The wife, who until that moment had been patiently watching his pacing from the doorway, obediently entered the room and sat on the edge of the sofa. Her face showed a strange mixture of fatigue and alertness. She folded her hands on her knees, unnaturally straight, as if at a meeting with her boss.
Mikhail continued to walk silently around the room. Eight steps forward, eight steps back. Like a wound-up clockwork, he paced the space with his muscular legs, not daring to meet his wife’s eyes. His fingers clenched into fists, then nervously smoothed the already impeccable creases of his trousers.
“When should I start packing?” Angela broke the silence.
Mikhail flinched and finally looked directly at his wife:
“What? Where?”
“I don’t know,” Angela shrugged. Her voice was calm, almost indifferent. “You wanted to talk about a divorce. So I’m asking — when should I start gathering my things?”
Mikhail froze, suddenly realizing that either his wife somehow already knew everything or she was simply mocking him. But the calm with which she said the word “divorce” made him doubt his own resolve.
“Angela, I… sorry,” he stumbled, running a hand over his forehead. “You misunderstood. Or rather, you understood everything perfectly… It’s complicated.”
Angela rolled her eyes.
“Mishenka, don’t scurry around like a cockroach on a frying pan. Sit down and tell me properly what happened. I don’t have time for your choreographed exercises.”
That tone — sarcastic, sharp — was familiar to him. That was how Angela spoke to careless employees in her department. Mikhail obediently sat down in the chair opposite, still avoiding direct eye contact.
“We’ll have to part ways,” he finally said. “Life doesn’t stand still, you know? People change, and feelings do too…”
“Your mantra is aging like cheap brandy, Misha,” Angela interrupted. “How old is it? Blonde, brunette? Or did you decide to add a redhead to your collection?”
“For God’s sake, Angela, no hysterics!”
The book lying on the coffee table seemed to be waiting for its moment. Angela grabbed it with lightning speed and threw it at her husband. The hefty volume of The Master and Margarita hit Mikhail right on the forehead.
“Damn!” He jumped aside, clutching his split brow. “Are you crazy?!”
“No, you’re the crazy one if you think I’ll quietly cry into a pillow!” Angela jumped up from the sofa. “You slug! Name her!”
Blood seeped between Mikhail’s fingers, dripping onto the light carpet.
“Get out!” he shouted, pointing at the door with his free hand. “Get lost!”
Angela froze, trying to control herself. Her shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths. She slowly turned and headed toward the exit. At the doorway, she stopped:
“I spent five years of my life on you, Mikhail. Pulled you out of that dingy office, brought you into the agency, helped with your career. And you couldn’t even find the courage to tell me outright that you started a fling. Damn you.”
“Shut up!” Mikhail covered his ears with his hands, smearing blood across his face. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
The bedroom door slammed behind Angela with a crash worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy finale.
Mikhail went to the bathroom. The mirror reflected a pathetic man with a bloody face and a hunted look. The wound on his forehead was shallow but bleeding heavily.
“Crazy bitch,” he muttered, pressing a towel soaked in cold water to the cut. “She could’ve knocked out an eye with that damned book.”
Mikhail put on his jacket, grabbed his car keys without looking, and dashed out of the apartment. He needed to clear his head, gather his thoughts. Everything went completely differently than he had planned.
Angela was supposed to cry, beg him to stay, promise to change—anything but this cold rage and the damned book flying at his head. Bulgakov nearly cracked his skull—indeed, manuscripts don’t burn, but they sure fly well.
Mikhail got into the car and punched the steering wheel. The plan was perfect: calmly explain to his wife that they no longer fit together, 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 just suspected? After all, Angela had always been perceptive. Too perceptive for his comfort.
Mikhail dialed a number with trembling fingers. The ringing lasted an eternity before someone picked up.
“I told her,” he said shortly, without waiting for a greeting.
A second of silence.
“And how did it go?”
“We’ll talk later,” Mikhail glanced at the empty porch of the house. “Can’t talk now.”
He hung up and immediately turned off the phone. The cold November wind slipped through his loosely fastened jacket, but Mikhail barely noticed. The wound on his forehead kept oozing faintly.
“God, what a mess,” he muttered, wiping the windshield of his Volkswagen with his sleeve. “Damn women and their unpredictable reactions.”
He turned the ignition key but didn’t hurry to move. His ‘Pobeda’ watch showed half past seven. The evening was just beginning, but it felt like a lifetime had passed.
“Always like this with them—nonstop hysteria and drama,” Mikhail thought, backing out of the driveway. “Angela got exactly what she deserved. Five years I endured her constant control, her lectures, her unbearable superiority. Supposedly she made my career! Right. She just introduced me to the right people, the rest is my merit.”
He turned onto Mira Avenue and switched on the wipers. Wet snow smeared gray streaks across the glass.
Mikhail took out an old button phone from the glove box — a spare, for emergencies. He mentally congratulated himself on being prepared. He remembered his mother’s number by heart.
“Mom? It’s me.”
“Mishenka! What happened? You rarely call this late,” Valeria Igorevna’s voice sounded worried.
“Can I stay over tonight?”
Pause. Mikhail imagined his mother pursing her lips, holding back questions.
“Of course. Did you have a fight with Angela?”
“I’ll tell you when I arrive,” he cut off. “Be there in half an hour.”
Without waiting for a reply, he switched off the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat. The traffic light at the intersection with Akademika Koroleva Street flashed yellow, then turned red. Mikhail braked sharply, the car jolted. Blood started flowing again from the wound.
“Damn,” he opened the glove box looking for tissues and jumped at the phone ringing.
The spare phone vibrated on the neighboring seat. Mikhail frowned — who could know this number? Seeing the screen, he relaxed. Ilya. Childhood friend and marketing department colleague.
“Listening,” Mikhail answered curtly.
“Sorry for calling so late,” Ilya babbled. “Just wanted to remind you the papers from Tektron arrived. Finance has prepared preliminary calculations, we need to reconcile with logistics, then with planning. Next week are preliminary negotiations, you know…”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Mikhail cut him off, glancing at the light. “I remember. All under control.”
