity can’t take it.”

“That’s the thing,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I think it’s too precious to delete. In fact, I think it could be quite useful.” And then she laid it out. She wanted me to take the fall for a major mistake on the quarterly report she was responsible for. A mistake that would, without a doubt, get someone fired. She wanted me to say it was my error, that I’d given her the wrong data.

Now, on the surface, you might think, “It’s just a silly video.” But it’s not, is it? It’s about perception. That video, in the wrong hands, makes me look like an unprofessional, drunken fool. It would completely undermine any credibility I’ve spent years building here. My boss, a wonderfully serious man who wears a tie even on casual Friday, would never look at me the same way again. Promotions, important projects—all of that would vanish in a cloud of secondhand embarrassment.

And what was she asking me to do? To sacrifice my professional integrity. To willingly attach my name to a failure that wasn’t mine, a failure that would stain my record permanently. All for her. So she could skate by, blameless, while I became the office clown *and* the office screw-up. She wanted to trade a minute of my cringe-worthy singing for a permanent black mark on my career.

The sheer unfairness of it is what really gets me. Her mistake was one of negligence. Mine was a moment of harmless, if regrettable, fun at a party meant for fun. She was trading a pebble for a mountain. And she knew it. That’s what her little smile was all about. She knew she had found my price, and it was embarrassingly low.

So, I played along. I told her I needed a day to think about it, to “get my story straight.” I acted flustered and defeated. It’s what she wanted to see. And it gave me just enough time to figure out my next move. After all, the best way to deal with a blackmailer isn’t to give in; it’s to make sure they’re the ones who end up exposed. But that, well, that’s a story for another time. Let’s just say Jessica is about to learn that some secrets are hotter to handle than others.