Outside the office windows on the twenty-third floor, a real storm symphony was raging. Dense streams of rain drummed tirelessly against the sturdy glass, spreading into bizarre, winding rivulets that hurried downward, merging into a single muddy flow.
Artyom Voronov leaned back in his massive leather chair, a barely noticeable but immensely satisfied smile playing on his lips. He watched the water trails, and each one seemed to him like a road to success, to that very triumph that was already so close. Tomorrow was to be the culmination of all his efforts—the signing of a contract for a sum that would take the breath away from many of his competitors. And the day after tomorrow… the day after tomorrow, white sands awaited him, the gentle waves of the ocean, and the delightful eyes of his young companion.
“Sophia!” his confident voice rang out, easily drowning out the sound of the rain. “My coffee, please!”
The door to the office opened silently, and in the doorway appeared the slender figure of a girl with hair as black as pitch. Her face lit up with a warm, radiant smile that appeared every time the boss addressed her with such polished simplicity.
“Artyom Sergeyevich, last time you said that coffee makes your temple start throbbing. Maybe you’d prefer green tea?” her voice was soft, almost caring.
“Yes, quite right, you’re as attentive as ever. Tea,” the man nodded, his gaze sliding over the girl with a light, appraising look. She was lovely, nothing at all like the one waiting for him at home. Thoughts of Lika stirred in him nothing but irritation. Lately she had become simply unbearable with her hints, her talks about the future, about family.
Artyom chuckled inwardly. Lika clearly overestimated her importance. How many times could one patiently explain that now, at the very peak of his career, tying himself down with marriage was the height of foolishness? His business partners remembered his previous marriage perfectly well, that loud, scandalous divorce. Who, for heaven’s sake, would risk marrying his mistress right after his ex-wife had landed behind bars—especially when it had happened on his own initiative?
Still, thoughts of his ex-wife were like a breath of cold air in a comfortably heated room. Artyom winced, trying to chase away the intrusive image of a sweet, smiling blonde who had once looked at him with boundless adoration and faith. All of that was in the distant past, erased like the rain streaks on the window glass. Now he had StroyGarant—a powerful, thriving company bringing in millions.
True, he hadn’t founded it. The firm had been built from scratch by Veronica’s father—that same ex-wife whose memory he worked so hard to scrub from his mind. But did that matter now? What’s important is not who laid the first stone, but who now stands confidently at the helm. And at the helm was him—Artyom Sergeyevich Voronov, a man whose name had become a synonym for success, a man for whom everything worked out.
And he really did manage a lot. He knew how to “master” budget funds on dubious municipal contracts, how to find loopholes for the illegal acquisition of coveted land plots, how to gently and quietly remove pesky competitors from his path—all of it slipped through his fingers with enviable regularity. Of course, his cultivated connections helped, but more often he was saved by simple, almost fairy-tale luck. As if fate itself had decided to close its eyes to all his small and large sins and grant him immunity.
“Sorry to disturb you, Artyom Sergeyevich,” Sophia’s face appeared in the doorway again. “There’s a visitor asking to see you. No appointment. He introduced himself as Mark Belov. Says you know each other.”
The smile instantly vanished from Voronov’s face. Mark. A ghost from the past, appearing as if out of nowhere. The very same guy that Veronica had once loved more than life. The one Artyom had so elegantly framed on the eve of their own wedding, secretly slipping something into his glass and then arranging a series of compromising photos in one of the nightclubs.
“Send him in,” Artyom forced out, running his palm through his perfectly styled hair in an involuntary gesture.
The man who crossed the threshold of the office looked strikingly young and fit. His shoulders were broad, his posture impeccable, and his gaze clear and steady. The dark blue suit sat on him as if it had been tailored by the best bespoke tailor just for him. Artyom felt his jaw clench involuntarily. Mark had always looked better, more solid somehow, more complete. It was him that Vera would once have chosen, if not for that long-ago, brilliantly executed deception.