“You okay?”
“Fine, just tired,” Mikhail saw the green light. “Gotta go. Talk tomorrow.”
He pressed the gas, passing the intersection. The conversation with Ilya was the last thing on his mind. Some part of his consciousness noted the irony: his personal life was falling apart, but the world kept spinning, demanding reports, reconciliations, and meetings.
Approaching the old five-story building on Ostankinskaya where his mother lived, Mikhail felt a strange emptiness inside. Five years of marriage ended with a book thrown in the face and blood on his shirt collar. No tears, no pleading eyes. Just rage and accusations.
“What does she think of herself?” he thought, parking in the yard. The light in his mother’s apartment on the third floor burned warmly, promising at least temporary refuge from his thoughts.
Meanwhile, Angela paced the apartment. Anger boiled inside, demanding release, and controlling it became harder.
“Bastard!” she shouted, grabbing the TV remote from the nightstand and hurling it at the plasma screen with all her might.
The screen exploded into a web of cracks and went dark. Glass shards scattered across the floor, but Angela didn’t even notice. Her gaze had fixed on the wall where Mikhail’s diplomas hung in expensive frames—his pride, his status symbols.
“Five years!” she growled, tearing the first frame from the wall. “Five years of my life!”
The glass shattered with a crystalline ring. The second diploma followed, then the third. An MBA with honors, a certificate from business school, an award for innovative development strategy—all those papers Mikhail valued so much now lay broken among shards.
Angela stopped, breathing heavily. Her hands trembled, and a lump rose in her throat. She sat down amid the shards and covered her face with her hands.
“My God,” she moaned. “My God, what is this?”
When they met, Mikhail was nobody—an ordinary office drone with a thirty-thousand salary and an inflated ego. A typical case: ambitions bigger than abilities. But he had some spark, something that made Angela believe in him. She already held a decent position at Pishcheprom, had connections, a reputation.
“I was like a little tugboat pushing that barge forward,” Angela bitterly smiled, looking at a photo in a cracked frame—her and Mikhail at a corporate event, he already in a tie, freshly promoted to department head. “I got him an internship, then a spot on a project team. Introduced him to Vitaliy Semyonovich…”
Now her Misha was deputy general director of a semi-finished products factory. Custom suits, a Pobeda watch — grandfather’s heritage! — right. He bought it with his first serious bonus in an antique shop, wanting to look more respectable.
Angela rose slowly, stepping carefully among the shards. Two thoughts spun in her head: either Mikhail really had a mistress — some young secretary or marketer — or he simply stopped loving her, tired of the gratitude that over time became a heavy burden.
“In any case, divorce,” she whispered, pulling out a broom and dustpan from the closet. “I won’t humiliate myself by begging him to stay.”
Methodically sweeping the shards, Angela suddenly realized there were no tears. Only emptiness and numbness. Five years — and all for nothing. Five years of shared plans, career efforts, support… And he simply decided to leave. Didn’t even have the courage to state the reason directly.
“Damn coward!” she swore, forcefully sweeping the diploma shards into a trash bag. “‘People change, feelings too.’ Go to hell with your cheap TV drama phrases!”
The phone in her bag suddenly rang. Angela jumped, dropped the broom, wiped her hands on her jeans, and pulled out the mobile. The screen showed “Roman.”
“Hello,” she answered.
“Angela, sorry for calling,” the colleague’s voice sounded worried. “Did you forget about the contracts? We need to prepare all materials for negotiations with Trans-Logistic.”
Angela froze for a moment. The project! She had completely forgotten about it, absorbed by personal drama.
“Of course, I remember,” she lied, feverishly thinking. “I’m working on it right now.”
“Great,” Roman’s voice showed relief. “I was afraid it slipped your mind.”
“All is well,” Angela cut in. “It will be ready by nine tomorrow.”
She ended the call. Damn! Work had completely slipped her mind. She had to abandon the unfinished cleaning and rush to her bag, from which she pulled out a folder of documents.
Sitting at the table, Angela tried to focus on the numbers, but the lines blurred before her eyes. Snippets of today’s conversation with Mikhail pulsed in her head—his frightened look, the blood on his forehead.
“Pull yourself together,” she ordered herself. “You can’t let that bastard ruin your career too.”
With effort biting into the contract text, Angela gradually forced herself into work. Tables, charts, calculations — all concrete, clear, manageable. Unlike human relationships.
“Logistics doesn’t betray,” she muttered, making notes in the margins. “Numbers don’t lie.”
Outside, darkness fell. Angela turned on the desk lamp and continued working, occasionally glancing at the devastated living room. TV shards, broken diploma frames, scattered documents — a real battlefield. Tomorrow she would have to clean it all up, but for now the project was more important.
The next morning Angela entered the Pishcheprom corporation building exactly at 8:30. Light gray suit, strict hair bun, and a face without a single muscle twitching when the guard at the checkpoint greeted her kindly. Overnight she hadn’t so much slept as burned out from within—where yesterday rage raged, now was emptiness and quiet.
“If divorce is inevitable, it doesn’t mean life is over,” she repeated like a mantra, taking the elevator to the fifth floor.
The corridor met her with the usual morning bustle. Employees with coffee cups hurried to offices, interns carried folders. No one looked at her differently. Either the news hadn’t spread yet, or she’d learned to hide her emotions perfectly.
Angela opened the door to her office—spacious, with two windows and a view of the avenue. She hung her coat on a rack, approached the desk, turned on the computer, and pulled a flash drive with contracts she’d worked on overnight.
The computer booted up, but instead of the usual desktop, a password prompt for the corporate system appeared. Angela frowned. She entered her password—“Access Denied.”
“What the hell?” she muttered and tried again.
Again “Access Denied.”
There was a knock on the door, and Vadim Petrovich, the HR manager—a lean man in a dark suit—appeared.
“Good morning, Angela Viktorovna,” he said with a forced smile.
