Why is it that when you're thirty-two, running a department, with your own apartment, car, and complete independence, everyone thinks you're deeply unhappy? Marina threw her phone down on the couch in irritation. Another "kind" friend had sent her a link to a dating site with the caption, "Well, at least try it, okay?" Try it. As if they were talking about a new kind of tea, not a real person. She walked to the window, hugging herself. Outside, November drizzled, gray and hopeless, making her feel even more miserable. Her friends had long since married, had children, and were now trying with enviable persistence to arrange her personal life. "Marisha, you're not made of iron," they'd say, sighing meaningfully. Iron. Maybe she was. In three years of running the department, she'd learned not to show emotion, not to trust first impressions, and not to mix work with personal matters. Especially the latter. At work, everything was stable and pr
I sat in my office, nervously tapping my pen on the desk. It was already getting dark outside, the office was empty, and only the quiet hum of the air conditioner broke the silence. Sergey, my assistant, was late again. And not by five, not ten minutes—a whole hour. This young brat had apparently completely forgotten who was in charge here. Finally, the door quietly opened, and his guilty face appeared in the doorway. "Come in, Sergei," I said in an icy tone, without raising my head. "Have a seat." He slid inside like a kicked puppy and sat down on the chair opposite my desk. I slowly looked up. His blond hair was tousled, his cheeks slightly flushed—whether from running so fast or from embarrassment. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the top button undone. He was clearly nervous, fiddling with his car keys. "What should I do with you?" I asked, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest. “Irina Viktorovna, I really overslept,” he began to bab
Igor had only worked in the sales department for six months and quietly hated his boss, Alla Borisovna. She was forty-eight years old, tall, with a heavy gaze and a habit of muttering her words through clenched teeth. She dressed strictly—knee-length skirts, buttoned-up blouses—but even through this shell, her powerful figure was visible: a wide backside, impressive breasts. In the smoking room, the guys joked that having sex with such a woman was like hugging an iceberg, but Igor sometimes dreamed of her in the most obscene positions. And then there was this remote worker. Alla Borisovna complained that her work laptop was slow and the system administrator couldn't be reached. Igor volunteered to help—the sales quota was hanging by a thread anyway, and a little sweetness wouldn't hurt. On Saturday morning, he was already standing at her door with a flash drive and a bunch of software. The apartment turned out to be unexpectedly cozy. The boss's husband, some important c
The door to Maria Ivanovna's office slammed shut with a sound as if it were not a massive oak door, but the lid of a coffin. My coffin. The air in the room was cool, smelling of expensive perfume and power. Her power. I stood there, looking down at the plush carpet, feeling like a complete idiot. The report had been so blatantly flawed, and now I had to listen to what my boss thought about it. And she thought, as usual, without embellishment. Maria Ivanovna walked silently around her desk. Her sky-high Christian Louboutin heels clicked out a slow, commanding beat. Each click sent a volley of alarm through my body. She stopped right in front of me, and I smelled a wave of her aroma – bitter chocolate, black pepper, and something elusive and dangerous. "Explain this hack job to me," her voice was low, calm, and therefore even more chilling. "I spend my time, my nerves, on you. And what do I get in return?" She took another step. The tip of her shoe almost touched m