I Politely Asked Her to Back Off Then She Sabotaged My Career and Tried to Play the Victim

Viral | Written by Amelia Rose | Updated on 18 June 2025

She backed me into the filing cabinet like a dog cornering its chew toy, spouting advice about aloe vera while her lavender hand lotion suffocated the air between us.

I’d already asked her nicely. I’d dodged, detoured, deflected. I even went to HR.

Nothing worked.

Until I stopped playing nice.

She crossed a line—and this time, I made sure she’d smell it.

And when the office standoff finally hit HR’s desk, they didn’t just find my garlic sandwich.
They found something about Brenda they hadn’t seen coming.

The Aura of Awkward: The New Anomaly in Account Management

The email landed Monday morning: “Please Welcome Brenda Milner – Account Management.” Standard stuff.

I glanced up from my Q3 projections, a familiar tightness in my shoulders. Another body for the already cramped open-plan office.

I’m Sarah, by the way. Senior Project Manager.

Usually, I thrive in the controlled chaos of deadlines and client demands. But some days, like today, the hum of fluorescent lights and the endless tapping of keyboards felt like a cheese grater on my last nerve.

Tom, my husband, always says I internalize too much. Easy for him to say from his quiet home office.

Lily, our fourteen-year-old, just rolls her eyes when I mention work stress, probably thinking about TikTok dances.

Brenda arrived mid-morning, a whirlwind of bright floral prints and a voice that seemed to bypass normal decibel levels. She was shown to the empty cubicle diagonally across from mine. Fine.

I offered a polite wave, got a thousand-watt smile in return, and went back to my Gantt chart.

Then, the first encounter. She needed help with the shared drive. That was normal.

She walked over. She stood so close I could smell the cinnamon gum she was chewing and see the faint dusting of powder on her cheek. Not normal.

My chair has wheels. I subtly rolled back, maybe six inches.

“‘The X drive, you said?'”

She leaned in, following my retreat, her hand gesturing towards my monitor, her arm brushing mine. “Yes, this darn thing! My last place, we had a much simpler system, you know?”

Her voice was conspiratorial, as if we were sharing state secrets instead of discussing network-attached storage.

I could feel my neck prickle. This was going to be a long week.

The Human Homing Beacon

It wasn’t a one-off. Brenda, it turned out, was a human homing beacon. And everyone’s personal space was her North Star.

The next few days were a masterclass in unintentional intimacy.

She’d corner Mark from IT by the coffee machine, her face inches from his as she detailed her cat’s dietary needs. Mark, bless his patient soul, would just kind of… wilt.

I saw Susan from Marketing practically levitate backwards when Brenda approached her desk to ask about a font.

Her stories were endless, mundane, and delivered with the urgency of a breaking news bulletin. Her niece’s ballet recital. The traffic on I-95.

A detailed comparison of fabric softeners. And always, always, from a proximity that would make a dentist uncomfortable.

I tried the usual office maneuvers. The “urgent phone call” pick-up when she neared. The “deeply engrossed in my screen” posture.

I even started taking the long route to the restroom, a scenic tour past the quiet, distant hum of the servers, just to avoid her orbit.

“‘She’s… a lot,’ my deskmate, Carlos, whispered to me one afternoon, after Brenda had spent ten minutes explaining the intricacies of her sourdough starter to him, practically perched on his visitor chair. He had that shell-shocked look, the one we were all starting to wear.”

“‘A lot is an understatement, Carlos,’ I muttered back, my jaw tight. ‘She’s a personal space violation waiting to happen. Repeatedly.'”

It wasn’t just the closeness. It was the lack of awareness.

The sheer, unadulterated obliviousness. How could someone navigate the world for, I guessed, forty-something years and not pick up on the universal cues for “too close”?

Ambushed by the Aloe Vera

The big project, the Atherton account, was consuming my life. Late nights, early mornings, a constant stream of emails and conference calls.

My stress levels were already dialed up to eleven. The last thing I needed was an uninvited lecture on plant care.

I was at the communal file cabinets, searching for an old contract, back to the main office floor. The metal drawer screeched open.

“‘Oh, Sarah, there you are!’ Brenda’s voice, too loud, too close behind me.”

I stiffened. Maybe if I didn’t turn around…

No such luck. She materialized beside me, effectively pinning me between her and the cold, grey metal.

“‘I was just saying to myself, that aloe vera plant on your desk looks a little sad. Are you misting it?'”