“Vadim Petrovich, I’m having some problems accessing the system,” Angela said, looking away from the monitor.
“Yes, that’s why I came by,” he said, handing her a folded piece of paper. “Please read this.”
“What is it?” Angela took the document.
“My department is fully staffed, I don’t need new employees,” she said.
“This isn’t a request for new employees, Angela Viktorovna,” Vadim Petrovich shifted uneasily. “This is an order. You need to sign it.”
Angela unfolded the sheet and read the text. The lines danced before her eyes, but two phrases stood out clearly amid the bureaucratic language: “…dismissal at the employer’s initiative” and “…effective today.”
“What kind of joke is this?” her voice turned dangerously quiet.
“The order was signed by the deputy general director last night,” Vadim Petrovich spoke, carefully avoiding her gaze. “I’m very sorry, Angela Viktorovna.”
Angela stood abruptly.
“I understand,” she threw the order on the desk. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for a reply, Angela left the office and headed for the stairs. Mikhail’s office was a floor above, in the so-called “director’s zone.”
Mikhail’s secretary—Svetlana, a young blonde with a model figure (“So that’s who you are!” flashed through Angela’s mind)—tried to block her way.
“Angela Viktorovna, Mikhail Alexandrovich is busy! He has a meeting!” she stammered, jumping up from behind the desk.
But Angela had already swung open her husband’s office door. In the room with two panoramic windows behind a huge desk sat Mikhail. Opposite him were two men in suits—obviously clients. In the corner on a couch sat Ilya, who shrank his head into his shoulders upon seeing Angela.
“You bastard!” Angela blurted out, ignoring the strangers. “Not only a divorce isn’t enough, but you’re firing me too?”
Mikhail slowly rose from behind the desk. The small plaster on his forehead reminded Angela of yesterday’s clash.
“Angela,” his voice was icy, “you’re behaving inappropriately.”
“Inappropriately?” she repeated. “And firing your wife the day after announcing the divorce—is that normal, in your opinion?”
Behind Angela a small crowd had gathered: secretary Svetlana, out-of-breath Vadim Petrovich.
Mikhail silently picked up the landline.
“Security service? Send the guards to my office. Immediately.”
“Even this way?” Angela sneered. “Well then, thanks for five years, Mikhail Alexandrovich. Thanks for showing what a nobody you really are.”
She looked around at those present. The clients looked embarrassed, Ilya studied his own shoes, the secretary gawked in awed horror.
“Scoundrel,” Angela threw in parting and, turning, left the office.
When the door closed behind Angela, Mikhail forced a smile and addressed the clients:
“Please excuse the incident, gentlemen. Former employee. A bit hysterical.”
He sat back down, trying to ignore Ilya’s keen gaze.
“So where were we? You were talking about delivery deadlines…”
The clients exchanged glances but continued the conversation. When forty minutes later the meeting ended and they left the office, Ilya finally spoke up:
“Mish, that was harsh.”
“What exactly?” Mikhail flipped through documents, pretending to be fully absorbed in work.
“Firing Angela. She’s one of the best negotiators. You don’t just throw people like that away.”
Mikhail looked up and stared at his friend.
“She has nothing left to do in this company,” he cut off. “After the divorce, she can only harm.”
“But that’s unprofessional,” Ilya insisted. “You need to separate personal and work.”
“Don’t teach me,” Mikhail snapped. “You know how she is. Imagine what will start when she finds out about Svetlana.”
Ilya frowned.
“You’re unfair to Angela. She has information that could be useful to competitors. She knows the entire supply structure, partner schemes…”
“Let her go work to hell,” Mikhail waved it off. “But she won’t work under me. That’s final, Ilya.”
He demonstratively buried his head in papers, signaling the conversation was over.
Angela packed her personal things into a box: photos, notebooks, stationery. The office door opened, and Roman came in.
“Hi! Have you prepared the contracts? I could pick them up right now…” he stopped, seeing what she was doing. “What’s going on?”
“I was fired, Rom,” Angela put a cactus in a pot— a gift from the team on her last birthday — into the box. “The order is already signed.”
“What?” Roman froze in the doorway. “How? Why?”
“Ask Belov,” she nodded toward the ceiling. “He’s not only the deputy general director now but also my ex-husband.”
“Ex?” Roman blinked, confused. “Wait, what the hell is going on?”
Angela sighed and stopped packing.
“Yesterday Mikhail announced the divorce. Today, in revenge, he fired me. Such a family idyll.”
“Damn, that sucks,” Roman shook his head. “What about the contracts? What do we do with Trans-Logistic?”
“Ask your beloved Belov,” Angela shrugged. “Let him print the contracts himself and deal with the lawyers.”
“You know I can’t do it as quickly as you. And Mikhail Alexandrovich never understood logistics schemes that deeply.”
“Don’t worry,” Angela put a hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Go to legal. They’ll prepare everything in a couple of days.”
“So what now?” Roman nodded at the box. “Where will you go?”
Angela closed the box and looked out the window. Moscow’s panorama was gray, autumnal, damp.
“I don’t know,” she honestly admitted. “Not sure yet.”
Meanwhile, Mikhail sat in his office, digesting the scandal. Sunlight pierced through the blinds, drawing stripes on the desk. The phone on the table vibrated—“Diana” appeared on the screen.
Mikhail grimaced but answered.
“Yes, Di, what happened?”
“Congrats on the divorce, bro!” his sister’s voice was almost enthusiastic. “Finally freed from that shrew!”
Mikhail froze.
“How did you find out?” he asked, struggling to keep calm.
“Come on,” Diana chuckled. “Angela screamed so loudly it was heard across the city. Office gossip spreads faster than light. Three people already called me.”
Mikhail absentmindedly touched the plaster on his forehead. The wound under it stung, reminding him of the Master and Margarita impact.
“Stop,” he cut her off. “Nothing funny about this.”
“Oh, don’t sulk. I’m on your side,” Diana’s voice held sincere bewilderment. “Congrats on finally kicking her out. Should’ve done it a long time ago. But… is Mom aware?”
