I stand before the mirror, staring intently at my own reflection.
Elizaveta Andreevna Korablyova, 30 years old, Director of Business Development at a major IT company.
On paper — successful, strong, confident.
Inside — exhaustion. Deep, years-old exhaustion.
But today I’m just Liza.
Liza from an ordinary neighborhood, without gloss, without status.
I take off my expensive Cartier watch — once a symbol of achievement — and hide my diamond ring in a jewelry box.
I put on my sister’s worn jeans, a cheap sweater bought at a supermarket.
My hair goes into a simple ponytail, my face bare.
The image fades. Only the person remains.
Now I’m not a top manager.
I’m a candidate for a secretary position.
“Why do you need this?” my friend Katya asked yesterday. “You’ve got everything: career, money, respect…”
How could I explain?
That I can no longer stand the falseness.
That every step I take is met with smiles that vanish the second I turn around.
That my employees act like model professionals in my presence, but behind my back — gossip, complaints, deception.
I want to see the truth.
The truth about my company. About the people who really keep it alive.
The familiar office smell — coffee, paper, toner — greets me as always.
But today I’m not going up to the 18th floor, where my office overlooks the city.
Today it’s the fifth floor.
By arrangement with Oleg Sergeyevich, the HR director, I’ve come to interview as a job seeker.
He was shocked when I asked for his help, but he agreed.
For the sake of the experiment. Or maybe for my sake.
I walk into Marina Viktorovna’s office.
“Elizaveta Andreevna?” she peers over her glasses.
“Come in, have a seat. Oleg Sergeyevich warned me.”
I sit. Keep my back straight, but not too much.
I try to look like an ordinary person looking for work.
Inside — anxiety.
What if she doesn’t believe me? What if I don’t get the job?
“Do you have any experience as a secretary?”
“A little…” I answer hesitantly. “In a small company.”
“I see. Why did you choose us?”
“Well, the company is big, stable… I’d like to work somewhere reliable.”
Marina nods, makes notes on the résumé — the one I wrote from scratch, inventing a fake past.
She describes the duties, schedule, probation period.
“The salary is 25,000 rubles. Will that work for you?”
Twenty-five thousand. Ridiculous. I spend more than that on lunch.
But I nod: “Yes, that’s fine.”
Monday.
The first day of my new life.
My workplace: a small desk by the door of Sergey Ivanovich, the head of sales.
An old computer, a squeaky chair that protests at every move.
“Liza, make some coffee,” he barks without looking up from his papers.
“Of course.”
I head to the kitchen.
I used to have coffee brought to me. Now I’m the one making it.
I wonder how my assistants felt when I used to ask them for things.
In the kitchen I meet Olya from accounting.
“Hi, new here? What’s your name?”
“Liza.”
“I’m Olya. Don’t worry, people are decent here. If you need anything — call me.”
Warm words. Simple. Sincere.
When was the last time someone spoke to me without pretense, without calculating my rank?
By lunchtime, I already understand: this is a different world.
A world I never existed in before.
Sergey Ivanovich is not the confident leader I see at meetings.
Here he’s nervous, irritable.
He yells at subordinates over trifles, and the moment someone from “upstairs” calls, he turns polite, almost servile.
“Liza! Where’s the contract with Technosphere?!”
“You took it to your office an hour ago…”
“Don’t argue! Find it!”
I stay silent. Go to his office — the document is lying in plain sight. I bring it.
“There, you see — you can do it when you want!” he says smugly, as if it’s his own achievement.
I want to snap: “Now imagine who I really am!”
I want to see his shock.
But I restrain myself. Not yet.
“Let’s go eat,” Olya suggests. “The cafeteria’s good and cheap.”
I’m used to restaurants, delivery to my office.
Now — a cafeteria on the first floor, lines, trays, the smell of stewed cabbage and borscht.
“What do you recommend?”
“Borscht is good today. And the cutlets are fresh. Take the set meal — it’s cheaper.”
250 rubles. Pennies for me.
For Liza — almost 10% of a day’s pay.
At the table — Olya, Sveta, Masha.
Conversations about children, school, rising prices, how money’s never enough even for essentials.
“My son’s starting first grade,” Sveta sighs. “So much to buy, but my salary’s still the same — 30,000.”
“And they cut our bonuses again,” Masha adds. “They said the plan wasn’t met.”
“What plan?” it slips out. “You exceed your targets every month!”
