Mikhail paced nervously around the room, glancing every so often at his ‘Pobeda’ wristwatch—a keepsake from his grandfather. For the last day, the cursed mechanism seemed to mock him, dragging each second out into eternity.
“Angela, could you… please sit down?” he finally managed to say, nodding toward the sofa.
His wife, who had patiently watched his restless pacing from the doorway until now, obediently entered the room and sat down on the edge of the sofa. Her face was a strange mix of exhaustion and wariness. She folded her hands on her knees, unnaturally stiff, like she was at a boss’s appointment.
Mikhail kept silently pacing the room. Eight steps one way, eight steps back. Like clockwork, he marched across the room with his muscular legs, unable to meet his wife’s eyes. His fingers clenched into fists and then nervously smoothed the already-perfect creases in his trousers.
“When should I start packing?” Angela broke the silence.
Mikhail flinched and finally looked straight at his wife:
“What? Packing for what?”
“I don’t know,” Angela shrugged. Her voice was steady, almost indifferent. “You wanted to talk about divorce. So, I’m asking—when should I start gathering my things?”
Mikhail froze, suddenly realizing that his wife either somehow already knew everything or was just making fun of him. But the calmness with which she said “divorce” made him doubt his own resolve.
“Angela, I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, running his hand across his forehead. “You misunderstood. Or, rather, you understood perfectly… It’s complicated.”
Angela rolled her eyes.
“Misha, stop scurrying around like a cockroach on a frying pan. Sit down and tell me what’s going on. I don’t have time for your dance routines.”
That tone—sarcastic, sharp—was familiar to him. That’s how Angela spoke with lazy employees in her department. Mikhail obediently sat in the chair opposite her, still avoiding her gaze.
“We’ll have to part ways,” he finally said. “Life doesn’t stand still, you know? People change, and so do feelings…”
“That old mantra is getting tired, Misha—like cheap brandy,” Angela interrupted. “How old is she? Blonde, brunette? Or did you want to spice up your collection with a redhead this time?”
“For heaven’s sake, Angela, let’s skip the hysterics!”
The book on the coffee table seemed to be waiting for its big moment. Angela grabbed it in a flash and hurled it at her husband. The hefty volume of ‘The Master and Margarita’ landed right on Mikhail’s forehead.
“Damn!” he jumped aside, pressing his hand to his split brow. “Are you out of your mind?!”
“No, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m just going to quietly cry into a pillow!” Angela leapt up from the sofa. “You slug! Tell me her name!”
Blood seeped between Mikhail’s fingers, dripping onto the light-colored carpet.
“Get out!” he shouted, waving at the door with his free hand. “Leave!”
Angela froze for a moment, trying to keep herself together. Her shoulders rose and fell in time with her heavy breathing. Slowly, she turned and walked toward the exit. At the threshold, she stopped:
“I spent five years of my life on you, Mikhail. I pulled you out of that dingy little office, brought you into the agency, helped you build your career. And you couldn’t even muster up the courage to tell me you were having an affair. Damn you.”
“Shut up!” Mikhail clamped his hands over his ears, smearing blood across his face. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
The bedroom door slammed behind Angela with a bang worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy finale.
Mikhail walked into the bathroom. From the mirror, a pathetic man with a bloodied face and a haunted look stared back at him. The cut on his forehead wasn’t deep, but it was bleeding heavily.
“Crazy witch,” he muttered, pressing a cold, wet towel to the gash. “She could’ve taken my eye out with that damned book of hers.”
Mikhail threw on his jacket, grabbed his car keys without looking, and bolted out of the apartment. He needed some air, needed to pull himself together. Nothing had gone the way he’d planned.
Angela was supposed to cry, beg him to stay, promise to change—anything but this cold fury and that cursed book flying at his head. Bulgakov nearly fractured his skull—manuscripts really don’t burn, but they sure do fly.
Mikhail got into his car and punched the steering wheel. The plan had been perfect: calmly explain to his wife that they no longer suited each other, that he wanted to move on, that this didn’t make anyone a bad person…
But she knew. Somehow, she already knew about Kristina. Or maybe she just suspected? After all, Angela had always been perceptive. Too perceptive for his comfort.
With trembling fingers, Mikhail dialed a number on his phone. The rings seemed to last an eternity before someone finally answered.
“I told her,” he said abruptly, not waiting for a greeting.
A brief pause.
“How did it go?”
“We’ll talk later,” Mikhail said, glancing at the now-empty front steps of the house. “I can’t talk right now.”
He hung up and immediately turned off his phone. The cold November wind seeped through his half-zipped jacket, but Mikhail hardly noticed. The cut on his forehead was still bleeding slightly.
“God, this is all so pathetic,” he muttered, wiping the windshield of his Volkswagen with his sleeve. “Damn women and their unpredictable reactions.”
He turned the key in the ignition but didn’t rush to drive off. His ‘Pobeda’ watch showed half past seven. The evening was just starting, but it felt like a lifetime had already passed.
‘It’s always like this with them—nothing but hysterics and drama,’ Mikhail thought as he steered out of the yard. ‘Angela got exactly what she deserved. For five years I put up with her constant control, her lectures, her unbearable sense of superiority. As if she made my career! Yeah, right! She just introduced me to the right people; everything else was my achievement.’
He turned onto Mira Avenue and switched on the wipers. Wet snow smeared across the windshield in gray streaks.
Mikhail pulled an old flip phone from the glove compartment—it was his backup for emergencies. He mentally congratulated himself on his foresight. He knew his mother’s number by heart.
“Mom? It’s me.”
“Misha! Is something wrong? You hardly ever call this late,” Valeria Igorevna’s voice sounded worried.
“Can I stay at your place tonight?”
There was a pause. Mikhail could almost see his mother pressing her lips together to hold back a flood of questions.
“Of course. Did you and Angela have a fight?”
“I’ll explain when I get there,” he cut her off. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Without waiting for her reply, he hung up and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. At the intersection with Akademik Korolev Street, the traffic light flashed yellow and switched to red. Mikhail hit the brakes hard, making the car jolt. Blood started to seep from his wound again.
“Damn,” he muttered, opening the glove compartment for napkins. He jumped as his phone rang.
The spare phone buzzed on the seat beside him. Mikhail frowned—who could even know this number? He checked the screen and relaxed a bit. It was Ilya. His childhood friend and also a marketing department colleague.
“Hello,” Mikhail answered curtly.
