The solid vault of the sky split open, pouring endless streams of cold, piercing rain down onto the earth. The monotonous drumming of heavy drops on the roof of the old car blended with the quick, anxious rhythm of her own heart. Margarita was gripping the steering wheel with damp, almost numb hands, trying to find at least a trace of confidence in this gesture. And there it was in front of her, towering above everything.
A twenty-story glass colossus, polished to a mirror shine. “Phoenix-Consolidate.” Artem’s brainchild. And now, according to the thick folder of documents lying on the passenger seat, her property.
More than half a year had passed since the day the earth swallowed the coffin with the body of the dearest person in the world. Six months during which lawyers kept calling the home phone, politely but insistently repeating: “Margarita Semenovna, it is necessary for you to take an active role in matters of inheritance, to get acquainted with the company’s business processes.” And she kept waving them off, blaming her grief, a constant migraine, anything at all, just so she wouldn’t have to cross that invisible line separating her old, familiar world from this new, terrifying one. At forty-eight, she was “Rita,” a loving wife, keeper of the hearth, guardian of family traditions. She was not an “owner,” much less the “mistress” of such a giant.
But today she had finally found the courage. She had persuaded herself that she would simply drive up, look at it from the outside. Like a random passerby who happens to glance at someone else’s wealth. However, once she arrived, she unexpectedly turned into the elite parking lot reserved for top management. She was driving her “Orbita,” the small, life-worn little car Artem used to affectionately call by name. He had constantly tried to convince her to switch to the luxurious “Atlant” gathering dust in the garage, but she could never bring herself to do it. That big, dark car felt like a part of him. And this one, the color of summer sky, was her faithful companion.
Her gaze fell on a perfectly empty spot right by the main entrance. Convenient, spacious. She didn’t notice any special signs or warnings. With trembling hands, checking the mirrors three times over, she barely managed to park. She turned off the engine. And just sat there, trying to steady the trembling inside and catch her breath. “I’ll just go up. Look at his office. Stand there for a minute. And leave. Just one minute.”
At that very moment, a huge, night-dark Titan SUV screeched to a halt beside her, brakes roaring. A man shot out from it like a bullet. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a perfectly tailored coat, his face twisted by a fit of rage. Margarita had caught a glimpse of him at the memorial service. Stanislav Viktorovich. The executive director. Her late husband’s right hand.
He was apparently running late and furious about it. His gaze fell on her modest car, occupying the very spot where he was used to leaving his monstrous vehicle. His face, usually cold and arrogant, contorted in a grimace of disdain. He didn’t recognize her. He didn’t see the widow of the company’s founder. He saw a cleaner. A nobody who had dared disturb his peace.
He strode up to her door and slammed his palm against the window so hard the whole car shook. Margarita instinctively shrank back into the seat, her heart stopping in her chest.
“Hey, you! Gone blind or what, you useless hen?”
With trembling, disobedient fingers, Margarita found the button and lowered the window. A gust of icy wind and rain rushed into the car, stinging her face.
“I… I’m sorry… I didn’t know…”
“What do you mean, ‘you didn’t know’?” he went on, his voice like grinding metal. He smelled of expensive cologne and uncontrolled rage. “Where do you think you’ve parked this junk heap? This is parking for top executives! For people who decide fates, not for paupers in rust buckets!”
He leaned in so close that his breath, smelling of coffee, mixed with the cold air.
“I’ll leave right away, I just…”
“She’ll forgive me, will she!” he snorted venomously, his laughter sounding like mockery. “Because of people like you everything’s going to hell! Don’t know the rules but still poke your nose where you don’t belong!”
And then, at the height of his fury, wanting to utterly humiliate and crush her, he lashed out and kicked her front wheel with all the force of his expensive, polished-to-a-shine shoe. The car rocked with a dull, pitiful thud.
“Your wreck doesn’t belong here!” he roared, and his words stabbed into her like blades. “Get this piece of scrap the hell out of here! Right now! Over there, behind the barrier, with the rest of the junk! And don’t you ever show your face here again!”
He turned away without so much as another glance and, brushing imaginary dirt off his shoe in disgust, strode confidently toward the massive revolving doors.
Margarita sat there, unable to move. The whole world had shrunk to the blurry smear behind the windshield, the dent on the fender, and the throbbing pain deep inside, the pain of unbearable humiliation. She had just been thrown out like an annoying puppy. Thrown off the property that, by law, belonged to her.