The girls eye me suspiciously.
“How do you know that?” Masha asks.
“Oh… just overheard.”
I almost said too much. Dangerous.
After lunch, the phone rings.
“Sales department, hello.”
“Can I speak to Sergey Ivanovich?”
“He’s in a meeting. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Yes, tell him Mikhail Petrovich called. About the shipment. When will he be free?”
“In about an hour.”
“All right, I’ll call back.”
I jot it down.
Mikhail Petrovich — one of our key clients.
Sergey should have picked up immediately.
But he’s sitting in a meeting about reports that could wait.
Half an hour later, he returns.
“Anything happen?”
“Mikhail Petrovich called. Asked you to call back.”
“When?!” he jumps up.
“Half an hour ago…”
“Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“You asked not to be disturbed in the meeting…”
He grabs the phone. Busy signal.
“Busy again! Because of you I’ll lose a client!”
I want to say: “He’ll call back. Don’t panic.”
But I stay silent. Just watch.
And suddenly I realize.
Sergey Ivanovich isn’t just rude — he’s scared.
Scared of losing a client, scared of failure, scared of the bosses, of getting fired, of his life collapsing.
He’s not evil — he’s trapped. Like so many others here.
I stop seeing him as an irritating boss.
I start seeing him as a human being caught between a hammer and anvil.
And I almost pity him.
Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday.
Each day strips another mask off the company’s face.
I see Olya still at her desk at 9 p.m. when everyone else is gone.
Not because she wants to be — but because they dumped the work of three people on her, and her bonus still got cut “for budget reasons.”
I see Sveta hiding in the bathroom, wiping tears after an angry client screamed at her for 20 minutes.
It wasn’t her fault — it was a warehouse error.
But they yelled at her.
I see Masha bringing a thermos of tea every day — not because she dislikes coffee, but because it costs 50 rubles from the machine.
She has two kids. Every ruble counts.
“Liza, where are you from?” Olya asks over lunch on Friday.
“Avtozavodskaya…”
“That’s far, isn’t it?”
“It’s fine. Just over an hour.”
I lie without thinking — I’m so used to my real life.
I live 10 minutes from the office.
I have a driver.
I have a parking spot marked “Executive.”
And these people spend hours in packed metro cars just to earn a salary barely enough for rent and food.
“What did you do before this?” Olya asks.
“Oh… worked here and there.”
“And how long have you been here?”
“I’ve been four years,” Olya says. “Sveta — three. Masha — seven.”
“And how is it? You satisfied?”
The girls exchange glances. Silence.
“Well, work is work,” Sveta finally says cautiously. “But the management… Up there… They don’t understand how we live.”
“In what way?”
“Well, for example, recently some director came by. Development, I think. Korablyova. Cold as ice. Walked through, looked at us like we were furniture, and left.”
My heart stops. I hear my own name. My former “self.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” I ask, trying to sound calm.
“Everything’s wrong!” Sveta bursts out. “They sit in their offices with panoramic windows, make insane money, and we get crumbs. And they demand ‘high engagement’ and ‘enthusiasm’ on top of it!”
Each word hits like a blow.
“And they just raised their own salaries by 30%,” Masha adds. “And for us — ‘crisis, wait, be patient.’”
“How do you know?” I ask quietly.
“Lenka from HR let it slip. By accident, of course. But we calculated… One of their monthly salaries is almost our annual pay.”
I can’t speak.
I feel ashamed. Not for the company.
For myself.
Friday evening.
Sergey Ivanovich yells into the phone as usual, then suddenly switches to a fawning tone when someone “above” calls.
“Liza! Stay an hour late. Need these papers sorted.”
I stay. The office is silent.
Only Aunt Valya, the cleaning lady, slowly mops the floor, humming an old tune.
I sit sorting papers and suddenly remember.
A month ago I denied the sales department a bonus — “need to optimize expenses.”
The next day I bought myself a new car.
Six months ago I fired Kira from accounting for three tardies.
Never asked why. Never wondered if she was sick.
I didn’t care.
“Sweetheart, why so sad?” Aunt Valya asks.
“Just… tired.”
“Tired…” she sighs. “So young, already tired. You know what?”
She takes an old candy from her pocket, wrapped in crinkled paper.
“Here. Sugar perks you up. Warms the soul too.”
I take the candy. Unwrap it. Put it in my mouth.
Sweet. Overwhelmingly sweet.