“Sorry for calling so late,” Ilya rattled off. “Just wanted to remind you the papers from Tektron arrived. The finance department has put together some figures already, but we need to double-check everything with logistics and then with the planning team. Next week we’ve got preliminary talks, so you know how important this all is…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mikhail cut him off, glancing at the light. “I remember. It’s all under control.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m fine. Just tired,” Mikhail replied, seeing the green light turn on. “I have to drive now. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
He pressed the gas and drove through the intersection. Dealing with Ilya was the last thing on his mind right now. Part of his mind noted the irony—his personal life was falling apart, but the world kept spinning, still demanding reports, audits, negotiations.
As he pulled up in front of his mother’s old five-story building on Ostankinskaya, Mikhail felt a strange emptiness inside. Five years of marriage had ended with a book thrown in his face and blood on his shirt collar. There weren’t any tears or pleading looks. Just rage and accusations.
“Who does she think she is, anyway?” he thought as he parked in the courtyard. The light in his mother’s third-floor apartment window glowed warmly, promising at least a temporary refuge from his own thoughts.
Meanwhile, Angela was pacing the apartment in fury. Anger boiled inside her, almost impossible to contain.
“Bastard!” she yelled, grabbing the TV remote from the table and hurling it at the plasma screen with all her might.
The screen burst into a web of cracks before going dark. Glass shards scattered across the floor, but Angela hardly noticed. Her eyes landed on the wall, where Mikhail’s diplomas—his pride, his proof of status—hung in their expensive frames.
“Five years!” she growled, ripping the first frame from the wall. “Five years of my life!”
The glass shattered with a crystalline ring. The first diploma hit the ground, then the second, then the third. His MBA with honors, his business school certificate, the award for an innovative development strategy—all those prized documents lay scattered among the broken glass.
Angela stopped, her breath coming in heavy gasps. Her hands were shaking, a lump was stuck in her throat. She sank down to the floor among the shards, covering her face with her hands.
“Oh my God,” she groaned. “Oh my God, what is happening?”
When they first met, Mikhail was a nobody—just another office worker with a thirty thousand salary and an overinflated ego. It was the usual story: more ambition than ability. But there was something about him, a spark that made Angela believe in him. She already had a good position at ‘Pishcheprom’, with connections and a strong reputation.
“I was like a little tugboat pushing a barge forward,” Angela said bitterly, looking at the photo in the cracked frame—her and Mikhail at a company event, him already in a tie, newly promoted to department head. “I got him an internship, then a spot in the project team. I introduced him to Vitaly Semyonovich…”
Now her Misha was deputy general director at a ready-meal factory. Custom-tailored suits, a ‘Pobeda’ watch—supposedly an heirloom from his grandfather! Yeah, right. He bought it with his first real bonus at an antique shop because he wanted to look more respectable.
Angela slowly got up, carefully stepping between the shards. Two thoughts kept swirling in her head: either Mikhail really did have a mistress—some young secretary or marketing girl—or he simply stopped loving her, worn out by the gratitude that gradually turned into a heavy burden.
“Either way, it’s divorce,” she whispered, rummaging in a cabinet for a broom and dustpan. “I will never humiliate myself and beg him to stay.”
As she methodically swept up the shards, Angela suddenly realized there were no tears. Only emptiness and a sense of numbness. Five years—all for nothing. Five years of shared plans, career struggles, support… And now, he just decides to leave. He couldn’t even muster the courage to name the real reason.
“Coward!” she cursed, sweeping fragments of diplomas into a garbage bag with force. “‘People change, feelings do too.’ Go choke on your cheap lines from TV dramas!”
Suddenly, her phone started ringing in her bag. Angela flinched, dropped the broom, wiped her hands on her jeans, and pulled out her phone. The screen showed: ‘Roman.’
“Hello,” she answered.
“Angela, sorry to call,” her colleague’s voice sounded worried. “Did you remember about the contracts? We need to prepare all the materials for negotiations with ‘Trans-Logistic.'”
Angela froze for a moment. The project! She had completely forgotten about it, consumed by her personal drama.
“Of course I remember,” she lied, scrambling to think fast. “I’m working on it right now.”
“Great,” Roman’s voice held obvious relief. “I was afraid you’d forgotten.”
“Everything’s fine,” Angela said sharply. “It’ll be ready by nine tomorrow.”
She ended the call. Damn! Work had completely slipped her mind. She had to leave her unfinished cleanup and rush to her bag, where she grabbed the folder with documents.
Sitting down at the table, Angela tried to focus on the numbers, but the lines blurred before her eyes. In her mind, fragments of today’s conversation with Mikhail pulsed—his frightened look, the blood on his forehead.
“Pull yourself together,” she ordered herself. “You can’t let that scoundrel ruin your career too.”
Forcing herself to focus on the contract text, Angela gradually made herself dive into work. Tables, graphs, calculations—these were concrete, comprehensible, manageable. Unlike human relationships.
“Logistics never betrays,” she muttered, making notes in the margins of the document. “Numbers don’t cheat.”
It was getting dark outside. Angela turned on her desk lamp and continued working, occasionally glancing at the wrecked living room. Shattered TV pieces, broken diploma frames, scattered documents—a real battlefield. She’d have to clean it all up tomorrow, but for now, the project took priority.
The next morning, Angela entered the ‘Pishcheprom’ corporation building at exactly 8:30. Light gray suit, tightly pinned hair, and a face that didn’t flinch a muscle when the security guard greeted her with a friendly nod. Overnight, she hadn’t so much slept as burned out from the inside—now, where her anger raged just yesterday, there was only emptiness and calm.
“Just because divorce is inevitable doesn’t mean life is over,” she kept repeating to herself like a mantra as the elevator took her up to the fifth floor.
The corridor greeted her with the usual morning bustle. Colleagues rushed from office to office with cups of coffee, interns carried stacks of documents. No one looked at her any differently. Either the news hadn’t spread yet, or she had learned to hide her emotions well.
Angela opened the door to her office—a spacious room with two windows overlooking the avenue. She hung her coat, walked to her desk, turned on her computer, and pulled from her bag the flash drive with the contracts she’d worked on during the night.
The computer booted up, but instead of the usual desktop, a password prompt for corporate access appeared. Angela frowned. She entered her password—“Access denied.”
“What the hell?” she muttered and tried again.
Again—“Access denied.”
There was a knock at the door, and Vadim Petrovich, the head of HR—a lean man in a dark suit—appeared in the doorway.
“Good morning, Angela Viktorovna,” he said with a strained smile.
“Vadim Petrovich, I’m having some trouble accessing the system,” Angela said, tearing herself away from the monitor.
“Yes, that’s exactly why I came by,” he said, handing her a piece of paper folded in two. “Here, please take a look.”