Mikhail exhaled, trying to calm down. Valeria Igorevna had always liked Angela, and news of the divorce would surely upset her.
“No, I haven’t told Mom yet,” he said. “And don’t tell her either, okay? I’ll explain everything myself in a few days.”
“Suit yourself,” Diana seemed to shrug. “Alright, gotta go. Talk later!”
She hung up, and Mikhail leaned back in his chair. Only half an hour had passed since the scandal with Angela, and the whole office was buzzing. By evening, all of Pishcheprom would know; by morning, half the industry.
“Damn witch,” he thought, touching the plaster again. The wound ached, as if reminding him this was only the beginning.
Angela entered her mother’s apartment carrying a box of things from the office. Nadezhda Arkadyevna opened the door and looked at her daughter in surprise.
“Angela? Why aren’t you at work?”
Angela silently walked into the hallway, placed the box on the stand, and only then looked at her mother.
“Mikhail announced the divorce,” her voice was dull. “And today he fired me.”
Nadezhda Arkadyevna gasped and pressed a palm to her mouth.
“God, my daughter! How could this happen?”
Marina, Angela’s younger sister, peeked from the next room.
“What’s going on?” she asked, then frowned seeing her sister’s expression. “What did your idiot do?”
“Ex,” Angela corrected, taking off her coat.
“Mishka?” Marina asked incredulously. “Is he crazy?”
“That bastard not only left Angela but also fired her!” Nadezhda Arkadyevna indignantly reported, nudging her elder daughter toward the kitchen. “Come, I’ll make tea. You tell me everything.”
Marina clenched her fists:
“What an idiot! I told you he was an ungrateful bastard! You pulled him out of the mud, and he…”
“Enough,” Angela interrupted tiredly. “No need.”
In the kitchen, Nadezhda Arkadyevna brewed tea and placed cups in front of her daughters.
“What about your apartment?” she asked, sitting opposite her eldest daughter.
Angela shrugged:
“I’ll have to move out. The apartment is registered to Mikhail. I’m just a tenant.”
“That’s unfair!” Marina protested. “You paid the mortgage all these years too!”
“I’ll figure it out later,” Angela wrapped her hands around the cup as if to warm herself. “For now, I just need to get out. I can’t stand seeing his face.”
Marina stood resolutely:
“I’ll help you pack. When do we leave?”
“Right now, if possible,” Angela replied. “Mikhail will be late at the office or will go to Mom’s.”
“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 slowly got up and approached the bookcase where her late husband’s portrait stood.
“Well, Sergey?” she quietly said, looking at the photo. “Your favorite is in trouble again.”
Her relationship with Sergey Viktorovich had been complicated: they argued, made up, but lived. They raised two daughters and gave them an education. Later, her husband died suddenly at work—his heart stopped.
Nadezhda Arkadyevna sighed, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Allochka? It’s me,” she said when answered. “Tell me, do you need a good negotiator? My daughter wants to change employers.”
She listened, nodding to her own thoughts.
“Yes, she knows logistics well. Worked at Pishcheprom… No penalties in five years… Yes, I understand interviews are needed… Yes, she’s available as of today.”
Nadezhda Arkadyevna talked a bit longer and then hung up. A faint smile appeared on her face.
“Don’t worry, Sergey,” she told the photo. “We’ll manage.”
In the evening, Mikhail stopped in front of his mother’s apartment door, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer. Though routine, his hand trembled. The thought pulsed: an awkward divorce talk could wait. Just have dinner, talk about work, trivial things. Mom didn’t have to know everything at once.
The lock clicked, and Valeria Igorevna appeared in the doorway—neat, well-groomed, with dark chocolate hair.
“Mishenka!” she exclaimed, throwing open her arms, but froze seeing the plaster on his forehead. “What happened?”
“Nonsense,” Mikhail waved it off, kissing his mother on the cheek. “Turned wrong and hit the cabinet door.”
Valeria Igorevna let her son inside, examining his face closely.
“That doesn’t look like a cabinet hit,” she noted. “More like… well, come in. I made borscht.”
Mikhail took off his shoes, hung his jacket, and headed to the living room but froze at the doorway. Diana was sitting on the couch, legs curled up, flipping through a fashion magazine. Seeing her brother, she raised her head and smiled sheepishly.
“Hi, bro,” she said. “Long time no see.”
“You called me four hours ago,” Mikhail grated. “What are you doing at Mom’s?”
“Just dropped by to pick up some documents,” Diana shrugged.
“Uh-huh,” Mikhail snorted skeptically.
He went to the kitchen, where his mother was already serving fragrant borscht. The smell of home cooking was supposed to be comforting, but Mikhail felt only a tight knot in his stomach.
“Sit down,” Valeria Igorevna set a plate before him. “Tell me how you had the brains to leave Angela.”
Mikhail choked on air and stared at his mother in disbelief. Diana appeared in the kitchen doorway, watching with barely concealed interest.
“You told her?!” Mikhail snapped, turning sharply to his sister.
Diana shrugged:
“What did you expect? You can’t hide news like that.”
“That’s none of your business!” Mikhail barked.
“Don’t raise your voice,” Valeria Igorevna scolded. “Now tell me.”
Mikhail clenched his jaw, desperate to be anywhere but there. He looked at the borscht, unable to meet his mother’s eyes.
“Mom, Angela and I… we’re adults,” he started uncertainly. “Sometimes people drift apart. Nothing special.”
“Nothing special?” his mother echoed, sitting opposite. “You threw her out of the apartment and today fired her from work. You think that’s normal?”
Mikhail jerked his head up.
“How do you know about the job?”
“Nadezhda Arkadyevna called,” Valeria Igorevna answered calmly. “Wondered if you’d lost your mind.”
“Great!” Mikhail slammed his hand on the table. “Now the mother-in-law’s involved. Maybe call the neighbors? Or TV?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Valeria Igorevna said sternly. “Explain properly what happened.”