Her face was a foot from mine. I could see the tiny lines around her eyes, smell the faint, sweet scent of her hand lotion – lavender, I thought, with a weird, cloying undertone.

My own breath caught in my chest. “‘It’s… fine, Brenda.'”

“‘Oh, but it could be thriving! My aunt Carol, she has the most amazing aloe, and her secret is…'”

The story went on. And on. About Aunt Carol.

About aloe vera propagation. About the benefits of filtered water versus tap.

I tried to lean away, subtly. My shoulder blade hit the sharp edge of the cabinet.

She didn’t notice. She just leaned with me, adjusting her stance like a tango partner determined to maintain contact.

My politeness was fraying. My patience, already worn thin by the Atherton account, was about to snap.

I felt trapped, not just physically, but by the social contract that says you don’t just shove someone away. But oh, how I wanted to.

“‘Brenda,’ I said, my voice strained. ‘I really need to find this file.'”

“‘Right, right! But just quickly, about the sunlight…'”

The “Personable” Defense

That was it. The elastic band of my composure snapped.

“‘Brenda,’ I said, a little louder this time, turning to face her fully, which unfortunately brought our faces even closer for a horrifying second. I took a deliberate step back, creating a precious eighteen inches of air.”

“‘Could you please give me a little space?’ My voice was trembling slightly, a mix of adrenaline and sheer exasperation.”

The monologue about Aunt Carol’s prize-winning aloe stopped mid-sentence. Brenda blinked.

Her bright, eager expression faltered, replaced by a look of… was that offense?

“‘Oh,’ she said, her voice dropping. She took a tiny, almost imperceptible step back herself, but her eyes narrowed slightly.”

“‘Well. I’m sorry. I’m just a personable person.'”

The words hung in the air between us. Personable. Like it was a shield.

Like it excused everything. Like my discomfort was my problem, not her behavior.

“‘I understand,’ I said, trying to keep my tone even, though my heart was hammering. ‘But I really need a bit more personal space to focus. Especially when I’m up against a deadline.'”

She gave a tight little nod, her lips pressed together. “‘Right. Well.'”

“‘Some people appreciate when you make an effort.’ And with that, she turned and walked away, her floral print receding down the aisle.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My hands were clammy.

I felt a weird mix of relief and… guilt? Had I been too harsh? No.

I’d asked politely. Hadn’t I?

But the way she’d said “personable,” like it was my failing for not appreciating her brand of invasive friendliness… it made my skin crawl.

Carlos walked by a minute later, raising an eyebrow. “‘Everything okay?'”

“‘Just had a conversation about horticulture,’ I said, my voice flat. ‘And boundaries.'”

He nodded slowly. “‘Ah. The Brenda Special.'”

The rest of the day, Brenda was noticeably cooler. She didn’t approach my desk.

She didn’t even make eye contact. And a tiny, petty part of me felt a flicker of triumph.

But a larger part felt uneasy. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

I could feel it in the air, as thick and uncomfortable as her lavender hand lotion.

The Garlic Gambit: Echoes in the Cubicle Farm

The following morning, the office felt different. Or maybe I felt different.

Brenda was at her desk, tapping away, a picture of studious concentration. No morning greetings boomed across the cubicles.

No impromptu stories ambushed unsuspecting colleagues by the printer. It was… quiet. Too quiet.

A few coworkers shot me curious glances. Had word gotten out? Probably.

Office telegraphs are faster than fiber optics. I tried to focus on the Atherton presentation, due end of week, but Brenda’s silent, reproachful presence was a constant distraction.

Every time I looked up, she seemed to be pointedly not looking at me.

“‘So, the ice queen treatment, huh?’ Carlos murmured as he passed my desk, grabbing a file.”

“‘Apparently,’ I sighed. ‘I asked for space, not a new Cold War.'”

The thing is, her silence was almost as unnerving as her proximity. Before, she was a known quantity, albeit an irritating one.

Now, she was an unknown. Was she plotting? Was she genuinely hurt?

Was she going to complain to HR that I was “unpersonable”?

My anxiety, already a low hum from the Atherton stress, ticked up a notch. Tom had listened patiently last night, bless him.

“‘She sounds like a nightmare, hon,’ he’d said. ‘But you did what you had to do.'” Lily had just asked if Brenda smelled bad. Teenagers.

The day crawled by. Every time Brenda got up, my internal radar pinged.

Was she coming over? No, just the coffee machine. Just the restroom.

Just… existing in a way that made my shoulders bunch up around my ears. This was not sustainable.