“What’s this?” Angela took the document. “My department is fully staffed—I don’t need any new employees.”
“This isn’t a request for new employees, Angela Viktorovna,” Vadim Petrovich shifted from foot to foot. “It’s an order. You need to sign it.”
Angela unfolded the paper and read the text. The lines danced before her eyes, but two phrases stood out clearly amid the bureaucratic language: “…dismissed at the employer’s initiative” and “…effective from today.”
“What kind of joke is this?” Her voice became dangerously quiet.
“The order was signed by the deputy director last night,” Vadim Petrovich avoided her eyes as he spoke. “I’m really sorry, Angela Viktorovna.”
Angela stood up abruptly.
“I get it,” she snapped, tossing the order onto the desk. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for the HR manager’s reply, Angela stormed out of the office and headed for the stairs. Mikhail’s office was upstairs, in what everyone called the “executive zone.”
Mikhail’s secretary—Svetlana, a young blonde with a model’s figure (“So that’s who you are!” flashed through Angela’s mind)—tried to block her way.
“Angela Viktorovna, Mikhail Alexandrovich is busy! He’s in a meeting!” Svetlana rattled off, jumping up from her desk.
But Angela had already flung open the door to her husband’s office. Inside, with two panoramic windows, Mikhail sat behind a massive desk. Across from him sat two men in suits—clearly the clients. In the corner, Ilya perched on a sofa, and when he saw Angela, he seemed to sink his head into his shoulders.
“You scoundrel!” Angela blurted out, ignoring the others in the room. “First the divorce isn’t enough for you, now you’re firing me too?”
Mikhail slowly rose from behind the desk. The small bandage on his forehead reminded Angela of their confrontation the night before.
“Angela,” his voice was icy, “you’re acting inappropriately.”
“Inappropriately?” she shot back. “And firing your wife the day after announcing a divorce—is that supposed to be normal?”
A small crowd was already gathering behind Angela: secretary Svetlana, and a breathless Vadim Petrovich.
Mikhail silently picked up the landline phone.
“Security? Send guards to my office. Immediately.”
“Is that so?” Angela snapped. “Well then, thanks for five years, Mikhail Alexandrovich. Thanks for showing me what a miserable person you really are.”
She looked around at everyone present. The clients looked embarrassed, Ilya stared at his own shoes, and the secretary gazed at her with a kind of reverent horror.
“Scoundrel,” Angela threw out as a final remark, then turned and left the office.
As the door closed behind Angela, Mikhail forced a smile and turned to the clients:
“Sorry about that, gentlemen. Former employee. A bit of a drama queen.”
He sat back in his chair, trying to ignore Ilya’s piercing gaze.
“Now, where were we? You were talking about delivery deadlines…”
The clients exchanged glances but continued the conversation. Forty minutes later, once the meeting wrapped up and they’d left the office, Ilya finally spoke up:
“Misha, that was harsh.”
“What exactly?” Mikhail busied himself with paperwork, pretending to be completely absorbed.
“Firing Angela. She’s one of the best negotiators you’ve got. You don’t just throw away people like that.”
Mikhail looked up and fixed his friend with a stare.
“She has no place in this company anymore,” he said curtly. “After the divorce, she can only do harm.”
“But that’s unprofessional,” Ilya insisted. “You have to separate personal and work matters.”
“You’re not the one to tell me what to do,” Mikhail snapped back. “You know what she’s like. Imagine what’ll happen when she finds out about Svetlana.”
Ilya frowned:
“And you’re not being fair to Angela. She knows information that could help the competition. She knows the whole supply chain, the partner structures—everything.”
“She can go work for the devil himself for all I care,” Mikhail dismissed the idea with a wave. “But she won’t be working under me. That’s it, Ilya. I’ve said everything I need to say.”
He buried himself in his paperwork pointedly, making it clear the conversation was over.
Angela was packing up her personal belongings—photos, notebooks, stationery—into a box. The door to the office opened, and Roman walked in.
“Hey! Did you get the contracts ready? I could just grab them right now—” He stopped mid-sentence as he saw what Angela was doing. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve been fired, Roman,” Angela put a small cactus—her birthday gift from the team—into the box. “The dismissal order’s already signed.”
“What?” Roman froze in the doorway. “How is that possible? Why?”
“Ask Belov,” she nodded upward. “He’s not just our new deputy general director now—he’s also my ex-husband.”
“Ex-husband?” Roman blinked in confusion. “Wait, what is actually happening?”
Angela sighed and stopped packing for a moment.
“Yesterday Mikhail announced he wanted a divorce. And today he fired me as payback. So much for family harmony.”
“Damn, that’s rough,” Roman shook his head. “What about the contracts? What are we supposed to do about Trans-Logistic?”
“Go ask your beloved Belov,” Angela shrugged. “Let him print the contracts and sort it out with legal himself.”
“You know I can’t get it done nearly as fast as you. And Mikhail Aleksandrovich has never even understood the logistics side like you do.”
“Don’t worry,” Angela put a hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Reach out to the legal department. They’ll sort everything out within a couple of days.”
“So what happens now?” Roman asked, nodding at her box. “Where are you going?”
Angela closed the box and looked out the window. The view outside showed a gray, autumny, damp panorama of Moscow.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I really don’t know yet.”
Meanwhile, Mikhail sat alone in his office, trying to process the whole scandal. Sunlight peeked through the blinds, casting stripes across his desk. His phone buzzed—the name “Diana” popped up on the screen.
Mikhail grimaced, but answered the call anyway.
“Yeah, Di, what’s up?”
“Congrats on the divorce, bro!” his sister’s voice was almost gleeful. “You’re finally free from that witch!”
Mikhail froze.
“How did you find out?” he asked, barely holding onto his composure.
“Come on,” Diana snorted. “Angela screamed so loud, people on the other side of the city could hear. Office gossip travels faster than light—three people have already called me.”
Mikhail absentmindedly touched the bandage on his forehead. The wound underneath still ached, a sharp reminder of yesterday’s “Master and Margarita” incident.
“Stop it,” he said sharply. “There’s nothing funny about this.”
“Oh, don’t sulk. I’m on your side,” Diana sounded genuinely puzzled. “Glad you finally kicked her out. It was overdue. But… does Mom know yet?”
Mikhail exhaled, trying to calm himself. Valeria Igorevna had always liked Angela, and the news about the divorce was definitely not going to please her.
“No, I haven’t told Mom yet,” he said. “And you’re not to tell her either, understand? I’ll explain everything to her in the next few days.”