Mikhail sighed, realizing he couldn’t dodge it.
“I’m not a little boy, Mom,” he said, trying to sound confident. “I’m deputy director of a large company and I’ll manage without Angela. I have a strong team.”
“I don’t care about your team,” Valeria Igorevna cut in. “I care why you divorced the woman who pulled you up from nothing and made you who you are.”
Diana leaned against the doorframe, watching the argument with clear amusement.
“She didn’t pull me up!” Mikhail exploded. “Big deal, introduced me to a couple people! The rest is my achievement!”
“What a fool you are,” his mother shook her head. “How you could divorce her is your business. But firing such a valuable employee was a big mistake. Unprofessional.”
Mikhail pushed the untouched bowl of borscht away.
“I couldn’t have her by my side!” he blurted. “You see? Angela’s a negotiator, and that’s very important for the company. If she kept working… she’d ruin everything out of spite.”
“So you fired her out of fear?” Valeria Igorevna asked.
“Out of common sense!” Mikhail retorted. “She’s a volatile element.”
“Volatile element,” his mother echoed, then suddenly laughed. “God, Misha, do you hear yourself? Angela is the best logistics specialist in your industry. And you fired her because you’re afraid she’ll get revenge? You should have doubled her salary and kept her!”
“Mom, you don’t understand,” Mikhail said tiredly.
“No, you don’t understand,” Valeria Igorevna grew serious. “One thing is divorce. Another is showing everyone with such a blunt act that you put personal grudges above business interests. What kind of leader does that make you?”
Mikhail opened his mouth to argue, but his mother continued:
“Everyone will know they can’t conflict with you or they’ll be fired, regardless of achievements and skills. That’s a very bad signal to the team, son.”
Diana snickered:
“Mom, come on. Maybe he really had good reasons. Maybe Angela was cheating or something.”
“There was no cheating,” Mikhail snapped. “And that’s enough.”
Valeria Igorevna looked at her son carefully, and Mikhail suddenly felt like a fifteen-year-old caught smoking behind the school.
“You have someone else,” she stated.
“God, Mom!” Mikhail exclaimed. “Don’t start.”
“Secretary?” Valeria Igorevna continued. “No, don’t answer. I can tell by your face.”
Mikhail felt his cheeks burn. Diana whistled but immediately stopped under her brother’s stern look.
“It’s my personal life,” he finally said. “And I don’t want to discuss it.”
Valeria Igorevna sighed and got up from the table.
“Alright, I hear you,” she said. “But heed my advice: be careful. Women can be vengeful even after decades. Especially ones like Angela.”
“What can she do to me?” Mikhail scoffed.
“The question isn’t what she’ll do,” his mother shook her head. “But what you lost because of your own stupidity.”
She left the kitchen, leaving her son alone with his cooling borscht and thoughts.
A few days later, Angela was sitting in the office of the general director of “Zavtrak-Express” — the largest regional supplier of hot meals for schools. Ilya Petrovich Komarov, a stocky man with attentive eyes, personally met her at the door and led her to his office, bypassing the queue of visitors in the reception.
“Angela Viktorovna, glad you could make time,” he gestured for her to sit in a comfortable leather chair. “Coffee? Or perhaps tea?”
“Coffee, please,” Angela replied, carefully smoothing the creases on her dark blue suit.
Ilya Petrovich pressed a button on his phone:
“Elena, two coffees, please. And don’t let anyone in for half an hour.”
When the secretary brought the coffee, Komarov leaned back in his chair and looked Angela straight in the eyes:
“I’ll be frank. I’ve heard about your… situation at Pishcheprom. Nadezhda Arkadyevna told me a lot about you.”
Angela tensed but outwardly remained composed.
“My mother has always believed in my professional abilities,” she said neutrally. “I hope that’s what interests you, not office gossip.”
Komarov laughed:
“Of course. I don’t care about your personal life, Angela Viktorovna. Your skills are what matter. You are an excellent negotiator. In the last three years, you signed contracts worth a billion rubles, if my analysts are correct.”
“A billion two hundred million, to be precise,” Angela corrected him, sipping her coffee.
“Even better,” Komarov nodded. “We’re currently facing challenges with suppliers. You know, school catering involves government contracts, budget dependencies, complex logistics…”
“And tons of inspections,” added Angela. “I’m familiar with your business specifics.”
Komarov leaned forward:
“I need someone to rebuild the entire supplier contract chain. We work with farms, large agroholdings, processors. The system must be flexible yet reliable.”
“And you think I can handle it?” Angela watched his expression carefully.
“I’m sure of it,” Komarov said firmly. “Salary thirty percent higher than at Pishcheprom, company car, full benefits package. And the position of Director of External Communications.”
Angela slightly raised an eyebrow:
“Sounds tempting. But I want to understand what I’m getting into. May I access the supplier documentation?”
“Certainly,” Komarov nodded. “Elena will prepare everything necessary. When can you start?”
“In two weeks,” Angela replied after a moment’s thought. “I need to settle some… personal matters.”
“Excellent,” Komarov stood, extending his hand. “Then I expect you as our new Director of External Communications in two weeks.”
They discussed work details for another half hour. Angela asked specific questions about logistics chains, problematic suppliers, competitors. Komarov answered willingly, clearly impressed by her deep understanding of the business.
When Angela left the director’s office, the reception was crowded with at least a dozen visitors. The secretary quickly got up from her desk.
“Angela Viktorovna, 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 carefully entered the apartment, as if expecting an attack. He slowly moved from room to room, looking around. Angela was nowhere to be seen, but signs of her fury were everywhere.
The TV with its broken screen hung on the wall like a reminder of the fierce scandal. Diplomas in shattered frames lay scattered among glass shards on the floor. Mikhail crouched and picked up one — an MBA diploma with honors. Pieces fell from the broken frame.
“Damn bitch,” he muttered, looking around. “Psycho.”
The bookcase was almost empty — all books Angela had brought or bought over the years were gone. Apart from broken equipment, nothing else was touched — the furniture was in place, kitchenware intact.
