“Well, well. Lera.” German stopped at the doorway and smirked. “So, fetch the director, not the secretary. I have an eleven o’clock.”
I stood by the desk with his resume printouts. My ex-husband looked around the office, at me, at the papers in my hands, and then walked to the visitor’s chair as if everything already belonged to him.
“And make me some coffee while we wait. Black, two sugars. You remember.”
Oh, I remembered. Fourteen years listed as a secretary at his company, and making coffee was the easiest part of that job.
In 2005, German started a wholesale household goods business and asked me to ‘just answer the phone.’ I agreed. I already had ten years in merchandising and knew suppliers from Perm to Chelyabinsk. So yes, I answered the phone, but I was actually taking orders, hunting down products, persuading debtors, and handling every client from small kiosks to big chains. My employment record just said ‘secretary.’ On the payroll, by the end, was fifteen thousand.
Why did I put up with it? All the money went into one pool: first the mortgage, then our daughter’s university tuition. “The company is for the family,” my husband said. “Why do you need a title?” I left in 2019, after both debts were paid.
And now here he was, sitting in my office, waiting for his coffee.
I knew he was coming since Friday. Yana, our HR manager, had brought me the resumes of the three finalists for Head of Sales. The third one was Kudryavtsev German Nikolayevich, fifty-seven years old. I couldn’t cross him off the list in advance. That would have been a “female, emotional decision,” just like he always claimed I would make. No way. I only warned Yana that I knew the candidate personally, so we’d stick strictly to our prepared questions, and she would do all the scoring.
But German didn’t know a thing. His invitation just said “Interview with the General Director,” no names. On the company website, Boris Arkadyevich’s photo was still up, even though the owner had transferred him to launch the second facility in Tyumen back in August. No one had gotten around to updating it. In the seven years since our divorce, my ex-husband never once asked where I worked. At some point, our daughter told him, “Mom’s at the factory, in the office.” That was enough for him.
“Lera, are you deaf?” He tugged at his tie knot. “Coffee. And hurry your boss up, I’ve got places to be.”
The open window carried in warm smells of cardboard and starchy glue from the shop floor, with the corrugator humming below. German wore the same cologne he used twenty years ago. My mouth went dry, just like it always did when he spoke to me in that tone.
The team gave me the nameplate as a gift in August, the day I was promoted. I kept it facing me: visitors already knew who they were seeing, but I was still getting used to it myself.
I nudged the stack of papers by a centimeter to straighten it, then picked up the nameplate by its cold metal stand and turned it towards him.
“General Director. Belozyorova Valeria Pavlovna.”
He read it. The smirk was still on his face, but his eyes ran over the words again.
“Belozyorova?” he repeated. “Did you go back to your maiden name? Wait. Whose office is this?”
“Mine.” I walked around the desk and sat in my chair. “Please, have a seat, German Nikolayevich. I’m the one running this interview.”
Had I ever imagined this moment? Honestly, not once — I was always too busy.
The door opened, and Yana walked in holding her tablet.
“Valeria Pavlovna, the evaluation sheets are ready. Shall we begin?”
German tugged at his cuffs and immediately sat up straight. For forty minutes, we went through the list just as we did with the other two. When asked about a client leaving for a competitor because of delivery times, he said, “I’ll give a discount and they’ll come back.” Yana took notes.
“Your resume states that you personally built a database of 140 clients and managed the key accounts,” I said. “Name the top three. Who was the buyer, what did they buy, and what was the monthly amount?”
“That’s a commercial secret,” he replied quickly. “Besides, I didn’t deal with such small stuff. I had people for that.”
“People,” I repeated, placing my pen parallel to the edge of the sheet. “I see. You’ll hear our decision by Friday.”
Once he left, Yana glanced at me over her tablet.
“Who is he to you?”
“Ex-husband. That’s why you do the scoring, not me.”
“For the case study, two points out of ten,” she said. “The others scored eight and seven.”
I was alone. My blouse was stuck to my back, but inside, for the first time in years, everything was very quiet. I realized he never got his coffee. And I was happier about that than about having my name on the door.
My happiness only lasted a single day. On Wednesday morning, Yana brought the reference responses from his previous jobs—and that evening, German was waiting for me outside the entrance.
***
Yana checks references for all finalists: the candidates themselves agree to this when they sign the application. By ten in the morning, I had three sheets on my desk.
In the trading company where, according to his resume, German had worked for two years, he actually lasted eight months and left without meeting his targets. At the next job, he didn’t pass the probation period. And his own company shut down in 2023, four years after I left.