“Suit yourself,” Diana seemed to shrug. “Alright, I’ve got people waiting for me. Let’s talk soon!”
She hung up, and Mikhail set his phone aside, leaning back in his chair. It had only been half an hour since the blow-up with Angela, and already the whole office was buzzing. By the end of the day all of ‘Pischeprom’ would know, and by morning, half the industry.
“Damn witch,” he thought, touching the bandage on his forehead again. The wound ached, as if to remind him this was only the beginning.
Angela walked into her mother’s apartment, carrying a box of things from work. Nadezhda Arkadyevna opened the door, looking at her daughter in surprise.
“Angel, why aren’t you at work?”
Angela silently walked into the hallway, set the box down on the side table, and only then looked at her mother.
“Mikhail filed for divorce,” she said in a hollow voice. “And today, he fired me.”
Nadezhda Arkadyevna gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Oh my God, darling! How could this happen?”
From the next room, Marina, Angela’s younger sister, peeked out.
“What’s going on?” she asked, then, noticing her sister’s expression, frowned. “What did your idiot do this time?”
“Ex-idiot,” Angela corrected her, taking off her coat.
“Misha?” Marina repeated in disbelief. “Has he lost his mind?”
“That jerk not only dumped Angela but fired her, too!” Nadezhda Arkadyevna declared indignantly, nudging her older daughter toward the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll make some tea. You’ll tell us everything.”
Marina clenched her fists:
“What an idiot! I always said he was an ungrateful jerk! You pulled him out of the gutter, and he…”
“Enough,” Angela interrupted her tiredly. “Don’t.”
In the kitchen, Nadezhda Arkadyevna made tea and set cups in front of her daughters.
“What about your apartment?” she asked, sitting down across from her older daughter.
Angela shrugged:
“I’ll have to move out. The apartment is in Mikhail’s name. I’m just a tenant.”
“But that’s so unfair!” Marina protested. “You paid the mortgage all these years too!”
“I’ll deal with it later,” Angela wrapped her hands around her teacup, as if trying to warm herself. “Right now I just need to get out of there. I can’t stand seeing his face.”
Marina stood up resolutely:
“I’ll help you pack your things. When should we go?”
“We can go right now,” Angela replied. “Mikhail will be stuck at the office late or head to his mom’s place today.”
“Then let’s go,” Marina grabbed her bag. “I’ll get ready quickly.”
After the sisters left, Nadezhda Arkadyevna sat still for a while, staring into space. Then she rose slowly and walked over to the bookshelf where a photo of her late husband stood.
“Well, Sergey?” she said quietly, gazing at the photo. “Your darling girl is in trouble again.”
Her relationship with Sergey Viktorovich had been complicated: arguments, reconciliations, but they made it work. They raised two daughters, gave them an education. Afterwards, he died at work—his heart simply stopped.
Nadezhda Arkadyevna sighed, picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Alla? It’s me,” she said when someone answered. “Tell me, are you looking for a good negotiator? My daughter wants to change employers.”
She listened to the response, nodding to herself.
“Yes, she really knows her stuff when it comes to logistics. She worked at Pishcheprom… No, not a single reprimand in five years… Of course, I understand she’ll need an interview… Yes, she’s available starting today.”
Nadezhda Arkadyevna kept talking for a bit longer, then finally ended the call. A faint smile appeared on her face.
“Don’t worry, Sergey,” she said to a photo of her husband. “We’ll manage.”
Later that evening, Mikhail paused in front of his mother’s apartment door. He took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. It was a familiar gesture, but his hand betrayed him by trembling. The thought pulsed through his mind: he could put off the awkward conversation about the divorce for now. Just have dinner, talk about work, chat about trivial things. His mother didn’t have to know everything right away.
The lock clicked, and Valeria Igorevna appeared in the doorway—slim, neat, with dark chocolate-colored hair perfectly styled.
“Mishenka!” she exclaimed, opening her arms wide, but froze as she noticed the bandage on his forehead. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing,” Mikhail brushed it off, kissing his mother on the cheek. “Turned my head wrong, bumped into the cabinet door.”
Valeria Igorevna let her son in, closely examining his face as he passed.
“Doesn’t really look like a bump from a cabinet,” she noted. “Looks more like… well, come in. I made borscht.”
Mikhail took off his shoes, hung up his jacket, and headed for the living room, but stopped short on the threshold. On the couch, legs tucked under her as she flipped through a fashion magazine, sat Diana. Seeing her brother, she looked up and offered an apologetic smile.
“Hey, bro,” she said. “Long time no see.”
“You called me four hours ago,” Mikhail muttered through clenched teeth. “What brings you to Mom’s place?”
“Just stopped by to pick up some documents,” Diana shrugged.
“Right,” Mikhail replied skeptically.
He walked into the kitchen, where his mom was already pouring aromatic borscht into bowls. The smell of homemade food should have been comforting, but tonight Mikhail just felt a tight knot in his stomach.
“Sit down,” Valeria Igorevna said, sliding a bowl in front of him. “Now tell me, what possessed you to break up with Angela?”
Mikhail choked on air and stared at his mother in shock. In the kitchen doorway, Diana appeared, watching the scene with poorly hidden interest.
“You told her?!” Mikhail snapped, whipping around to face his sister.
Diana threw up her hands:
“What did you expect? You can’t keep news like that a secret.”
“It’s none of your business!” Mikhail barked.
“Don’t raise your voice,” Valeria Igorevna cut him off sternly. “Now start talking.”
Mikhail clenched his jaw, wishing desperately he could be anywhere but here. He stared down at his bowl of borscht, unable to meet his mother’s gaze.
“Mom, Angela and I… we’re adults,” he began hesitantly. “Sometimes people just break up. It’s nothing special.”
“Nothing special?” his mother repeated, sitting down across from him. “You kicked her out of the apartment, and today you fired her from her job. Do you honestly think that’s normal?”
Mikhail’s head shot up in alarm:
“How do you know about her job?”
“Nadezhda Arkadyevna called,” Valeria Igorevna said calmly. “She wanted to know if you’d lost your mind.”
“Great!” Mikhail slapped his palm on the table. “Now my mother-in-law’s involved too. Maybe we should call the neighbors? Or invite the TV crew?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Valeriya Igorevna said sternly. “Just explain what happened, properly.”
Mikhail sighed, realizing there was no way to dodge the conversation.
“I’m not a little boy, Mom,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I’m the deputy director of a major company, and I can handle things without Angela. I have a strong team.”
“I don’t care about your team,” Valeriya Igorevna cut him off. “I want to know why you divorced a woman who pulled you up from nothing and made you who you are.”
