Twentyfold Payback After a Potluck

A few years ago, I switched to the administrative job I'd just resigned from. The work atmosphere was pretty good, and my colleagues seemed nice.

Once, I brought a braised pork dish I'd made for lunch, and Lucy tried a bite. She immediately showered me with praise before suggesting that we could have our dinner gatherings at my place, with the grocery bill split evenly between us.

At first, I didn't want to do it. It felt like too much work.

But my colleagues kept coming up to me with pitiful expressions, saying that they'd never had such tasty food before. They complained that eating out was too expensive, and the food didn't even taste good.

In the end, I gave in and agreed to do it.

Initially, I just followed my own plan. I bought about 100 dollars' worth of ingredients and prepared a hearty meal. Everyone enjoyed the food and asked to do it again.

Later on, as the dinner gatherings became more frequent, I went from finding it a hassle to genuinely enjoying it myself.

Before every meal, I'd ask everyone what they wanted to eat. I'd try my best to cater to their palates. Over time, I formed closer relationships with them as well.

But now, I was confronted with the truth that those compliments from them were just empty flattery.

I looked through the recipes I'd carefully organized in my notes. I'd planned on sending these recipes to my colleagues.

My heart prickled painfully.

…

Early the next morning, Lucy came knocking on my door.

She got straight to the point, stating bluntly, "Jess, I've come on behalf of my colleagues to demand compensation from you."

Lucy didn't even bother to hide the malice in her eyes as she threw me the records she'd printed in advance. The stack of papers was filled with tables, transfer records, photos, and even a compilation of the laws and regulations.

"Let's cut to the chase, Jess. Here's the evidence that you've been running an unlicensed catering business. You don't have a food business permit or a business license, yet you've been charging us for your cooking. This is a violation of the law, so you need to compensate us."

There was no trace of her usual cutesy demeanor. All I saw on her face was the look of a calculating and manipulative schemer.

"According to the regulations, your house would be sealed off for investigations, and you'd also have to pay a fine that's basically 20 times the amount you made in revenue, which comes out to about 200,000 dollars.

"But since we're all colleagues, we won't report you to the authorities. You just have to give us the same amount you would've paid in fines, which is 20 times the amount we gave you.

"I'm sure you don't want this incident to affect your life, right, Jess? It'll even make it hard for you to find another job."

Lucy showed me the document listing the number of dinner gatherings each of my colleagues had attended and the cost for each meal.

There was no mention of the fact that they were the ones who always suggested eating at my place and wanted to split the grocery bill with me.

I believed I'd been more than generous to them. For each meal, I had to work my butt off for three to four hours, just to buy the groceries, prepare the ingredients, and cook the food for them.

The amount they had given me was only enough to cover the grocery bill. There had been times when it wasn't even enough for them, but I never asked them for more.

Labor alone was half of the operating costs at a restaurant, but I had never asked them to pay for my time and effort.

Yet, not only were they not grateful for that, but they were even trying to extort money from me.

Meanwhile, Lucy smirked at me, looking like she had nothing to be afraid of.

"Don't get upset, Jess. After all, we were colleagues, weren't we? You can't expect everyone to just suffer a loss without getting any in return, right?"

Brandishing the documents at me, she threatened haughtily, "If you hand over the money now, Jess, I'll delete all of the evidence. We can part on good terms. But if I refuse, then I guess we'll just have to meet in court."

Just then, my phone buzzed. A message had been sent to the group chat—the one where they spoke of me as though I was their fixed deposit investment.

Someone was asking Lucy if I'd transferred the money yet. She was waiting for the money to buy a handbag.

It was Diane Bates, a single mother, who sent the message. Her desk was next to mine. When her son wanted to eat fried chicken, she tried to save money by asking me to make it instead.