“Lena, we’ll have to part ways.”
Gennady said it with that infuriating softness he always put on, the kind of false gentleness fathers use when punishing a child. He leaned back in his oversized leather chair, fingers folded over his stomach like some smug emperor.
“We’ve decided the company needs a fresh perspective. New energy. You understand, don’t you?”
I looked at him. At his carefully trimmed beard, at the glossy tie I myself had chosen for him before the last corporate party.
Do I understand? Oh, yes. I understood perfectly. The investors had begun murmuring about an independent audit, and he needed to get rid of the only person in this building who could connect all the dots. Me.
“I understand,” I said evenly. “By ‘new energy’ you mean Katya from reception? The one who mixes up debit and credit but is twenty-two and giggles at all your jokes?”
He flinched, but recovered quickly.
“It’s not about age, Lena. It’s just… your approach is a bit outdated. We’re stuck. We need a breakthrough.”
A breakthrough. His favorite word for the past six months. I had built this company with him from nothing—back when our office was a shoebox with peeling wallpaper and one flickering lamp. And now, when the walls were glass and the floors polished marble, I apparently no longer matched the décor.
“All right,” I rose lightly, though inside I felt a sudden, icy stillness. “When should I clear my desk?”
My composure unsettled him. He had expected tears, pleading, maybe even a dramatic scene. Something that would let him savor his role as a gracious victor.
“You can do it today,” he said quickly. “No rush. HR will handle the paperwork. Severance package—everything by the book.”
I nodded, reached for the door handle, then paused.
“You know, Gen, you’re right. The company really does need a breakthrough. And I’ll make sure it happens.”
He didn’t understand. Just smiled with that condescending, paternal smirk.
When I walked back into the open office, all fifteen desks fell silent. Everyone already knew. Everyone always knew. The girls lowered their eyes; the guys busied themselves with keyboards that weren’t switched on.
On my desk sat a neat cardboard box. Efficient. Someone had prepared it in advance.
I began placing my things inside: photographs of my children, the chipped mug that had traveled with me through three offices, a stack of professional journals filled with my notes in the margins. At the bottom, I carefully laid down a small bouquet of lilies of the valley — my son had brought them yesterday, “just because.”
And then, from the bottom drawer, I lifted out what I had prepared long before today:
— twelve scarlet roses, one for each colleague who had stood beside me through the years;
— and a heavy black folder, tied with string, its corners worn from being opened and closed in secret.
I walked slowly through the office. To each colleague, I handed a rose. I met their eyes. Some whispered “thank you,” some just swallowed hard. A few turned pale.
And last of all, I stopped in front of Gennady’s door.
In my hands, I carried only the black folder.
I placed the black folder gently on Gennady’s polished oak desk. The sound of it hitting the surface was soft, but in that silence it was louder than a gunshot.
He looked at it, then at me. His lips curved into a smug smile.
— “What’s this, Lena? A farewell letter?”
— “Something like that,” I said calmly.
He tugged at the string and opened the cover. His smile faltered after the first few pages.
Inside were spreadsheets, printouts of bank transfers, screenshots of private messages, and detailed notes of conversations he thought no one had overheard. Every shadow deal, every falsified report, every time he had siphoned off company funds into his personal accounts — all neatly organized, cross-referenced, and signed. By him.
I watched his face change color. The pink drained out. His hands began to tremble.
— “Where did you…?” he started, but his voice cracked.
— “Oh, come on, Gen,” I interrupted softly. “You think I built this company with you and never noticed the little side channels you created? The fake contracts? The investors might not see it yet. But they will. And when they do…”
I leaned closer.
— “…they’ll know who kept quiet. And who didn’t.”
For the first time in years, Gennady was speechless.
I straightened, smoothing the folds of my blouse.
— “The roses,” I continued evenly, “are for the people who worked with me all these years. For them, I leave warmth. For you, Gen… I leave the truth.”
I turned and walked out of his office. Behind me, I could hear the frantic rustling of paper, the rapid clicking of his pen as if he were calculating how much time he had before the storm arrived.
In the corridor, my colleagues stared at me wide-eyed. Some looked frightened. Others… relieved.
I smiled faintly.
— “Well,” I said, adjusting the strap of my bag. “Let’s see what kind of breakthrough this company will have now.”
And with that, I left.
The black folder stayed behind.
And I knew it would burn hotter than any scandal this office had ever seen.
Three days later, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
At first, it was colleagues. Whispered messages, short texts:
“Lena, you won’t believe this.”
“He’s finished.”
“The investors are in the office. They’re demanding answers.”
Then it was numbers I didn’t recognize — reporters, hungry for a scandal. Somehow the story had leaked. Or maybe the folder didn’t just stay in Gennady’s office. Maybe someone, trembling with excitement, slipped copies into the right hands.
By the afternoon, I saw the headline splashed across the business portal:
“Audit Reveals Financial Manipulations at CraneTech. CEO Under Investigation.”
CraneTech. That was our company. Our child. The one I had built with him brick by brick.
And now the child had turned against its father.
I scrolled through the article. Words like “embezzlement,” “fraud,” “breach of trust” leapt out at me. But the photo at the top — that was what caught me.
Gennady, leaving the office surrounded by men in gray suits. His tie askew, his perfect hair finally out of place. He looked small. Shrunken. Not a king, not even a clerk. Just another man caught in his own trap.
And beneath the article, the comments:
“About time.”
“Everyone in the industry knew he was shady.”
“Respect to whoever exposed this.”
I put the phone down and stared out the window. The city lights were blinking on, one by one, as if signaling something new.
That evening, one of my colleagues — Masha, who had worked with me since the first tiny office — called. Her voice trembled.
— “Lena… everyone here knows it was you. The roses, the folder… you should have seen their faces today. For the first time in years, people weren’t scared. They were smiling. Even laughing. Like a weight had been lifted.”
I didn’t reply right away. My throat tightened.
— “And you?” I finally asked.
Masha exhaled sharply, half a sob, half a laugh.
— “I put my rose in a glass of water. It hasn’t wilted yet. Neither have we.”
I hung up and sat there in the quiet, my son’s lilies of the valley still on the table beside me. Their scent filled the room — fresh, defiant, alive.
Gennady had wanted “new energy.”
Well, now the company had it.
Only not the way he had planned.
(to be continued — because every storm leaves something behind…)
