I used the company expense account for a personal karaoke night
It was a humid evening in late October, the kind that leaves your skin feeling sticky and your brain feeling like overcooked oatmeal. The office was quiet, save for the rhythmic humming of the HVAC unit and the occasional flicker of a dying fluorescent light down the hall. I had been tethered to my desk for twelve hours, staring at a massive spreadsheet that refused to balance. My eyes were burning, and my stomach was making sounds like a dying whale. Everyone else had long since cleared out, leaving the floor looking like a graveyard of half-empty coffee cups and discarded sticky notes. I stood up to stretch, feeling every single one of my vertebrae pop, and walked over to the desk that used to belong to an intern who had quit a month ago. I was hoping to find a spare USB-C charger, but instead, I found something far more dangerous tucked under a stack of old files. It was a company-issued credit card, black and sleek, resting in a leather holder. My heart skipped a beat, then started hammering against my ribs. I knew exactly whose it was. It belonged to the department head who was notoriously disorganized and had clearly left it behind during a frantic exit weeks earlier. I held it in my palm, and for a second, the room seemed to go silent. My initial thought was to hand it to security, but then, the hunger took over. My brain began to whisper justifications. I had worked more overtime than anyone else that month. I was the one who fixed the broken data, the one who took the calls at 9:00 PM. Didn't I deserve a reward? A tiny, expensive, delicious reward? I sat back down, opened a food delivery app, and let myself go. I didn't just order a snack. I ordered a feast. I picked the most expensive sushi place in the city, the one where the fish is flown in daily and the miso soup costs as much as a sandwich. I added top-shelf sake and a variety of appetizers that I didn't even know how to pronounce. When the delivery driver arrived at the lobby, I felt a rush of adrenaline so sharp it was almost painful. I tipped him in cash, took the bags, and marched back to my desk as if I were a queen returning to her kingdom. I sat in the dim light of my cubicle, spreading out the plastic containers like a banquet. I started singing along to music on my headphones, a little private karaoke session in the middle of a dark, empty office. I felt powerful. For the first time in years, the company felt like it owed me something, and I was finally collecting. I knew I had to log the expense, so I did the only thing I could think of to cover my tracks. I typed in a fake note about a late-night team morale event. I fabricated a list of attendees, listed a fake department meeting as the reason, and hit submit. I felt like a genius. I felt untouchable. But the clock was already ticking. Two months passed, and I had almost forgotten about the guilt. I went on with my work, feeling like I had gotten away with the perfect crime. Then came the email. It was a brief, cold message from the accounting department requesting a meeting to discuss my recent expenses. I remember walking into that conference room feeling a strange tightness in my chest. The accounting lead, a woman who rarely spoke, had a stack of papers in front of her. She didn't look angry; she looked disappointed, which was so much worse. She asked me, in a very calm, flat voice, to explain the morale event. She pointed at the receipt. She pointed at the date. She asked why, if this was a team meeting, there was only one credit card transaction for a single order of food, and why no other employees had logged into the building that night. My throat went dry. I tried to speak, but the words felt like jagged glass. I had no answer. I had lied, and I had been caught. The humiliation was like a physical weight pressing down on my shoulders. I had to pay back every single cent of the bill, including the delivery fees and the tips, from my own checking account. It cleaned me out for the month. But the money wasn't the worst part. I was placed on a disciplinary watch list, which meant every single one of my reports was scrutinized for weeks. My coworkers, who found out through the grapevine, started looking at me differently. The trust was gone. Conversations would stop when I walked into the breakroom. I had become the person who couldn't be trusted with a stapler, let alone the company funds. It was a foolish, immature, and completely selfish thing to do. I look back on that night and I hate how arrogant I felt. I traded my professional reputation for a few pieces of sashimi. And yet, I am being honest here, there are days when the office coffee is bitter and the work is endless, and I find my mind drifting back to that desk. I remember the taste of that spicy tuna roll and the way the cold sake felt against my throat while I was the only person in the building. It was a fleeting, expensive moment of defiance. I know it was wrong. I know I paid a price that was much higher than the food was worth. But in the quiet moments, I still find myself savoring that memory, even as I recognize that it was the beginning of the end for my time at that company. It’s a strange thing, carrying around a regret that still tastes so sweet.