Mikhail walked through the living room, surveying the damage caused by Angela’s rage. Besides the TV, the music center, microwave, even vases and wall clocks were damaged. It was as if she methodically, with precise calculation, destroyed everything in sight.
“Crazy hysteric,” he said aloud but immediately corrected himself: “No, Angela’s not crazy. Smart, calculating…”
He took out his phone and dialed a number.
“The apartment’s clean,” he said as soon as someone answered. “I’ll pick you up in a week.”
He didn’t clarify who he was speaking to and hung up without waiting for a reply.
Mikhail walked around the apartment again, assessing the scale of destruction. TV, music center, microwave, clocks, vases, frames… It seemed Angela went through the apartment with a hammer, methodically breaking everything possible.
“Hysteric,” he muttered again, but his voice was no longer angry — only tired resignation. “Well, these are planned expenses related to the divorce.”
A knock at the door made him jump. Diana stood in the doorway — wearing a fashionable red coat and carrying a Gucci purse.
“Hi, bro,” she slipped past him into the apartment. “I decided to drop by and check how you’re doing…”
Diana stopped short, seeing the mess in the living room. She whistled:
“Wow! Angela really let loose! I always said she was crazy.”
“Shut up,” Mikhail snapped. “Why did you come?”
Diana went to the couch, took off her coat, and sat, crossing her legs.
“Bro, actually I’m here on business. There’s a negotiator position open in your company, right? Perfect chance to promote your own sister.”
Mikhail immediately caught her meaning.
“Forget it,” he said flatly. “That position isn’t for you.”
“Why not?” Diana pouted offended. “I graduated from a management institute, interned abroad! I’m great with languages!”
“You need brains too,” Mikhail dryly remarked. “And experience. And lots of other qualities you don’t have.”
“You’re an idiot!” Diana jumped up, grabbed her coat. “Stupid, ungrateful moron!”
She turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard that plaster fell from the ceiling.
Mikhail sighed and sank into the chair. His head was buzzing from all these scandals and arguments. He rubbed his plastered forehead and suddenly smiled: even his sister and ex-wife used the same insults. As if they conspired.
Three months passed. Moscow’s autumn gave way to winter, covering the city with the first snow and decorating streets with pre-New Year garlands. Mikhail sat in his office at the Pishcheprom tower, reviewing documents just brought by his assistant.
“Svetlana, remind me, when are the negotiations with Sibkholod?” he asked without looking up.
“Friday, Mikhail Alexandrovich,” the blonde answered nervously, shifting from foot to foot by the door. “Are you alright?”
Mikhail looked up, meeting her concerned gaze.
“I’m fine,” he cut her off. “Go work.”
When the secretary’s door closed, Mikhail leaned back and exhaled. His Pobeda watch showed 11:30. Today was supposed to be the last hearing for Angela’s claim for moral damages for unlawful dismissal.
Yesterday’s talk with the lawyer left no illusions. “Mr. Belov, we will lose this case. One hundred percent,” the lawyer nervously tapped a pencil on the table.
“The dismissal violated procedure, lacked objective reasons, and was clearly motivated by personal reasons. The fact your ex-wife was a valuable employee with an impeccable reputation only worsens the situation.”
Mikhail sighed heavily, recalling the past months. The property division had turned into a real battle. Angela hired the law firm “Kornilov and Partners” — one of Moscow’s best for divorce cases. He didn’t expect such thoroughness.
Her lawyers uncovered everything: accounts in Cyprus unknown even to Mikhail’s mother, investments in securities under nominees, shares in a friend’s restaurant business. In the end, the court awarded Angela seven million rubles — about half of Mikhail’s real estate.
And now this claim for unlawful dismissal.
The phone rang, snapping Mikhail out of unpleasant thoughts.
“Yes,” he answered sharply.
“Mikhail Alexandrovich,” the secretary’s voice trembled with excitement, “Konstantin Lvovich is urgently calling for you.”
Mikhail suppressed a curse and stood up.
“I’m coming.”
The general director’s office was two floors up. On the way to the elevator, Mikhail noticed employees watching him — some with curiosity, others with barely concealed glee.
“They must already know,” he thought grimly, pressing the elevator button.
Konstantin Lvovich met Mikhail sitting behind a massive desk. Before him lay an open file with documents Mikhail instantly recognized as Angela’s lawsuit.
“Sit down,” the director nodded toward a chair opposite. “Let’s sort this out.”
Mikhail silently sat.
“Explain,” Konstantin Lvovich began, tapping the papers, “how did it happen that one of the company’s key employees was dismissed without my consent, without objective reasons, and in violation of every procedure?”
“I thought I had the right…” Mikhail started.
“You thought wrong,” the director interrupted. “Angela filed suit not only against you personally but against the company. Two and a half million rubles, Mikhail. Plus a demand for reinstatement with compensation for forced absence.”
Mikhail swallowed.
“I’m ready to compensate all costs out of my own pocket,” he said. “No need to reinstate her. That will cause… problems.”
Konstantin Lvovich smirked:
“Two and a half million? You have that kind of money after she squeezed seven million out of you in the divorce?”
Mikhail felt his face flush.
“How do you know?”
“Moscow is a big village, Mikhail. Everyone knows everything,” the director leaned back. “Especially when it comes to my employees. I warned you to separate personal and work. But you didn’t listen.”
“I’ll find the money,” Mikhail stubbornly repeated. “Main thing is she doesn’t come back.”
“That’s not for you to decide,” Konstantin Lvovich slammed the folder. “I’ll consider all options. Maybe it’s better to pay her off than reinstate her. But if you think the company will bear these costs, you’re mistaken.”
“I understand,” Mikhail answered quietly.
Back in his office, Mikhail collapsed into the chair and punched the desk. The clock jumped, papers fell to the floor.
“Damn woman!” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Ruined my whole life!”
Another month passed. December snow slowly blanketed Moscow’s streets, turning the gray city into a white fairy tale. The “Zavtrak-Express” office buzzed with pre-holiday hustle: employees decorated offices with tinsel, ordered corporate gifts, planned New Year vacations.