Diana, leaning against the door frame, watched the argument with obvious amusement.
“She didn’t pull me up!” Mikhail exploded. “So what if she introduced me to a couple of people? The rest was all my doing!”
“What a fool you are,” his mother shook her head. “Divorcing her as your wife, that’s your personal business. But letting go of such a valuable employee? That was a huge mistake. It’s unprofessional.”
Mikhail pushed away his untouched plate of borscht.
“I couldn’t have my ex-wife around all the time!” he blurted. “You understand? Angela is a negotiator, which is very important for the company. If she’d kept working… she would’ve ruined everything out of spite.”
“So you fired her out of fear?” Valeriya Igorevna clarified.
“Out of common sense!” Mikhail argued. “She’s a loose cannon.”
“A loose cannon,” his mother echoed, and suddenly laughed. “My God, Misha, do you hear yourself? Angela is the best logistics specialist in your field. And you fired her because you’re afraid she’ll seek revenge? You should have doubled her salary and kept her in the company!”
“Mom, you don’t understand,” Mikhail said tiredly.
“No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Valeriya Igorevna became serious. “It’s one thing to get a divorce. It’s another to make it obvious to everyone, through such clumsy actions, that you put personal grievances above the interests of the business. What kind of leader does that make you?”
Mikhail opened his mouth to object, but his mother continued:
“Everyone will know it’s impossible to have a conflict with you and keep their job, no matter their skills or achievements. That sends a very bad message to your team, son.”
Diana snorted:
“Mom, come on. Maybe he really did have serious reasons. Maybe Angela lied to him or something else happened.”
“There was no lying,” Mikhail snapped. “And anyway, enough about this.”
Valeriya Igorevna looked at her son intently, and Mikhail suddenly felt like a fifteen-year-old caught smoking behind the school.
“You have someone else,” she stated.
“Oh, God, Mom!” Mikhail exclaimed. “Don’t start.”
“The secretary?” Valeriya Igorevna pressed on. “No, don’t answer. I can see I’m right just by looking at you.”
Mikhail felt himself turning red. Diana gave a low whistle, but immediately fell silent under her brother’s stern gaze.
“This is my personal life,” he managed to say at last. “And I don’t want to discuss it.”
Valeriya Igorevna sighed and got up from the table.
“Alright, I hear you,” she said. “But listen to my advice: be careful. Women can hold a grudge for decades. Especially women like Angela.”
“What could she possibly do to me?” Mikhail scoffed skeptically.
“It’s not about what she’ll do,” his mother shook her head. “It’s about what you lost because of your own foolishness.”
She left the kitchen, leaving her son alone with his now-cold borscht and his own thoughts.
A few days later, Angela was sitting in the office of the CEO of ‘Breakfast Express’, the largest hot meal provider for schools in the region. Ilya Petrovich Komarov, a burly man with attentive eyes, personally greeted her at the door and led her to his office, bypassing the line of visitors in the waiting area.
“Angela Viktorovna, glad you could make the time,” he said, gesturing toward a comfortable leather chair. “Coffee? Or perhaps some tea?”
“Coffee, if you don’t mind,” Angela replied, carefully smoothing the folds of her dark blue suit.
Ilya Petrovich pressed a button on the phone:
“Elena, two coffees, please. And don’t let anyone in for the next half hour.”
When the secretary brought the coffee, Komarov leaned back in his chair and looked straight at Angela:
“I’ll be blunt. I’ve heard about your… situation at ‘Pishcheprom’. Nadezhda Arkadyevna told me quite a bit about you.”
Angela tensed, but outwardly remained calm.
“My mother has always believed in my professional abilities,” she said in a neutral tone. “I hope what interests you is my expertise, not office gossip.”
Komarov laughed:
“Absolutely. I couldn’t care less about your personal life, Angela Viktorovna. What matters to me is your competence. You’re a phenomenal negotiator. My analysts say you’ve landed contracts worth a billion rubles over the last three years.”
“One billion two hundred million, to be precise,” Angela corrected him, taking a sip of coffee.
“Even better,” Komarov nodded. “We’re dealing with a tricky situation with our suppliers right now. As you know, feeding schoolchildren is about government contracts, dependence on the budget, complex logistics…”
“And tons of inspection agencies,” Angela added. “I’m aware of the specifics of your business.”
Komarov leaned forward:
“I need someone who can rebuild our entire supplier contract chain from scratch. We have to work with small farms, large agricultural holdings, processors. This whole system has to be both flexible and reliable.”
“And you think I can handle that?” Angela studied his expression intently.
“I’m sure of it,” Komarov said firmly. “The salary is thirty percent higher than at ‘Pishcheprom’, you get a company car, full benefits. And the position is Director of External Communications.”
Angela raised an eyebrow slightly:
“Sounds tempting. But I want to know what I’d be dealing with. Can I get access to the supplier documentation?”
“Of course,” Komarov nodded. “Elena will get everything ready. When would you be able to start?”
“In two weeks,” Angela replied after a moment’s thought. “I need to sort out a few… personal matters.”
“Excellent,” Komarov said, rising and offering his hand. “Then in two weeks, I’ll expect you as our new Director of External Communications.”
They spent another half hour discussing the details of the job. Angela asked specific questions about logistics chains, problematic suppliers, and competitors. Komarov answered eagerly, clearly impressed by her deep understanding of the business.
When Angela left the office, at least a dozen visitors had already gathered in the reception area. The secretary quickly stood up from behind her desk:
“Angela Viktorovna, just a moment!”
She disappeared into the director’s office and returned a minute later:
“Come with me, I’ll show you your future office.”
Angela nodded and followed the secretary down the long corridor.
Mikhail stepped into the apartment cautiously, as if expecting an ambush. He moved slowly from room to room, glancing around. Angela was nowhere to be seen, but signs of her fury were everywhere.
The TV with a smashed screen hung on the wall, a reminder of a violent argument. Diplomas in broken frames were scattered across the floor among shards of glass. Mikhail crouched down and picked up one—a diploma of MBA with honors. Glass fragments cascaded from the shattered frame.
“Damn witch,” he muttered as he looked around. “Psychopath.”
The bookshelf was nearly empty—all the books Angela had brought or bought over the years were gone. Apart from the broken electronics, nothing else had been touched—furniture stayed put, kitchen utensils were untouched.
Mikhail walked through the living room, taking in the results of Angela’s anger. The TV wasn’t the only casualty—the stereo system, microwave, vases, and even the wall clock had also gotten it. It looked as if she had systematically and deliberately destroyed everything within reach.
