By the time Paige Mercer called herself "a snack girl" for the fourth time, I had watched her take my lunch from the office refrigerator three times in one week. She never touched anyone else's food. She knew my name was on the bags, and she knew I had started eating lunch at my desk because of her. Then our biggest client sent a rare tin of caviar to the agency for a photo shoot, and I made a choice I couldn't take back: I put it where Paige had always looked for my food. When she discovered what she had eaten, she dropped to her knees in the middle of our conference room. But the real question wasn't whether she would apologize. It was whether I would tell the client exactly how the caviar had ended up in her hands.