Reading further through his resume, I kept seeing my own life. ‘Personally built relationships with suppliers.’ ‘Implemented a request tracking system.’ I drew up that spreadsheet at night when Eva was asleep. He never took my money. But he erased me from my own years, line by line.
That evening he was waiting by the gate. He walked behind me toward the car. It was drizzling, the damp pallets by the warehouse smelled of wet cardboard, and the light above the gate flickered. German walked without an umbrella, smoothing down the hair on the back of his head.
“Lera, let’s handle this as family,” he began. “I really need this job. I haven’t had money for three months, I have 1.4 million in loans. I’ve sent out thirty applications—this is the only place that called back. Hire me, and not as head of department, but right away as commercial director. 250 thousand take-home.”
“There’s only one position, the salary is 180. And you didn’t pass the interview.”
“Don’t be stupid.” He stepped closer. “You owe me. I took you out of being a storekeeper and made you into somebody. You’ve been comfortable with me since ’05!”
Comfortable. I instantly remembered 2015, when I asked to be made deputy. He laughed: “A secretary as a deputy? The clients will laugh!” And 2017, when I went for an interview at another company. German found out and made a huge scene in the yard, with the neighbors watching. He always knew how to shout in public: he knew I’d back down, just so people wouldn’t stare. And I did.
And in the spring of 2019, he hired a ‘development deputy,’ a 27-year-old girl, for sixty thousand. Four times my salary! And ordered me to train her. A month later, we divorced.
“You snatched my apartment,” he went on. “You took the client database. Do you think I didn’t realize why everyone ran from me?”
“The apartment is mine, as agreed at the notary. You kept the business and the car, that was your choice. ‘Take your walls, the business is mine.’ Remember?”
He remembered. He straightened his cuffs and immediately spoke more quietly, almost gently:
“Alright then. Either you hire me, or I go to your boss. I’ll tell him his director used to be a secretary. And that she takes client databases with her when she leaves jobs. He’s a man, he’ll understand. You can put up three spreadsheets for all I care—secretary is what you were, secretary is what you’ll always be.”
The car keys dug into my palm, a cold raindrop slipped down my collar. What if the owner believes him? I’ve only been director for two months. Before, this would be the moment I’d start trying to explain myself, and German probably already expected to hear my guilty voice.
“German Nikolaevich,” I said. “There are three things in your resume that aren’t true. Two years at a trade company turned out to be just eight months. You didn’t pass your probation period at your last job. And you couldn’t name the three key clients of your own company. That’s all noted in the HR file—not just in my head.”
“Were you digging up dirt on me?”
“This is just a standard background check. You signed the form yourself.”
I opened the car door and looked back at him.
“You should go see Lev Yakovlevich. He takes appointments on Mondays. But start by asking who put together this database.”
He stood silently in the rain, then turned around and walked toward the gates. For the first time, I watched him walk away from me—instead of the other way around.
I sat in the car for a long time without starting the engine. My fingers were ice-cold on the steering wheel, my cheeks were burning. Did I really just say all that?
At home, I pulled down a box of paperwork from 2019 off the top shelf. Old secretary habits: always hand everything over and sign off when leaving a job. The handover report was third from the top, and at the bottom it read: “Client database. Received, no complaints. Kudryavtsev.” I smoothed the paper and put it in my bag. All right. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Yana to put it all together in one folder: the report, the evaluations, and the answers from his work.
I thought I was ready for anything. But on Thursday, he didn’t go to the owner. At 5 p.m., right at the end of the shift, he showed up again at the security checkpoint.
***
At five, we have a shift change. About forty people go back and forth through the turnstile, passes beeping, and there’s a forklift honking outside the gates. I was heading down the stairs with the production manager when I heard my name—even from the staircase.
“There she is, your Valeria Pavlovna!” German was standing by the turnstile in an open trench coat, speaking loudly in the lobby. “Do you even know who’s really in charge here? She used to bring me coffee! Answered phones! She was just a secretary!”
People stopped. The cutter from the second shift was frozen with his pass in hand, two packers exchanged glances, someone in the back snickered. More workers came from the smoking area, bringing the smell of tobacco and wet jackets. A guy by the wall had already pulled out his phone to record.
“Ask her what kind of degree she has!” German kept going. “She finished trade school, that’s all the education she’s got! I kept her out of kindness, and now she sets your salaries. Isn’t that a joke, guys?”