I needed to work, not play psychological chess with the new account manager.

The Accidental Sabotage

Wednesday. Atherton pre-presentation call with Mr. Davies, our department head, and the client’s VP. High stakes.

I had my headset on, my notes spread out, my game face firmly in place. This was my turf.

We were ten minutes in, discussing Q4 rollout strategies, when I sensed movement. A floral blur in my peripheral vision. Brenda.

She was standing at the edge of my cubicle, holding a Tupperware container.

“‘Sarah?’ she whispered, loud enough for my sensitive microphone to pick up. ‘I brought in some of that seven-layer dip I was telling you about yesterday? Before… well, you know.'” Her voice was saccharine sweet.

My blood ran cold. The client VP, a notoriously prickly woman named Ms. Albright, paused mid-sentence.

“‘Is someone there with you, Sarah?’ she asked, her voice like cracking ice.”

“‘No! No, just a… a colleague with a quick question, Ms. Albright. Apologies,’ I stammered, frantically waving Brenda away with one hand while trying to maintain a professional smile for the tiny webcam image.”

Brenda, however, seemed to take my wave as an invitation. She leaned further in, thrusting the Tupperware towards my face.

“‘It’s got extra jalapeños, just how you said you liked spicy things that one time!'”

“‘Brenda, not now!’ I hissed, my voice dangerously low.”

“‘Oh, is this a bad time?’ she asked, her voice a stage whisper easily captured by the mic. ‘I can come back!'”

On the screen, Mr. Davies’ face was a frozen mask of controlled fury. Ms. Albright’s eyebrow had arched so high it was practically in her hairline.

“‘Perhaps we should reschedule this, Sarah,’ Ms. Albright said, her tone glacial. ‘When you have fewer… culinary distractions.'”

The call ended abruptly. Humiliation washed over me, hot and sickening.

I ripped off my headset. “‘Brenda! What on earth were you thinking?'”

She blinked, genuinely confused. “‘I just wanted to share my dip. You said you liked dip.'”

Her lower lip trembled. “‘I was trying to be nice. After… you know.'”

Mr. Davies was at my cubicle in seconds, his face thunderous. “‘My office. Now.'”

The seven-layer dip sat on my desk, a monument to my professional mortification.

The HR Dead End

Mr. Davies was, to put it mildly, incandescent. “‘That call was critical, Sarah! What was that circus?'”

I tried to explain. About Brenda. About the close-talking.

About my polite request for space. About the subsequent awkwardness.

It all sounded so petty, so trivial, when laid out in the stark light of his disapproval.

“‘She’s new, Sarah,’ he said, his voice tight with controlled anger. ‘She’s trying to fit in. Maybe a little overeager.'”

“‘You’re a senior manager. I expect you to handle these minor interpersonal issues with more… finesse. Not create an international incident over a bowl of dip.'”

Finesse. Right. Because fending off a human barnacle while trying to land a six-figure account was all about finesse.

“‘With all due respect, Mr. Davies,’ I said, my voice shaking slightly, ‘this isn’t just ‘overeager.’ Her behavior is consistently disruptive.'”

“‘I tried to address it politely.'”

He waved a dismissive hand. “‘Talk to HR if you feel you must. But frankly, Sarah, this reflects poorly on your ability to manage your workspace and team dynamics.'”

My stomach churned. So, it was my fault. Of course.

I did go to HR. I spoke to Janice, a woman who usually radiated calm competence but today seemed harried and distracted.

I explained the situation, trying to be objective, trying not to sound like I was whining. The close-talking.

The lack of awareness. The dip incident.

Janice listened, nodding, making occasional notes. “‘So, Brenda is… overly friendly,’ she summarized, when I finally ran out of steam.”

“‘She’s invasive,’ I corrected. ‘It’s impacting my ability to work, and frankly, it’s creating a hostile environment for others too.'”

Janice sighed. “‘Look, Sarah. Brenda doesn’t have any official complaints against her.'”

“‘You’re the first to bring this up formally. We can have an informal chat with her about professional boundaries, but unless there’s a pattern of harassment or something more egregious…'” She trailed off, giving me a look that said, This is small potatoes.

“‘So, I just have to tolerate someone breathing down my neck and sabotaging client calls?'”

“‘We encourage employees to resolve interpersonal conflicts directly and maturely,’ Janice said, with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Perhaps you could try talking to her again? Reinforce your needs?'”

I walked out of HR feeling utterly deflated. And angry. So angry.

No one was listening. No one understood. It was my problem to solve.