And suddenly I cry. Silently. Without a sound.
“Thank you, Aunt Valya.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. We all support each other here. Management doesn’t care about us — so at least we’ll be human ourselves.”
And in that moment I understand.
All these years I wasn’t building a company.
I was building an illusion.
Efficiency, profit, growth — it all looked great.
But it was empty.
Because I forgot about people.
The ones who come here every day, not for bonuses, but for their kids, for bread, for a chance to breathe.
I wasn’t a leader.
I was part of the machine that crushes people.
Monday. The next week.
I walk into Marina Viktorovna’s office.
“Marina Viktorovna, I’m quitting.”
“What? You’ve only worked here a week…”
“I found another job. A better one.”
Not entirely true. But not a lie either.
Because the new job — is me.
The person I should have been all along.
Marina shrugs, processes the paperwork.
Wednesday.
I stand before the mirror at home.
Hair neatly styled.
Makeup restrained.
Formal suit.
Diamonds. Watch.
I’m Elizaveta Andreevna Korablyova again.
Director of Business Development.
But inside — someone different.
Not the same as a week ago.
I arrive at the office.
Take the elevator to the 18th floor.
Enter my office.
“Anna Petrovna,” I tell my secretary, “gather all the department heads for a meeting. In an hour.”
She nods. Calls go out.
The meeting.
I sit at the head of the table.
Everything looks the same.
But I look at these people differently now.
Sergey Ivanovich nervously adjusts his tie, sensing an oncoming storm.
“I have a serious talk with you,” I begin. “About people. About fairness. About what it means to be a company, not just a money-making machine.”
Silence. Everyone freezes.
“Starting tomorrow, salaries for all employees — without exception — increase by 30%,” I say calmly.
Shock. Someone drops a pen. Someone coughs.
“And for the management,” I continue, “salaries will be cut by 20%. We’ll make up the difference that way.”
“Elizaveta Andreevna,” the CFO ventures timidly, “but the budget…”
“The budget will handle it,” I interrupt. “If it doesn’t — we’ll cut luxury corporate parties, company cars, and ‘representational expenses’ at five-star restaurants.”
I look at Sergey Ivanovich. He pales.
“Sergey Ivanovich, how’s your department doing?”
“Everything… fine…”
“And with Mikhail Petrovich? Did you sort out the shipment issue?”
“How did you… how do you know?!”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is your staff is doing excellent work. And you yell at them. That stops. Now.”
A long, heavy pause.
“And one more thing,” I add.
“I’m canceling all fines for tardiness. Let people arrive when they can. What matters is results. And respect.”
The meeting ends. People leave.
Some in shock, some puzzled, some — hopeful.
In the evening I go down to the fifth floor.
Into accounting.
“Olya, can we talk?”
“Of course…” she’s bewildered.
“My name is Elizaveta Andreevna Korablyova. I’m the Director of Business Development.”
She turns pale, grabs the edge of the desk.
“Don’t be afraid,” I say. “I’m not here to check on you. I came to say thank you. And sorry.”
“For what?”
“For being honest. For showing me who I really was. For the lesson in humanity.”
I sit on that same squeaky chair where I sat as Liza.
“I didn’t come here for reports. I came to see the truth. And it turned out heavier than I expected.”
Olya is silent. Her eyes fill with tears.
“And now,” I say, “everything will change. I promise.”
I get up. At the door, I turn back.
“And Olya… thank you for the coffee. For the kindness. For the candy. I won’t forget it.”
Home.
I sit in the kitchen.
Drink tea. Ordinary tea. From a bag.
No rituals, no luxury.
I think.
Not about profit.
Not about strategies.
About people.
The company hasn’t changed in these days.
I have.
I’ve learned the main thing: people are not “personnel.” Not “expenses.” Not “resources.”
They are the meaning.
Each with their own pain, their own struggle, their own dream.
And my job is not to squeeze the maximum out of them.
But to create conditions where they can breathe. Work with dignity. Live.
Where Aunt Valya won’t have to share her last candy because someone feels bad.
Where Sveta won’t cry in the bathroom, afraid of another client’s scream.
Where Olya won’t stay late into the night because “it’s urgent.”
Tomorrow I begin a new life.
Not as a director.
As a human.
And Liza — that same simple, poor, real Liza — will stay with me.
Because she wasn’t a mask.
She was my real face.
The one I was always meant to have.