“Mark, it’s been ages!” Artyom feigned an easy joy on his face and extended his hand. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve come with a request,” Mark shook the proffered hand and settled comfortably into the chair opposite. “The situation is somewhat unusual.”
Voronov tensed inwardly. Usually such openings preceded a conversation about money or the need for a little “pull.” Outwardly, though, he gave nothing away, keeping his friendly mask in place.
“What’s the matter? Something happened?”
“I need help placing one person in a job. Even as a cleaner would do,” Belov spoke evenly and calmly, but there was a faint, barely noticeable awkwardness in his intonation. “You know I’m in a delicate period right now. I’m engaged—very advantageously, I might add. My fiancée has quite a character; she even had security cameras installed in my office at her insistence. I’m afraid to give her any, even the slightest, reason for doubt or scandal.”
“Wait,” Artyom blinked with genuine incomprehension. “I don’t quite see the connection. What does a cleaner have to do with this?”
Mark hesitated slightly, straightening his perfectly knotted tie.
“She’s a relative of my… let’s say, an old acquaintance. If I take her to my office, it’ll be like signing my own death warrant—my future wife will start asking awkward questions, digging. I want to keep this as far away from myself as possible. I hope you understand.”
Voronov’s face spread into a wide, satisfied smile. Now this was a twist! Idealist Mark, it turns out, was not as squeaky-clean as everyone thought. There he sat, clearly uncomfortable, because women had driven him into a corner. A real comedy of manners.
“Of course, Mark, I’ll help. We can always find a spot for a good person.”
“I should warn you right away,” Leonov lowered his voice to an almost confidential whisper, “she’s not a pleasant character. Neither in looks nor in personality. She has a severe stutter, hunched back, moves with difficulty. And she’s got a blemish on her record—a conviction.”
“A conviction?” Artyom grew wary, a spark of concern flashing in his eyes.
“Nothing serious, absolute nonsense,” Mark waved it off like an annoying fly. “But you understand, my lady will immediately start investigating where I got an employee with that kind of past. Agreed?”
“Of course, agreed.”
They said their goodbyes, exchanging a couple of meaningless phrases about keeping in touch. But Mark never again appeared on the threshold of his office. Exactly a week later, however, a new employee appeared on the StroyGarant staff, a woman named Stella.
Artyom didn’t bother studying the new worker’s documents. He tossed the folder with her personnel file to Larisa, an HR employee, and curtly ordered her to draw everything up properly. Larisa’s eyes widened in surprise behind her glasses, but she didn’t dare argue with management.
Voronov saw Stella for the first time in the long office corridor. He was on his way to an important meeting when he caught sight, out of the corner of his eye, of a stooped, plump figure in a housecoat washed to a dingy gray and the same drab kerchief covering thin, colorless hair. The woman was diligently scrubbing at a fresh dirty stain on the glossy floor. Noticing the approaching boss, she straightened with difficulty and bleated out, forcing the words through her stutter:
“G-g-good a-a-afternoon, Artyom S-S-Sergeyevich.”
Her face was puffy, with an unhealthy reddish tinge to the skin. Artyom felt a faint, almost instinctive revulsion, but nodded with a deliberately patronizing smile.
“How do you like it here, Stella? Everything all right?”
“E-e-excellent, th-thank you.”
She made an awkward step to the side, clearing the way, and the man noticed that she was clearly dragging one leg. “Good God, Mark,” he snorted inwardly. “I hope your fiancée is at least a little prettier than her hunchbacked relative.”
The staff quickly came up with several mocking but apt nicknames for the new cleaner. “Dwarf Nose,” “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame”—muted chuckles could be heard in the halls and corridors. Rumors began to circulate that she’d been kicked out of a traveling circus for being too slow, or that she’d escaped from a penal colony. The most inquisitive even tried to find a logical explanation for why their harsh and demanding boss had suddenly decided to splurge on such a pathetic employee instead of hiring yet another beautiful intern.