Angela sat in her office reviewing documents. The spacious room with two tall windows was in the quietest east wing. Here she was nurturing a plan that today finally came to life.
The internal phone rang, interrupting her thoughts.
“Angela Viktorovna,” the secretary’s voice was respectful, “Ilya Petrovich requests you in his office.”
“I’m coming,” Angela replied shortly, adjusting the collar of her strict white blouse.
She got up, took a folder of documents, and headed out. Glancing at her reflection in the glass door, Angela noted she looked excellent. The fatigue of recent months left little trace on her face.
The general director’s reception was as busy as ever. Supplier representatives, department heads, accountants with reports waited patiently. Angela passed them with a nod to the secretary, who pressed a button opening the electronic lock to the director’s office.
“Angela Viktorovna,” Ilya Petrovich rose with a wide smile. “Come in, I’ve been waiting!”
Komarov energetically extended his hand, and Angela shook it, feeling its firm, confident grip.
“Congratulations on the brilliant deal!” the director exclaimed, pointing to the chair opposite. “Sit down, we have much to discuss.”
Angela sat, placing the folder on her lap.
“Thank you,” she allowed herself a smile. “Negotiations were tough, but worth it.”
Komarov looked at her with sincere admiration. His usually tense massive figure now radiated satisfaction and calm.
“To take such a contract from Pishcheprom…” he shook his head. “Honestly, I didn’t believe it possible. Convincing Sokolov to reconsider a longtime partnership — that’s top-notch!”
He opened his desk drawer and took out a bottle of Moët.
“I think such success deserves a celebration,” he said, placing the bottle on the table. “Three billion rubles for a five-year contract — our record.”
Angela watched as the director carefully removed the foil from the bottle neck.
“May I ask a frank question?” he suddenly asked, setting the bottle aside. “Tell me honestly: is this your professional skill or revenge on your ex-husband?”
The question was unexpected, but Angela didn’t blush. 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 work quality. Pishcheprom really offered Sibkholod unprofitable terms. I simply pointed out the fact and proposed an alternative.”
Komarov studied her face for several seconds, then smiled broadly:
“That’s why I value you — for honesty!” he laughed. “Most would try to convince me it was purely business.”
He returned to the bottle, deftly opened it silently, and poured two glasses on the edge of the table.
“To professionalism, even when combined with revenge,” the director said, raising his glass.
Angela raised hers, lightly clinking glasses with her boss, and took a small sip.
“I’m very glad you joined our team,” Komarov continued, putting the glass down. “Congratulations again on the successful contract. The bonus will be substantial, I promise.”
“Thank you,” Angela also set her glass on the table.
Leaving the director’s office, Angela passed through the reception, feeling the eyes of the waiting people. Some looked with respect, others with barely hidden envy. But she didn’t care. Today she had won — professionally and personally.
Meanwhile, in the Pishcheprom office, Mikhail nervously shuffled papers on his desk. The last weeks had been a nightmare: compensation to Angela in court, constant tension at work, scandals with Svetlana… And now this news.
The phone on his desk rang, interrupting his thoughts.
“Mikhail Alexandrovich,” the secretary’s voice trembled, “Konstantin Lvovich is urgently calling you.”
“I’m coming,” Mikhail said and hung up.
He felt blood rush to his face. The news of losing the Sibkholod contract had already reached the general director — it was inevitable. But Mikhail hoped to prepare some excuse, find scapegoats, shift blame…
Standing up from his desk, he noticed his hands trembling. He took a deep breath to calm down. Passing Svetlana’s desk, he caught her frightened gaze.
“It will be okay,” he muttered, maybe to her, maybe to himself.
Taking the elevator to the top floor, he slowly approached the general director’s office. The secretary didn’t even look at him — silently pointing to the door.
Mikhail knocked and entered without waiting.
Konstantin Lvovich stood by the window, back to the door. His tense posture foretold no good news.
“Did you call?” Mikhail asked.
The director slowly turned, his face twisted with anger.
“How did you manage to blow the contract that was practically in our pocket?!” he shouted without preamble. “Three billion rubles! Do you understand what that means?”
Mikhail went pale but tried to keep his dignity.
“Konstantin Lvovich, it’s not my fault,” he began. “It’s all Angela’s… all her.”
The director slammed his fist on the desk.
“‘It’s all Angela’s’?” he mimicked. “Who fired her? Who, you idiot, couldn’t separate personal from professional?”
Mikhail stood speechless.
“Sibkholod was our client for eight years!” the director continued yelling. “That contract would have given us at least twenty-five percent more volume! And now? Now we’re stuck with our own semi-finished products?”
Mikhail opened his mouth to say something, but the director didn’t let him.
“The worst part?” he lowered his voice to a dangerous hiss. “Sokolov said your ex-wife showed them our internal calculations. She knew all the pain points, all vulnerabilities. And used it. Why? Because you, idiot, decided you could just fire the person who knew everything about the company!”
Mikhail mechanically leaned on the back of a nearby chair.
“I… I’ll fix it,” he muttered. “We can offer them something better…”
“Too late!” the director cut off. “They already signed with Zavtrak-Express. Five years. Ironclad. No early termination.”
He turned away, went to the desk, and picked up the internal phone.
“Victoria, connect me with HR.”
Pause.
“Hello, Marina? Prepare an order to dismiss Belov Mikhail Alexandrovich. Article… by mutual agreement. Effective today.”
Mikhail froze, unable to believe his ears.
“Konstantin Lvovich,” he started as the director hung up. “I’ve worked at the company almost eight years. I…”
“Go work as a clerk. At least fewer mistakes there.”
He pointed to the door.
“Pack your things by the end of the day. Security will escort you out.”
Mikhail stood motionless, unable to believe what was happening.
“Get out,” Konstantin Lvovich said quietly but firmly.