Her hands refused to obey. The key in the ignition, the one she had turned thousands of times, felt foreign, unresponsive. Her fingers were stiff, alien, lifeless. In the huge glass doors she saw her own reflection—miserable, frightened. The security guard at the post, the young guy Artem had once hired, was watching her. He wasn’t laughing. He was looking at her with that expression of pity that humiliates far more than the cruelest mockery.
At last she managed to start the engine. The old motor coughed and rattled. To the triumphant roar of the Titan, which Stanislav Viktorovich proudly parked in the freshly vacated spot, Margarita slowly drove out of the lot. She passed the guard post without raising her eyes. Her cheeks were burning as if she had really been slapped.
She reached the nearest intersection, turned into the first quiet courtyard she saw, and turned off the engine. Only then, in the dead silence of the car, did it all come crashing down on her.
She started to shake. Not a slight tremor, but a real convulsive storm, twisting her insides. She leaned back in the seat, trying to breathe, but a heavy, icy lump clogged her throat. In her ears his voice rang on and on: “Hen!”, “Pauper!”, “Wreck!” And that sound. That dull, sickening thud of his shoe against the metal. The blow to her fender. To her life.
“Your wreck doesn’t belong here.”
She sat and stared at a single point, at the wet, peeling garage wall covered in meaningless graffiti. And all she had wanted was… She had only hoped to touch it. To understand. For half a year she had been like a small frightened animal, sitting in her huge, empty house and afraid. Afraid of that glass colossus. Afraid of the people inside its walls. Afraid of Stanislav.
She knew he was a predator. Artem himself had once spoken of him over an evening cup of tea, with a crooked smile.
“That Stas of mine is a real beast. He knows no mercy. Tough, ambitious, unscrupulous. But, damn it, he knows how to get results. Still, he has to be kept on a very short leash. A guy like that—give him an inch,” Artem had snapped his fingers then, “and he’ll swallow everything in his path. You, and the company.”
She had just nodded then, refilling his cup with hot water. She hadn’t dug into the details. Artem had “shielded” her from the harsh realities of business.
Another evening surfaced in her memory, many years earlier. Inspired by a book she’d read, she had shyly shared with him an idea about implementing environmental standards, about support programs for rank-and-file employees. Artem had listened, smiling his broad, kind, loving smile. Then he had taken her hand in his big, warm palms and gently kissed her knuckles.
“Ritochka, my joy. Don’t clutter that bright head of yours with these problems. It’s all just fuss, numbers, a battle of wolves. I work day and night exactly so you can enjoy life, think about your flowers in the garden, about our evenings. You are my quiet harbor. And all this—” he waved toward the briefcase of documents, “I’ll handle it. I’ll sort everything out.”
He had loved her. Boundlessly. And with that very love he had built a strong, golden cage around her. He hadn’t believed in her strength. He had simply wanted her to be happy. And she had been. As “Rita.”
Then he was gone. And she was left alone. Not “Rita,” but “Margarita Semenovna.”
She saw again the lawyer’s office. A week after the funeral. She, small, lost, in a black headscarf. And the calm, measured voice of Gennady Pavlovich, an old friend of the family.
“Margarita Semenovna. Artem Igorevich left you all of his property.”
“What… what do you mean, ‘all’? The apartment? The dacha?”
“All of it. One hundred percent of the shares of Phoenix-Consolidate. The entire business. Without any conditions. You are the sole owner.”
Then real horror had seized her.
“I won’t manage! I don’t understand anything about this! Gennady Pavlovich, sell all of it, I beg you!”
The lawyer had looked at her then with a long, searching gaze. Not with indulgence, like Artem. But with expectation.
“He believed in you, Margarita Semenovna. He would not have handed over the reins to anyone else if he hadn’t been sure about you. Don’t rush your decisions. Don’t betray his trust.”
“Don’t betray his trust.”
And what had she done today? She had come slinking in, like a thief, in her old car, and allowed the very first… no, not the first. The most important hired predator. The one whom, according to her husband, had to be kept “on a short leash.” She had allowed him to humiliate her, insult her, kick her car like a stray dog.
She looked into the rearview mirror. A tear-stained, confused woman with gray at her temples stared back at her. “Hen.”
And at that very moment, deep in her despairing soul, something clicked. Turned over. The humiliation she had just endured was so all-consuming, so absolute, that it burned out every trace of fear. She had hit rock bottom. There was nowhere lower to fall.