But soon everyone grew used to the limping, hunched woman who silently, like a shadow, glided along the floors, washed the tiles, emptied the trash cans, and wiped dust. Stella seemed to become part of the interior—gray, invisible, faceless, like a piece of furniture.
The company’s anniversary promised to be a truly grand event. Ten years since the founding of StroyGarant—this was a date worthy of the grandest scale. Artyom spared no expense, allocating a huge budget for preparation. The most luxurious banquet hall in the city was rented, celebrities were invited, and a sophisticated menu from the best catering service was ordered.
Voronov flitted between the tables like a butterfly, beaming as he accepted endless congratulations from the guests. Tomorrow—long-awaited signatures on the coveted multimillion contract, and the day after tomorrow—a long-awaited flight to Bali. Sophia had already packed the suitcases in advance; he’d noticed how she secretly, with a dreamy smile, stared at photos of the boundless ocean and palm groves on her phone.
“Friends, colleagues, partners—congratulations!” the host of the evening, a well-known TV showman, swung his microphone. “Congratulations to the entire friendly team of the company, and of course, we congratulate the man who is confidently steering this ship to success—Artyom Sergeyevich Voronov!”
The hall exploded with thunderous applause. Artyom rose gracefully, giving the crowd a light wave. His head was spinning slightly from the expensive champagne and the sweet music of endless compliments.
“And now, dear guests, let’s take a look back together at our history!” the host proclaimed triumphantly and signaled to the tech crew. “Let’s see where it all started and what heights the company has reached today!”
The huge screen behind him flared to life. Artyom relaxed into the back of his chair, feeling a pleasant fatigue from all the attention. He had checked the presentation personally, carefully scrubbing from it every last mention of Veronica and her father. There were only photos of successful construction sites, radiant faces of satisfied clients, glittering glass and concrete buildings…
But what appeared on the giant screen was something entirely different.
Documents. Dozens, hundreds of scanned documents. Illegal deals, neatly forged signatures, fake contracts and invoices. Candid correspondence with shell companies. Numerous receipts for large sums received—plain, undeniable bribes. Complex, convoluted money-laundering schemes siphoning funds from municipal accounts.
“What is this?!” Artyom shot to his feet so sharply that his heavy chair toppled over with a deafening crash. “What is this?! Who dared?!”
“It’s not a what, but a who,” came a calm, yet strikingly familiar female voice from behind, from the glow of the projector. A voice that sent icy shivers racing down his spine. “Happy anniversary, Artyom.”
Out of the blinding projector light stepped a figure. The same inconspicuous cleaner in her washed-out gray housecoat and kerchief.
“You?!” Artyom began to choke, his face flooding with a thick flush of rage. “How did you… Where… How dare you?!”
A wave of frightened, bewildered whispers rippled through the hall. The guests froze, staring in shock at the evidence appearing on the screen. Horrified, Voronov remembered how he’d caught Stella in his private office more than once. She cleaned there in the evenings, after he had already gone home…
Mark Belov walked confidently up to the cleaner. He offered her his hand with the gallantry of a gentleman helping a lady step out of a carriage.
“Here we’ve gathered proof of all your illegal operations over the past years,” the woman began speaking evenly, clearly, without a trace of her former stutter. “But rest assured—I’m going to do everything to reclaim my good name. And my father’s good name.”
“Who are you?!” Artyom roared, losing the last remnants of self-control. “This is vile slander! I’ll destroy you! I’ll sue you!”
“You’ve already had your turn at judging me once,” the woman just snorted, and there was so much contempt in that sound that the hall gasped again.
Voronov himself gasped when Stella suddenly straightened to her full, unexpectedly tall height, stretching with obvious pleasure like a person who has thrown off a heavy burden. With a sharp movement she tore off the dirty work coat. She ripped off the wig, and from beneath it spilled thick, wheat-blond hair. Then she began peeling the special makeup and silicone prosthetics from her face, removing them like a second, hideous skin.
Standing before the stunned guests was Veronica.