“Hysterical fool,” he said aloud, but then corrected himself: “No, Angela’s no fool. She’s clever, calculating…”
He took out his phone and dialed a number.
“The apartment’s clear,” he said as soon as someone picked up on the other end. “I’ll come get you in a week.”
He didn’t specify who he was speaking to—and hung up without waiting for a reply.
Mikhail made another round of the apartment, assessing the scale of the destruction. TV, stereo, microwave, wall clocks, vases, picture frames… It looked like Angela had gone through the apartment with a hammer, methodically demolishing everything that could be broken.
“Hysteric,” he muttered again, but there was no anger left in his voice—only tired resignation. “Well, these are planned expenses that come with a divorce.”
A knock at the door startled him. On the threshold stood Diana—in a trendy red coat and carrying a Gucci purse.
“Hey, little brother,” she squeezed past him into the apartment. “Decided to stop by and see how you’re holding up…”
Diana fell silent when she saw the mess in the living room. She whistled:
“Wow! Angela really went off! I always said she’s not right in the head.”
“Shut up,” Mikhail snapped. “Why did you come?”
Diana walked over to the sofa, shrugged off her coat, and sat down, crossing her legs:
“Hey bro, I actually have a business proposition. Isn’t there an opening for a negotiator in your company? What a perfect chance to help your own sister move up!”
Mikhail immediately caught on to what she was hinting at.
“Forget it,” he cut her off. “That position isn’t happening for you.”
“Why not?” Diana pouted, clearly offended. “Excuse me, but I graduated from management school and even did an internship abroad! I’m great with people!”
“You need more than just people skills,” Mikhail replied dryly. “You need brains, experience, and a whole bunch of other qualities you just don’t have.”
“You’re an idiot!” Diana jumped up from the couch, grabbed her coat. “A stupid, ungrateful moron!”
She spun around and stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door so hard that plaster fell from the ceiling.
Mikhail sighed and sank into an armchair. His head was pounding from all these arguments and strained relationships. He rubbed his forehead, still decorated with a bandage, and suddenly smirked: even his sister and ex-wife used the same insults. Almost like they were conspiring.
Three months passed. Moscow’s autumn gave way to winter, dusting the city with its first snow and lighting up the streets with pre-holiday garlands. Mikhail was in his office at the ‘Pishcheprom’ tower, looking over documents his assistant had just brought him.
“Svetlana, remind me, when is the negotiation with ‘Sibkholod’?” he asked, not looking up from the papers.
“On Friday, Mikhail Alexandrovich,” the blonde replied, shifting uneasily at the door. “Is everything alright with you?”
Mikhail looked up and met her worried gaze.
“Everything’s fine,” he responded curtly. “Go, get back to work.”
When the secretary closed the door behind her, Mikhail leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. The hands on his ‘Pobeda’ watch showed 11:30. Today was supposed to be the final hearing for Angela’s compensation claim for wrongful dismissal.
Yesterday’s conversation with his lawyer left no room for hope. “Mr. Belov, we’re going to lose this case. Absolutely,” the lawyer had said, nervously tapping a pencil on the desk.
“The dismissal was handled improperly, with no valid reason, and clearly for personal motives. The fact that your ex-wife was a valuable, long-standing employee with an impeccable reputation only makes it worse.”
Mikhail sighed deeply, recalling the events of the past few months. The division of assets had turned into a full-blown battle. Angela hired ‘Kornilov & Partners’—one of the top divorce firms in Moscow. He hadn’t expected her to be so thorough.
Her lawyers dug up everything: Cyprus bank accounts even Mikhail’s mother didn’t know about, investments in securities registered under front men, a stake in a friend’s restaurant business. In the end, the court awarded Angela seven million rubles in compensation—about half of Mikhail’s real assets.
And now, on top of that, this wrongful dismissal lawsuit.
The phone on his desk rang, snapping Mikhail out of his unpleasant thoughts.
“Yes,” he answered sharply.
“Mikhail Alexandrovich,” his secretary’s voice sounded scared, “Konstantin Lvovich is calling for you. It’s urgent.”
Mikhail suppressed the urge to curse and got up from the table.
“I’ll be right there.”
The CEO’s office at “Pishcheprom” was two floors above. On the way to the elevator, Mikhail noticed employees watching him—some with curiosity, others with barely hidden glee.
“They probably all know already,” he thought darkly as he pressed the elevator button.
Konstantin Lvovich greeted Mikhail while sitting at his massive desk. In front of him was an open file with documents—Mikhail instantly recognized Angela’s lawsuit.
“Take a seat,” the director nodded at the chair opposite. “Let’s sort this out.”
Mikhail silently sat down in the indicated spot.
“Explain to me,” Konstantin Lvovich began, tapping his finger on the papers, “how one of our key employees was let go without my approval, without a valid reason, and with every possible procedure violated?”
“I thought I had the right…” Mikhail began.
“You thought wrong,” the director interrupted. “Angela filed a lawsuit not just against you, but against the company too. Two and a half million rubles, Mikhail. And she’s demanding reinstatement with compensation for forced absence.”
Mikhail swallowed hard.
“I’m willing to cover all the costs out of my own pocket,” he said. “She doesn’t need to be reinstated. That would just… create problems.”
Konstantin Lvovich smirked:
“Two and a half million? Do you even have that kind of money, after she already squeezed seven out of you in the divorce?”
Mikhail felt his face flush bright red.
“How did you find out?”
“Moscow is just a big village, Mikhail. Everyone knows everything,” the director leaned back in his chair. “Especially when it concerns my employees. I warned you to keep personal and work stuff separate. But you didn’t listen.”
“I’ll find the money,” Mikhail repeated stubbornly. “The important thing is she doesn’t return to the company.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” Konstantin Lvovich snapped the folder shut. “I’ll consider all the options. Maybe it’s better if we just pay her off than let her come back. But if you think the company’s paying, you’re mistaken.”
“I understand,” Mikhail answered quietly.
Back in his office, Mikhail collapsed into his chair and slammed his fist on the desk. The clock jumped, and several papers scattered to the floor.
“Damn woman!” he hissed through his teeth. “She’s ruined my whole life!”
Another month passed. December snow slowly blanketed the streets of Moscow, turning the gray city into a snowy fairy tale. At the “Breakfast Express” office, pre-holiday hustle filled the air: employees were decorating offices with tinsel, ordering corporate gifts, and planning their New Year holidays.
Angela was sitting in her office, going through documents. Her spacious office with two tall windows was located in the building’s east wing—the quietest part. It was here that she hatched her plan, and today it finally came to life.