The anger that rose from the depths of her being was not the hysterics of “Rita.” It was the cold, crystal-clear, righteous fury of Margarita Semenovna.
This man. He hadn’t just insulted her. He had insulted Artem’s wife. He had insulted the owner of the company, the mistress of this entire building. He, a hired manager, had fancied himself master of the situation. He had decided that he was Phoenix-Consolidate.
She was sitting in her “wreck.” In her last refuge. And this man had dared to kick it.
Her tears dried at once. Her back straightened on its own. The trembling in her hands faded, replaced by a steely, unshakable resolve.
She pulled her phone from her purse. Found the two numbers her lawyer had once given her “for emergencies.”
The first call.
“Gennady Pavlovich? Good afternoon. This is Margarita Semenovna Orlova. Yes. Thank you, I’m all right. I need you to be at the Phoenix-Consolidate office in thirty minutes. With the full set of documents confirming my ownership rights. And please call the head of security as well. Yes. Without delay.”
She hung up.
The second call.
“Security service, hello.”
“Hello. Put me through to the head of security, Pyotr Vasilyevich, please. Tell him it’s Margarita Semenovna Orlova calling.”
A pause. Pyotr Vasilyevich had been Artem’s old army buddy. He’d always known her as “Rita.”
“Margarita Semenovna? Has something happened?” there was clear concern in his voice.
“Yes, Pyotr Vasilyevich. Something has happened. I’ll be driving up to the main entrance shortly. Please meet me there. And disable access to the executive elevator for everyone except me. Yes. Immediately.”
She turned the key in the ignition. The car started obediently. She switched on the wipers automatically. Her gaze fell on the dent from his shoe on the fender.
“Your wreck doesn’t belong here?”
She turned the car around and drove back. Not to the general parking lot. Straight to the foot of the glass giant, to its main entrance.
She didn’t even try to park properly. She pulled right up to the main entrance, under the awning itself, to the spot reserved only for vehicles of the highest VIPs. Her little blue Orbita looked like a brazen challenge against the backdrop of polished granite and gleaming glass.
She had barely turned off the engine when the driver’s door was opened by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark business suit. Pyotr Vasilyevich. The head of security. His face was a stone mask, but his eyes were tense and attentive.
“Margarita Semenovna. I’ve been expecting you,” he said, offering her his hand to help her out.
The guard at the entrance—the same young man who half an hour earlier had looked at her with pity—snapped to attention. His eyes widened in shock. He seemed to stop breathing.
“My car,” Margarita nodded toward the Orbita, “please move it to the spot where the black Titan is now.”
“But, Margarita Semenovna, that spot is…”
“That spot belongs to the owner of the company,” she said clearly and coolly, looking straight at Pyotr Vasilyevich. “The Titan is to be towed. To the impound lot.”
“Understood,” he nodded briefly and quietly gave a command into his radio.
He escorted her past the stunned guard to a discreet steel door hidden in the wall beside the main lobby. He tapped his keycard, and a section of the wall slid aside without a sound, revealing an elevator car paneled with rare woods.
“Gennady Pavlovich is waiting for you upstairs,” he said as he stepped in after her. “In Artem Igorevich’s office.”
“In my office,” she corrected automatically.
Pyotr Vasilyevich shot her a quick look. There was a spark of understanding and approval in his eyes.
The elevator moved silently and swiftly. Margarita looked at her reflection in the polished steel doors. The same woman in a plain, almost shabby coat stared back, but her eyes… her eyes were completely different. They were dry, cold, and filled with unwavering determination.
The doors opened directly into a spacious, luxuriously appointed reception area. Stanislav’s secretary, a young woman in an ultra-fashionable but wildly inappropriate dress for an office, jumped to her feet, knocking over an elegant coffee cup.
“Who… who are you? You can’t be here! How did you…”
“Pyotr Vasilyevich,” Margarita said calmly, “please take care of this.”
The head of security silently stepped between her and the secretary. Margarita walked past, pushing open the massive double doors of red wood.
The office.
It still held his scent. A faint trail of expensive tobacco, his favorite cologne, and old leather armchair. But it was no longer his office.