“As many of those present here know,” her voice rang firm and metallic through the hall, “I am the founder of StroyGarant. The company my father created, and which I developed with great love, pouring my soul into every project, every single building we put up. And in front of you stands my ex-husband and his current sweetheart, who, through vile deceit and forgery, framed me and sent me to prison. Back then, they succeeded. But now it’s time to settle old scores.”
She turned to the speechless, terror-stricken Artyom.
“Thanks to you, I had plenty of free time behind bars. I think you’ll be flattered to know that I thought almost only about you. Or rather, about how to take back everything you stole from me.”
“You… You shouldn’t even be out yet!” he spluttered, spitting as he spoke, his fingers clutching convulsively at the edge of the table.
“I was released on parole two years ago. And for these two years Mark and I have been carefully preparing, inching closer to you, and you—blinded by your greed—never even noticed. I’ve also secured the support of all your key sponsors and collected exhaustive testimony from the people you deceived. So don’t bother looking for allies among them. You won’t find any here tonight.”
“But the company is still mine!” Artyom rasped, trying to catch his breath. “You’ll never prove anything in court!”
“It’s already been proven,” Veronica lifted her chin high, her gaze sharp as a steel blade. “You signed that agreement with the Azimut holding, didn’t you? The one for that fabulous amount. Feel how your heart skips at those numbers? It’s your insatiable greed that has ruined you. Instead of the long-awaited contract, what awaits you is a cell in a pre-trial detention center. The company returns to me. StroyGarant is mine again, because under the terms of that very contract, you failed to meet your obligations. You should have paid more attention to the fine print, Artyom.”
“You… you framed me…” he hissed, staring with hatred now at Veronica, now at Mark. “You and your faithful… friend…”
“A perfect mirror of your own handwriting,” Veronica accepted a glass of sparkling wine from Mark’s hand. “Well then, let’s raise our glasses. To your health, Artyom. You’re going to need it. Very, very much.”
In helpless, blind fury, Voronov lunged forward, fists clenched. But Mark was quicker. He intercepted the attack with a short, precise punch to the jaw that sounded surprisingly loud in the sudden silence.
“I’ve always dreamed of doing that,” he said. “Ever since long ago.”
Three months later Veronica was sitting on the spacious, sunlit terrace of her country house. Their house with Mark. Outside, birds were pouring out endless trills, breaking the clear, ringing quiet of the morning. In her hands was a fresh newspaper with a big front-page article dedicated to her ex-husband:
“WELL-KNOWN BUSINESSMAN ACCUSED OF SYSTEMATIC MISAPPROPRIATION OF BUDGET FUNDS ALLOCATED FOR THE RENOVATION OF HOUSING FOR ORPHANS AND CHILDREN DEPRIVED OF PARENTAL CARE.”
With a slight grimace of disgust, Veronica set the paper aside. Every time she read the details of Artyom’s shady dealings, she was once again struck by the truly bottomless chasm of his greed and cynicism.
“Nothing is sacred,” she murmured, almost in a whisper, gazing into the sunny window. “That’s exactly what destroyed you.”
She glanced at the elegant clock on the table. Mark was due any minute; in an hour they were going to the restaurant to finalize the menu for their own, this time real, wedding. A soft, happy smile blossomed on Veronica’s face, and she looked again at the engagement ring on her finger. The skillfully cut heart-shaped diamond caught the sunlight, scattering bright, playful sparks all around.
Were they rushing things? Perhaps. But after all the years she had spent behind bars serving time for a crime she hadn’t committed, Veronica felt a burning, insatiable thirst for life—for real, not fabricated, happiness. Her ex-husband had stolen from her not only the successful business her father had built, but also the most precious thing—those priceless years that could never be returned. And now she was determined to live every new day to the fullest, with love and gratitude.
From now on and forever. She had stepped out of the shadows and would never go back. And in the garden outside, the birds were singing, and the wind was stirring the branches of a young apple tree, on which the very first, still green fruits had already begun to form.