The internal phone rang, pulling her out of her thoughts.
“Angela Viktorovna,” the secretary’s voice was respectful, “Ilya Petrovich asks you to come to his office.”
“I’ll be right there,” Angela replied shortly, adjusting the collar of her crisp white blouse.
She stood up from her desk, grabbed a folder of documents, and headed for the door. Catching her reflection in the glass door, Angela noted that she looked fantastic. The fatigue of the past few months had barely left its mark on her face.
The general director’s reception area was, as always, packed. Suppliers’ representatives, department heads, accountants with their reports—all of them patiently waiting their turn. Angela walked past, nodding to the secretary, who immediately pressed a button on her desk to unlock the director’s office door.
“Angela Viktorovna,” Ilya Petrovich stood up from his desk with a broad smile. “Come in, I’ve been waiting for you!”
Komarov energetically extended his hand, and Angela shook it, feeling a strong, confident handshake.
“Congratulations on a brilliant deal!” the director exclaimed, pointing to the armchair opposite. “Have a seat, we’ve got things to discuss.”
Angela sat down in the chair, placing the folder of documents on her lap.
“Thank you,” she allowed herself a smile. “The negotiations were tough, but the result was worth it.”
Komarov looked at her with genuine admiration. His usually tense, broad-shouldered figure now radiated satisfaction and calm.
“To win that contract away from ‘Pishcheprom’…” he shook his head. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think it was possible. You managed to convince Sokolov to reconsider years of partnership—that’s some real top-level skill!”
He opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle of ‘Moët.’
“I think a success like this deserves a toast,” Komarov said, setting the bottle on the table. “Three billion rubles over a five-year contract—that’s a company record.”
Angela watched as the director carefully removed the foil from the bottle’s neck.
“May I ask you something frankly?” he suddenly inquired, setting the bottle aside. “Tell me honestly: is this just your professional skill, or is it also revenge on your ex-husband?”
The question was unexpected, but Angela wasn’t fazed. She looked Komarov straight in the eyes:
“I won’t hide it,” she answered calmly. “Of course, there’s an element of revenge. But I would never let personal motives affect the quality of my work. ‘Pishcheprom’ really did offer unfavorable terms to ‘Sibkholod.’ I simply pointed out the facts and proposed an alternative.”
Komarov studied her face for a few seconds, then broke into a wide smile:
“That’s what I appreciate about you—your honesty!” he laughed. “Most people in your position would start insisting it was all strictly business.”
He returned to the bottle, skillfully opened it without a sound, and poured two glasses that were waiting at the edge of the table.
“To professionalism—even when mixed with a little revenge,” the director said, raising his glass.
Angela raised her glass, clinked it gently with her boss’s, and took a modest sip.
“I’m truly happy you joined our team,” Komarov said, setting his glass aside. “Once again, congratulations on securing such a major contract. The bonus will be impressive, I promise.”
“Thank you,” Angela replied, also putting her glass down on the table.
After leaving the director’s office, Angela walked through the reception area and felt all eyes on her. Some people looked at her with respect, others with barely concealed envy. But she didn’t care. Today, she had achieved a victory—both professionally and personally.
Meanwhile, in the office of “Pischeprom,” Mikhail nervously shuffled papers on his desk. The past few weeks had been a nightmare: having to pay Angela compensation through court, constant work stress, fights with Svetlana… And now, this latest piece of news.
The phone on his desk rang, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Mikhail Alexandrovich,” the secretary’s voice was trembling with nerves. “Konstantin Lvovich needs to see you right away.”
“I’m on my way,” Mikhail replied curtly, and hung up the phone.
He felt the blood rushing to his face. News of losing the ‘Sibkholod’ contract had already reached the general director—there was no avoiding it now. But Mikhail had hoped he’d have time to put together some kind of explanation, find someone to blame, shift responsibility…
As he got up from his desk, he noticed his hands were shaking. He had to take a deep breath to calm himself. Passing by Svetlana’s desk, he caught her frightened gaze.
“It’ll be okay,” Mikhail muttered—he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself.
Riding the elevator to the top floor, he slowly made his way towards the general director’s office. The secretary didn’t even look at him—she simply pointed silently at the door.
Mikhail knocked and, without waiting for a response, walked in. Konstantin Lvovich was standing by the window with his back to the door. His tense posture did not promise anything good.
“Did you call for me?” Mikhail asked.
The director turned around slowly. His face was twisted in anger.
“How did you manage to blow a contract that was already in our pocket?!” he yelled without any introduction. “Three billion rubles! Do you even understand what that means?”
Mikhail paled, but tried to maintain his composure.
“Konstantin Lvovich, it wasn’t my fault,” he began. “It was all Angela… she’s to blame.”
The director slammed his fist on the table.
“‘It was all Angela’?” he mocked. “And who fired her? Who, you idiot, couldn’t keep personal feelings out of business?”
Mikhail stood there, unable to find the words.
“Sibkholod was our client for eight years!” Konstantin Lvovich kept shouting. “That contract would’ve given us at least twenty-five percent more in volume! And now what? Should we start eating our own frozen meals?”
Mikhail opened his mouth to say something, but the director didn’t let him get a word in.
“You know the worst part?” he went on, lowering his voice to a menacing hiss. “Sokolov said your ex-wife showed them our internal calculations. She knew all our weaknesses, every vulnerable spot. And she used it. And why? Because you, you idiot, thought you could just fire someone who knows everything about the company!”
Mikhail automatically leaned against the back of a nearby chair.
“I… I’ll fix this,” he mumbled. “We can offer them something better…”
“Too late!” the director snapped. “They’ve already signed a contract with ‘Breakfast Express.’ Five years. Locked in, unbreakable. No chance of early termination.”
The director turned away from Mikhail, walked over to his desk, and picked up the internal phone receiver.
“Victoria, connect me to HR.”
A pause followed.
“Hello, Marina? Please prepare the dismissal order for Mikhail Alexandrovich Belov. Article…” he paused, “by mutual agreement. Effective today.”
Mikhail froze, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“Konstantin Lvovich,” he began as the director hung up the phone. “I’ve worked at this company for almost eight years. I…”
“Go work as a clerk. At least your mistakes will do less damage there.”
He gestured towards the door.
“You can collect your things by the end of the day. Security will escort you.”
Mikhail stood motionless, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.
“Get out,” Konstantin Lvovich said quietly, but clearly. “Immediately.”
Without a word, Mikhail turned and left the office. In the reception area, the secretary pretended to be terribly busy, never looking up. But he noticed her cheeks burning – she’d probably overheard every word.