Fine. If they wanted me to resolve it, I would. But it wouldn’t be with polite requests anymore.

The gloves were coming off.

An Epiphany in Aisle Seven

That evening, I was a wreck. Tom tried his best, making soothing noises and offering to “have a word” with Brenda himself, which was sweet but wildly impractical.

Lily, surprisingly, offered a solution. “‘Mom, just tell her she stinks.'”

“‘Lily! That’s horrible!'”

“‘Yeah, but would it work?’ she mused, scrolling through her phone.”

It got me thinking, though. Not about telling Brenda she stank, but about… olfactory warfare.

If social cues and direct requests didn’t work, maybe something more primal would.

The Atherton presentation was Friday. I had one more day. One more day of Brenda’s potential for random acts of proximity.

The next morning, before work, I found myself in the grocery store, staring at the produce section. An idea, half-formed and slightly unhinged, was taking root.

It was inspired by an old college roommate who used to eat raw garlic to ward off unwanted advances at parties. Crude, yes. But effective?

I picked up a large bulb of garlic. Then, a fist-sized yellow onion. My mind raced.

A sandwich. Not just any sandwich. A weaponized sandwich.

Something so potent, so undeniably fragrant, that it would create its own personal exclusion zone.

It felt insane. Childish, even. This was a Fortune 500 company, not a middle school cafeteria.

But HR had been useless. Davies clearly thought I was the problem. What did I have to lose?

My sanity was already halfway out the door.

A small, almost manic smile touched my lips. “‘Okay, Brenda,’ I muttered to the onions. ‘You want to be personable? Let’s see how personable you are with this.'”

The cashier gave me a funny look as I paid for my aromatic arsenal. I probably looked a little wild-eyed.

But for the first time in days, I felt a spark of hope. Or maybe it was just the fumes from the raw onion I’d accidentally nicked with my thumbnail.

The Scent of Battle: A Culinary WMD

The aroma hit me the moment I opened the fridge Thursday morning. Garlic and onion, sharp and aggressive, had permeated the triple-layered plastic wrap and the container itself.

My kitchen smelled like a Transylvanian deli.

“‘Mom, what IS that?’ Lily asked, wrinkling her nose as she came down for breakfast, her voice a blend of disgust and adolescent drama.”

“‘Strategic breakfast initiative,’ I replied, trying for nonchalant as I carefully unwrapped my creation. Two slices of sourdough, a thick layer of hummus – for adhesion – and then the payload: finely chopped raw garlic, slivers of red onion, and for good measure, a sprinkle of asafoetida powder I’d found in the back of the spice cabinet.”

It was a relic from an Indian cooking phase Tom and I had gone through. It smelled… unholy.

Tom poked his head in. “‘Honey, are you planning on warding off vampires or just everyone at the office?’ He coughed pointedly.”

“‘Just one specific vampire,’ I said, a grim sort of determination settling in. I packed the sandwich into a new, even more secure container, then into a Ziploc bag, and then another.”

It felt like I was handling a biological agent.

Driving to work, I kept the windows down, despite the early chill. The lingering scent in my car was already making my eyes water.

This was either going to be a stroke of genius or the single most embarrassing miscalculation of my professional life. There was probably no in-between.

I stashed the container in the bottom drawer of my desk, under a pile of old project binders. Every so often, a faint, tell-tale whiff would escape, a reminder of the nuclear option lurking beneath my TPS reports.

The Olfactory Offensive

Mid-morning. Prime Brenda time. She usually made her rounds after the initial email flurry died down, fueled by her second cup of coffee and an inexhaustible supply of anecdotes.

I kept an eye on her cubicle, my senses on high alert. The Atherton presentation was tomorrow; I couldn’t afford another dip-related disaster.

There she was. Rising from her chair, a sheaf of papers in hand. Heading… my way.

My heart began to thump a nervous rhythm against my ribs. Showtime.

With as much casualness as I could muster, I opened my desk drawer. The scent, even contained, was potent.

I pulled out the Tupperware, clicked open the lid. The full, unadulterated force of garlic, onion, and that weirdly sulfurous asafoetida hit me.

It was breathtaking. Literally.

Brenda arrived at the edge of my cubicle just as I was taking the first, massive bite. The crunch of the sourdough, the pungent explosion in my mouth.

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About the Author

Amelia Rose

Amelia is a world-renowned author who crafts short stories where justice prevails, inspired by true events. All names and locations have been altered to ensure the privacy of the individuals involved.