Mikhail silently turned and left the office. In the reception, the secretary pretended to be very busy, not looking up. But he noticed her cheeks were flushed — she must have heard every word.
In one day, he lost everything he’d built in eight years. All because of his own stupidity.
A few hours later, Mikhail returned to his apartment. His whole body ached from tension, as if he’d carried cement bags all day. A day that started with troubles ended in total disaster. The reality was hard to grasp.
Opening the door, he heard cheerful music. In the hallway, as if nothing happened, stood women’s shoes.
“Misha, you’re home?” Svetlana’s ringing voice echoed through the apartment. “I thought you’d be late!”
Svetlana emerged from the kitchen in a short house dress, a wine glass in hand. A smile lit her face, her long blonde hair loose. Mikhail silently hung up his coat without looking at her.
“What happened? Tired?”
“I’m fired,” Mikhail said dryly, falling into a chair in the living room.
Svetlana froze halfway, the glass halfway to her lips.
“What? Fired? But how… why?” she blinked confused. “You were supposed to sign a contract with… with those, what were they…”
“With Sibkholod?” Mikhail smiled bitterly. “Yes, I was. But Zavtrak-Express intercepted it.”
“So what?” Svetlana shrugged. “There’ll be other contracts.”
Mikhail looked at her like at a stupid chicken.
“You don’t understand. That was a three-billion-ruble contract. For five years. And you know who got it?” He paused. “Angela. My ex-wife, whom I personally kicked out of the company.”
“Angela?” Svetlana frowned slightly. “But… but she was ours. I mean, yours. From Pishcheprom?”
“She’s at Zavtrak-Express now. And apparently doing well,” he sighed. “Pass me that bottle over there.”
He nodded at a half-opened bottle of red wine on the coffee table. Svetlana obediently handed it over, and Mikhail filled a large glass nearly to the brim without ceremony.
“But you’ll get a good severance, right?” she asked hopefully. “And with your experience, you’ll find a new job fast! Maybe even better! We can still go to the Maldives…”
Mikhail slammed the glass on the table, spilling wine.
“Maldives?!” he almost yelled. “What Maldives?! Do you even understand what happened? I was kicked out of the company I worked at for eight years! Now I’m jobless, with a damn mortgage and alimony I’ll pay to Angela!”
“Well, honey, don’t shout,” Svetlana tried to put her hand on his shoulder, but he sharply pushed her away.
“That’s your fault,” he hissed, pointing at her. “You ruined everything! ‘Switch to landline,’ ‘Let’s work together’… Because of you I fired my wife, broke up with her… And what did I get? Total collapse!”
Svetlana stepped back.
“I didn’t ask you for anything! You said your relationship with Angela was over! That you stopped loving her!”
“Idiot!” Mikhail shouted, grabbing the bottle again. “If it weren’t for you, I’d never make such mistakes. Divorce, okay, it happens. But firing… I couldn’t have done it if I weren’t afraid you’d blab and it’d get back to her.”
“So now it’s my fault?” Svetlana’s voice trembled with anger. “Me? Not you, the wimp who secretly ran to his mistress for a year and couldn’t talk to his wife properly?”
“Shut up!” Mikhail jumped up.
“No, you shut up!” Svetlana refused to give in. “You were afraid of your own wife, afraid to tell her the truth. Then, out of fear, you fired her, knowing there was no replacement! Because she was the best, and you’re a pathetic coward!”
“Get out!” Mikhail shouted, pointing to the door. “Go away! I don’t want to see you!”
“Gladly!” Svetlana jumped up. “Just remember: you’ll owe me.”
“Me?!” Mikhail laughed bitterly. “Why? Get lost and don’t come back!”
Svetlana slowly placed her hand on her belly. Her tearful eyes suddenly hardened.
“You’ll owe me for eighteen years,” she said clearly. “Alimony. For our child.”
Mikhail staggered. He stared at Svetlana’s hand on her belly.
“No,” he whispered. “It 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 quickly went to the hallway. Mikhail stood motionless, listening to her hurried footsteps and the door slamming. Then he collapsed back into the chair.
“My God,” he moaned. “What have I done…”
Thoughts raced wildly in his head. Child. Alimony. Unemployed. Plus mortgage. Plus compensation to Angela. Now he’d have to support Svetlana too… He realized he’d have to sell the apartment — there was no other way.
“Idiot,” he muttered, rocking in the chair. “What an idiot I am…”
Only now did he realize how badly he’d ruined his own life. Giving in to his mistress, fearing his ex-wife, and firing her — all his fears turned against himself, burying both family and career.
Meanwhile, in the External Communications department of Zavtrak-Express, there was a lively atmosphere. Three people — Angela and two subordinates — raised champagne glasses celebrating the successful deal.
“To our wonderful boss!” Dmitry, a young specialist with a sly look, proclaimed. “Who works miracles!”
“To the team,” Angela corrected, raising her glass. “I couldn’t have done it alone.”
“You flatter us, Angela Viktorovna,” Olga, her second subordinate, smiled. “You know well that without you this contract would have gone to competitors.”
The office door opened, and Ilya Petrovich appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, just in time!” he exclaimed, seeing the champagne. “Celebrating?”
“Join us, Ilya Petrovich,” Angela offered a clean glass. “We’re just discussing today’s success.”
“And not only today,” the director smiled proudly, taking the glass. “In three months your department overfulfilled the half-year plan. We’ve never had that before!”
He took a sip and continued:
“So I want to announce: bonuses for everyone! External Communications department — double. And special thanks to Angela Viktorovna…”
Dmitry and Olga applauded approvingly. Angela blushed slightly.
“We just do our job well,” she said modestly.
“No,” Ilya Petrovich contradicted. “You do it brilliantly. And you know, I’m not one to throw compliments around.”
He raised his glass:
“To the best negotiation team in Moscow! To you!”
Everyone clinked glasses, and Angela, sipping, thought she was truly happy. Despite all the trials of recent months, despite Mikhail’s betrayal and dismissal, she had not broken. She became stronger, more confident, and more successful.
Life had finally settled.