Maria flinched at the director’s sharp command but did not stop wiping the baseboards—after six years of working as a cleaner at “FinProekt,” she had learned to be invisible.
“Hey, you!” he snapped his fingers. “Maria? Tomorrow, dress decently and be on the ninth floor at eleven.”
She lifted her eyes. In front of her stood Artem Viktorovich Lazarev, the 38-year-old manager, who preferred americano without sugar, with his computer password being the birthday of his daughter, whom he saw once a month. Cleaners know more about their bosses than their personal assistants do.
“The translator is sick. The French are on their way,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks irritably. “No one’s available at any agency. Crisis. You’ll be my assistant for now. Just stay quiet and smile!”
Maria nodded, lowering her gaze. Just don’t let him notice the sparkle in her eyes—the one that betrays the thought: “How wrong you are.”
An invisible person must remain invisible.
That evening, she took out an old box from the cupboard that she hadn’t touched in years. Inside the frame was a photo: young, happy, holding a Sorbonne lecturer’s diploma. Next to it—Sergey, still alive, still by her side. Two years before everything else—before the accident, before bankruptcy.
Her fingers slowly glided over the books in the box: Baudelaire, Proust, Camus… It was her past life. Now, she knew not French classics, but cleaning schedules, the placement of stains on carpets, and the secrets that the management whispered to each other, thinking no one heard.
This is how she learned, for example, about the double accounting for French investors. And that tomorrow, everything could fall apart if someone found out.
The invisible person is convenient to use. But it’s dangerous to underestimate her.
The next morning, Maria entered the conference room in the only decent suit she had—colored like creamy milk. It smelled faintly of mothballs—she hadn’t worn it in almost six years. Artem glanced at her like she was an object, assessing whether it fit, and barely nodded.
“Not a word,” he warned, hearing the announcement of the guests’ arrival.
Jean-Pierre Duran, head of the “Elysée Capital” fund, was a small man with gray hair and the look of someone calculating moves several steps ahead. He was accompanied by an analyst, a financial director, and Claire Benoit—a stern lawyer with documents and a piercing gaze.
Artem smiled, spoke broken English, joked. Maria saw the sweat on his temples as he glanced at the folder in the Frenchman’s hands. She knew that inside were the same reports with double entries he threw away every week.
“Ce rapport financier contient des incohérences évidentes,” Duran said. Artem froze, not understanding that the French had already noticed the discrepancies.
Claire spoke quickly, too quickly for him. He just mechanically nodded, trying to understand by tone. His fingers tapping the table betrayed his panic.
“Why should I help him?” Maria thought, looking at the man who had always considered her mere background.
But then she remembered how she herself had fallen from a height. How she had lost everything. And how there was no one to help.
“Gentlemen,” she suddenly spoke in flawless French with a slight Parisian accent, “there’s simply a misunderstanding in the depreciation accounting method.”
Silence.
Duran slowly turned his head. Claire raised an eyebrow. Artem looked at Maria as if he saw a ghost.
“The thing is,” she picked up the documents and quickly scanned the numbers, “our company uses accelerated depreciation for new projects. However, in the main reports, it is reflected according to the standard method.”
It was a lie. Elegant, professional, and saving.
“Your French is remarkable,” Duran said after a pause. “And the explanation… curious.”
“Merci, c’est très gentil,” Maria smiled, continuing to confidently explain the difference between the accounting systems, skillfully turning the double accounting into a complex but legal scheme.
By the end of the meeting, Duran looked at her with interest, Artem—with poorly concealed horror. The deal was made, but now only two people knew the secret.
“Where did you study?” the Frenchman asked, holding her hand for a moment.
“In the Sorbonne,” Maria answered. “I taught literature.”
“And you work… as an assistant?” there was doubt in his voice.
“Sometimes life brings unexpected turns,” she smiled, feeling Artem’s gaze burn into her back.
When the French left, Artem grabbed her by the elbow—slightly harder than necessary.
“What was that?” he snarled through his teeth.
“I saved your deal,” Maria carefully freed her arm. “And, perhaps, it’s thanks to me that you’re still in your position.”
“Are you spying on me?” Artem’s eyes narrowed. “How do you even know about the reports?”
“I’ve been cleaning your office for six years,” her voice was calm, almost businesslike. “I know when you leave on Fridays. What kind of coffee you drink. Even what you hide in the bottom drawer of your desk.”
His attempt to continue was interrupted by a phone call. A French number. Lazarev hesitated, sighed, and put the phone to his ear.
With each passing second, his face grew paler. After the call, he lowered the receiver and said:
“They want you to be their consultant for the project. They’re citing ‘communication difficulties.’ I don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it either,” Maria answered unexpectedly.
The next morning, she put on her old blue overalls—as if nothing had changed. The mop and bucket awaited her in the supply room—her usual kingdom of the past few years. But on her phone, there was a notification: an official offer from Jean-Pierre Duran. For just four hours of work per week, they were offering more than she earned in three months.
The secretary, calling her by her full name for the first time, informed her:
“They’re waiting for you in the director’s office.”
Artem’s office smelled of expensive cologne and tension. He gestured for her to sit in the guest chair—where partners usually sat, not cleaners.
“I’ve thought a lot about yesterday,” he began, drumming his fingers on the table. “You… really are competent.”
“And the photos from your documents help too,” Maria thought but kept silent. She had photographed them long ago—not for blackmail, but just in case. When you lose everything at once, you start building barricades from every possible opportunity.
“These French people are using you as a tool,” he continued, now softer. “But I can offer you a real career. In the international department. Considering your experience…”
“Interesting,” Maria nodded. “But where was this offer earlier? Six years ago?”
Artem’s face became hard. He decided to play a different game.
“I checked. You worked at the university. There was a scandal. Accusations of plagiarism. Do you think Duran will like such a consultant?”
The blow was precisely aimed—at the wound that had long been scarred. Sergey had been accused unfairly back then. Cleared after two months—too late. And Maria had left, running from the looks, from the whispers behind her back.
“I can keep this from them,” Artem squinted. “If, of course… you’ll be on our side.”
Maria stood up. Her shoulders straightened on their own, her steps becoming more confident.
At the door, she stopped:
“In your right drawer is a flash drive with double reports for the last three years. In the ‘Personal’ folder—correspondence about accounts in the Cayman Islands. Do you still think I don’t know anything?”
She slowly turned around, meeting his darkened gaze from fear:
“You have one day. Decide: war or cooperation.”
The next morning, a transfer order for Maria to the position of freelance consultant lay on the HR officer’s desk. A few days later, a letter from Duran arrived—an offer to become the cultural attaché in the Paris office.
Paris. The Sorbonne. Coffee in little cafés. The places she and Sergey once dreamed of returning to.
But she understood: this would be another escape. This time—from herself.
Instead, Maria sent an application for a teaching position at an evening school. For the first time in years, she unpacked boxes of books. Not for others—for herself.
One day, when she ran into Artem in the corridor, now seeing each other as colleagues, he asked:
“Why didn’t you go to Paris?”
“Sometimes the victory is not in leaving,” she answered. “But in staying and not being afraid anymore.”
From that day on, he nodded when they met. And, it seemed, he stopped keeping documents in his office that should have been hidden far away.
People don’t change completely. But sometimes—they become more attentive. Especially when someone they thought was invisible suddenly spoke the same language as their fears.