Stanislav had already begun remaking it to suit himself. Artem’s massive, solid desk was gone. In its place stood an ultramodern but soulless construction of glass and steel. From the walls, where once hung peaceful landscapes she herself had chosen, loud posters with meaningless slogans now stared down at her: “Win!”, “Leadership!”, “Money!”
This was the last straw. It was a desecration of memory. He hadn’t just taken the office. He had begun erasing the very soul of this place.
In the corner, pale and serious, stood the lawyer, Gennady Pavlovich. He nodded silently to her, his gaze full of concern and question.
Margarita crossed the office without a word. She walked up to the huge panoramic window overlooking the city Artem had always said he was “building.” She saw the tow truck carefully hooking the black Titan by its wheels below. Good.
She turned around. Took a few steps and sat down. Not in a guest chair. She sat in the big, comfortable leather armchair of the head of the company. The very one Artem had loved so much, and which, fortunately, Stanislav hadn’t yet managed to throw out.
She placed her palms on the armrests. And for the first time in those long, empty six months, she didn’t feel like a guest, like a random visitor. She felt at home.
Gennady Pavlovich approached and laid a thick folder in front of her.
“Margarita Semenovna, here are all the necessary documents. The order appointing you as chair of the board, the minutes…”
“Thank you.” She didn’t even glance at the folder. She already knew what was in it. “Summon everyone.”
She pressed the button of the built-in intercom on the massive console.
“Everyone whom?” the lawyer asked, not understanding.
“All the board members. The financial director. The executive director. Everyone who is on this floor. Right now.”
“Margarita Semenovna, at the moment, Stanislav Viktorovich is conducting an important operational meeting…”
“Then he’ll have to interrupt it,” her voice was even and allowed no objections.
Gennady Pavlovich shrugged slightly and began quickly dialing numbers on his phone.
The first to enter the office, about five minutes later, were the board members. Several men and women of respectable age. They recognized Margarita, they had seen her at the funeral. They stared at her with undisguised astonishment, seeing her seated in the boss’s chair. They sank silently into the seats along the long conference table like chastised schoolchildren.
Another couple of minutes passed. The door crashed open, slamming against the wall.
Stanislav stormed into the room. Flaming with rage, his face flushed dark red. He paid no attention to the others. His gaze was locked on her. On the woman in an unfashionable coat, sitting in what he considered his chair.
He didn’t recognize her. He didn’t connect the “hen” from the parking lot with this woman. He saw only an insolent impostor who had dared interrupt him and usurp his power.
“Who are you?” he bellowed, stepping toward the desk. “What’s going on here? How did they even let you in?! Gennady Pavlovich, what kind of circus is this?!”
Stanislav Viktorovich froze. For a moment, his furious face showed pure bewilderment, then it began to twist with anger again.
“What the…” he started, but was cut off by the calm, authoritative voice of the lawyer.
“Stanislav Viktorovich, I strongly recommend that you calm down and watch your language,” the lawyer said, stepping between him and Margarita.
“‘Calm down’?” he exploded, finally losing all self-control. “And who is she that I should calm down in front of her?! A cleaning lady? Some stray relative?!”
“Allow me to introduce,” Gennady Pavlovich raised his voice, and steel rang in it, “Margarita Semenovna Orlova. The sole and one-hundred-percent owner of Phoenix-Consolidate. And, as of today, its new Chair of the Board.”
A dead, deafening silence fell over the office. The howl of the wind outside the window could be heard.
Stanislav was petrified. His mind desperately tried to piece the puzzle together. “Orlova… Margarita Semenovna…” The name. The wife. That very “Rita,” the “quiet widow,” the “plain mouse” he had never bothered to notice. The “simpleton” whose shares he had been planning to buy out for a song.
He shifted his gaze from the lawyer to the woman in the chair.
He looked at her closely. Not at the modest coat. Into her eyes.
And then he recognized her.
He recognized this woman. The one with the calm, icy gaze. It was the same “hen” from the “wreck.” The one he had insulted on the parking lot an hour ago. The one whose car he had kicked with his shoe.
Stanislav’s face twisted into a mask of absolute, animal terror. It wasn’t just fear—it was the realization of an inevitable catastrophe, a career collapse brought on by his own stupidity.
The blood drained from his face; he turned deathly pale.
“Margarita… Semenovna…” he croaked. The sound was like a dying wheeze. “Good Lord… I…”
He took a step forward, trying to turn on his legendary charm, which had always helped him wriggle out of the toughest situations. But the smile that came out was pitiful and fake.