In a single day, he’d lost everything he’d worked for over eight years. And it was all his own foolishness to blame.
A few hours later, Mikhail finally made it to his apartment. Every muscle ached with tension, as if he’d spent the whole day hauling cement bags. A day that started with trouble ended in total disaster. The reality of it all simply wouldn’t sink in.
As he opened the door, he heard the sound of cheerful music. In the hallway, a pair of women’s shoes stood as if nothing had happened.
“Misha, you’re home already?” Svetlana’s bright voice echoed from inside. “I thought you’d be late!”
Svetlana glided out from the kitchen in a short house dress, holding a wine glass. Her face was beaming with a smile, her long blonde hair down. Mikhail hung up his coat silently, not looking at her.
“What’s wrong? Are you tired?”
“I’ve been fired,” Mikhail said dryly, heading into the living room and collapsing into an armchair.
Svetlana froze mid-step, wine glass halfway to her lips.
“What? Fired? But how… why?” she blinked in confusion. “Weren’t you supposed to sign the contract with… with those people, what were they called…”
“Sibkholod?” Mikhail let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I was. But ‘Breakfast Express’ snatched it away from us.”
“Oh, come on,” Svetlana shrugged. “There’ll be other contracts.”
Mikhail gave her a look as if she didn’t understand a thing:
“You don’t get it. This was a contract for three billion rubles. For five years. And do you know who took it from us?” He paused. “Angela. My ex-wife. The one I personally kicked out of the company.”
“Angela?” Svetlana frowned slightly. “But… she used to be one of us. I mean, yours. I mean, from ‘Pischeprom?'”
“Now she’s at ‘Breakfast Express.’ And from the looks of it, she’s doing pretty well,” he sighed. “Hand me that bottle, would you?”
He nodded at the opened bottle of red wine on the coffee table. Svetlana obediently handed it over, and without ceremony, Mikhail filled a large glass almost to the brim.
“But you’ll get a decent severance, won’t you?” she asked hopefully. “And with your experience, you’ll find a new job in no time—maybe even a better one! We can still go to the Maldives…”
Mikhail slammed his wine glass onto the table, spilling the wine everywhere.
“The Maldives?!” he practically shouted. “What Maldives, for God’s sake?! Do you even understand what just happened? I got kicked out of the company I worked at for eight years! Now I’m jobless, stuck with a damn mortgage and alimony I’ll have to pay to Angela!”
“Darling, don’t yell,” Svetlana tried to put her hand on his shoulder, but he pulled away harshly.
“This is your fault,” he hissed, pointing a finger at her. “You ruined everything! ‘Switch to a permanent position,’ ‘Let’s work together’… I fired my wife for you, left her… And what did I get? Complete disaster!”
Svetlana recoiled.
“I never asked you for anything! You said yourself that things with Angela were already awful! That you didn’t love her anymore!”
“Idiot!” Mikhail barked, grabbing for the bottle again. “If it weren’t for you, I’d never have made these mistakes. Divorce—fine, it happens. But getting fired… I never would have done it if I didn’t think you’d blab and she’d find out everything.”
“So now it’s all my fault?” Svetlana’s voice shook with anger. “Me? Not you—the coward who spent a year sneaking off to his mistress and couldn’t have a real conversation with his wife?”
“Shut up!” Mikhail jumped out of his chair.
“No, you shut up!” Svetlana retorted. “You were afraid of your own wife, afraid to tell her the truth. And then, out of fear, you fired her—even though you knew she couldn’t be replaced! Because she was the best, and you’re just a pathetic coward!”
“Get out!” Mikhail shouted, pointing at the door. “Get out of here! I don’t want to see you!”
“Gladly!” Svetlana jumped up from the couch. “But keep in mind: now you’ll owe me.”
“Me?!” Mikhail let out a bitter laugh. “Owe you? For what? Get lost and don’t come back!”
Svetlana slowly put her hand on her stomach. Her tear-streaked eyes suddenly turned steely.
“You’ll owe me for eighteen years,” she stated coldly. “Child support. For our baby.”
Mikhail staggered. He stared at Svetlana’s hand resting on her stomach.
“No,” he whispered. “That can’t be.”
“Two months,” she said with a bitter smile. “I wanted to tell you today, thought you’d be happy…”
Svetlana turned and walked quickly to the hallway. Mikhail stood frozen, listening as she hastily put on her shoes and the front door slammed. Then he collapsed back into the chair.
“Oh my God,” he groaned. “What have I done…”
Thoughts raced chaotically through his mind. A baby. Child support. Unemployed. On top of that—the mortgage. Plus compensation to Angela. Now he’d also have to support Svetlana… He realized he’d have to sell his apartment—there was no other way out.
“Idiot,” he muttered, rocking in his chair. “What an idiot I am…”
Only now did he fully realize just how badly he had ruined his own life. Giving in to a lover’s demands, being afraid of his ex-wife and firing her—all his fears had turned against him, destroying both his family and his career.
The External Communications Department at ‘Breakfast Express’ was buzzing with excitement. Angela and her two team members raised their champagne glasses, celebrating the successful closing of a deal.
“To our wonderful boss!” proclaimed Dmitry, the young specialist with a sly grin. “She truly works miracles!”
“To the team,” Angela corrected him, lifting her own glass. “None of this would have happened alone.”
“You’re being modest, Angela Viktorovna,” Olga, her other team member, smiled. “We all know without you, that contract would’ve gone to the competitors.”
The office door opened, and Ilya Petrovich appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, I’ve come at just the right time!” he exclaimed, spotting the champagne. “Celebrating, I see?”
“Join us, Ilya Petrovich,” Angela offered him a clean glass. “We’re just talking about today’s success.”
“And not just today’s,” the director smiled broadly, taking the glass. “In three months, your department exceeded the six-month plan. That’s never happened here before!”
He took a sip of champagne and continued:
“Which is why I want to announce: everyone gets a bonus! The External Communications Department—double the amount. And special thanks to Angela Viktorovna…”
Dmitry and Olga applauded approvingly while Angela blushed a little.
“We’re just doing our jobs well,” she said modestly.
“No,” Ilya Petrovich objected. “You do it brilliantly. And you know I’m not one to hand out compliments lightly.”
He raised his glass:
“To the best negotiation team in Moscow! To all of you!”
They all clinked glasses, and as Angela took a sip, she realized she was truly happy. Despite all the challenges of the past months, despite Mikhail’s betrayal and losing her old job, she hadn’t broken. She had grown stronger, more confident, and more successful.
Life was finally back on track.