“I… I just… I didn’t recognize you!” he babbled, gazing at her pleadingly. “This… this was a terrible mistake! I… there, in the parking lot… Margarita Semenovna, I was beside myself! A multimillion-dollar deal had just fallen through, I was on edge, I…”
The board members at the table held their breath, afraid to even move. They were witnessing their all-powerful, fearsome leader reduced to a pitiful, humiliated supplicant.
“I have always had boundless respect for Artem Igorevich!” Stanislav went on, his voice breaking into a strained falsetto. “And for you! I have always…”
“That’s enough, Stanislav Viktorovich,” Margarita’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper. But in the sepulchral silence of the office it sounded like a sentence.
He fell silent. Instantly.
Margarita slowly rose from behind the desk. She walked back to the panoramic window. Her back was straight as a rod.
“I came to this tower today,” she said, looking out over the sprawling city Artem had said he was ‘building,’ “to understand what my husband left me. I was afraid. I thought I was just ‘Rita,’ who doesn’t understand ‘the fuss and the numbers.’ I thought that the ‘wolves’ ruled here, as Artem used to say.”
She turned. And fixed her gaze squarely on Stanislav.
“And instead, I met you. I saw a man who imagined himself master while being nothing more than a hired employee.”
She took a step toward him. He recoiled instinctively.
“I saw a man who decides who ‘belongs here’ and who doesn’t. A man who allows himself to shout at a stranger and kick someone else’s property, excusing himself with a ‘failed deal.’”
She walked over to her desk—to this soulless glass creation.
“My husband told me,” her voice turned as cold as steel, “that you needed constant oversight or you would ‘devour’ the company. But he was wrong. You’re not a wolf, Stanislav. You just confuse strength with crudeness. You confuse leadership with humiliation.”
Her gaze swept over the board members, who didn’t dare raise their eyes to her.
“You betrayed his trust. You—” she flicked a finger at the glass tabletop— “started refitting his office like a looter, not even waiting for the mourning period to pass. You decided that his death was your big moment.”
She returned to her chair.
“I assume the position of Chair of the Board of Phoenix-Consolidate from this very minute. And my first decision is…”
She looked at Stanislav with cold, indifferent contempt.
“Your contract is terminated. As of today. Due to the loss of the owner’s trust.”
“But… Margarita Semenovna!” he pleaded. “Labor law! You have no right! Severance pay!…”
“Gennady Pavlovich,” Margarita turned to the lawyer. “Pay him everything due to him by law. To the last penny. And call security.”
“Already here,” came the calm voice of Pyotr Vasilyevich. The head of security was standing in the doorway.
“Escort,” Margarita nodded, “the gentleman… the former executive director… out of the building. Make sure he collects his personal belongings and never appears on these premises again.”
Realizing it was over, Stanislav deflated. He no longer shouted or begged. He just stood there, crushed, destroyed, in his flawless suit, which suddenly seemed too big for him.
When the door closed behind him, Margarita glanced at the wall clock.
“‘Your wreck doesn’t belong here!’ he shouted, kicking my car. And an hour later I fired him, taking the owner’s chair.”
She sank into the armchair. It was large, but surprisingly comfortable. She looked at the motionless board members.
“And now, gentlemen,” her voice sounded for the first time soft and businesslike, “tell me, please. What kind of deal was it that he lost?”
Beautiful ending:
Many months have passed since then. The glass tower of Phoenix-Consolidate no longer seemed to Margarita a strange and frightening monster. It had become her fortress, her legacy—something she had learned not only to protect, but to grow. She did not try to copy Artem’s style or imitate Stanislav’s harshness. She brought in her own manner: thoughtful, deliberate, distinctly feminine. Those very ideas of “green logistics” and social programs that had once only made Artem smile indulgently were now slowly being put into practice, bringing the company not only profit but also respect.
Her blue Orbita remained her faithful companion. It stood in that very same best parking spot, and no one ever dared to question its right to be there. Sometimes, walking past, Margarita would run her hand over the barely visible dent on the fender. It was not a scar of humiliation but a reminder. A reminder of the day when “Rita” forever yielded her place to Margarita Semenovna. The day she realized that a person’s true place is determined not by the price of their car, but by the strength of their spirit and their ability to rise after the hardest blow. And her quiet harbor had expanded into a whole ocean of possibilities, where she was no longer a guest but the captain of her own ship