Heat rose from my neck to my ears. For twenty-five years, I knew just what to do in these moments: take his elbow, pull him aside, promise anything, just to make him stop. My legs almost moved on their own. But what then? Tomorrow he’d come back, and the next day, and keep coming as long as I paid for his silence.
Suddenly, he turned to a young packer and winked:
“Don’t be shy, darling. Ask her nicely, she’ll bring you coffee too.”
The girl blushed and looked down. That I couldn’t bear: he was doing to her what he’d done to me for years.
I stopped in the middle of the lobby. I didn’t come any closer, and I didn’t lower my voice either.
“It’s all true,” I said, loud enough for everyone at the turnstile and the smoking area to hear. “For fourteen years, I worked as German Nikolaevich’s secretary. I handled orders, found suppliers, managed all his clients, and delivered the documents. For fifteen thousand a month. After I left, his company lasted four more years.”
German opened his mouth to speak, but I wasn’t finished yet.
On Tuesday, he came to apply for a job at my workplace. The rest is just between him and the HR department.
In the lobby, the hum of the water dispenser became audible. Then the security guard, who had worked at this post since the previous director’s days, stood up from his chair.
“No further questions, Valeriya Pavlovna. Outsiders aren’t allowed past the turnstile. Sir, please clear the way—people are trying to go home.”
Someone in the lobby laughed, but not at me this time. The machinist quickly scanned his badge, the turnstile beeped, and the line flowed around German like water around a post. He straightened his tie, looked like he wanted to shout something after us, but didn’t.
“Valeriya Pavlovna,” the production manager quietly asked as we stepped into the courtyard, “did you also come up with the shipping table we use?”
“I did.”
“It’s a good table,” he said and walked to his car.
I went back to my office and finally sat down—my knees were shaking, my mouth tasted sour, as if I’d just finished a long run. For so many years I’d muffled his shouting, covering it like a blanket! And all I really needed to do was stay away.
He called at nine in the evening. I braced for an argument, but heard a tired, almost unfamiliar voice instead.
“Lera, I’m sorry. I lost my head. The bank calls every day, and then I saw you at that desk, and I snapped.”
I didn’t say a word. In twenty-five years of marriage, he’d apologized only twice.
“I’m just asking one thing,” he said. “Don’t sign the refusal yet and don’t report to the owner. Give me until Monday. I’ll withdraw my candidacy myself, on my own terms. So I can leave instead of being kicked out. You know what that means at my age.”
I understood. I was forty-seven myself when I started at the factory as a regular manager, on probation, building everything up from scratch.
“Alright,” I replied. “Until Monday.”
Maybe I was even a little relieved. I thought everything would end quietly—no winners, no drama. On Friday, I left his dismissal unsigned, and even wondered if I should send his resume to a friend who needed an ordinary manager. Maybe he’d had enough already?
On Monday at nine in the morning, Lev Yakovlevich called.
“Valeriya Pavlovna, I’ll be in your office in an hour. And I won’t be coming alone.”
***
They entered together. Lev Yakovlevich, short and wearing a corduroy jacket, sat by the window and placed two sheets of paper in front of him. German sat across from me, freshly shaved, in the same suit, the scent of his cologne even stronger than before. Apparently, he’d left his apology behind on Thursday.
“I received a letter,” the owner said quietly. He always spoke quietly, which made everyone listen more carefully. “On Friday. Three points. First: when you left Mr. Kudryavtsev’s company, you took their client base with you. Second: you hid the fact that your entire experience is as a secretary when you came to us. Third: you rejected him out of personal spite. I don’t handle these things behind people’s backs. I’m listening.”
Friday. So, while I was keeping my promise and hadn’t signed the dismissal, he was busy drafting that letter! He just wanted more time to get ahead of me. Why did I ever believe that tired voice?
“Lev Yakovlevich, we’re both men here,” German began, leaning back in his chair. “You can see for yourself: she’s a woman after a divorce, bitter about it. She used to bring me coffee—how is someone like that supposed to be a director? You really should be checking where your clients are disappearing to. I had it easy at first, too.”
He reached across the table and with one finger knocked my nameplate face down. It slapped against the tabletop.
“You ordered too early, Lera.”
My ears were ringing. The owner was staring at me, waiting, and I knew perfectly well he could remove a director with a single word, no explanation needed. Should I defend myself? German’s words always sounded stronger than mine. So, let him do the talking.
I picked up the nameplate and set it back in front of both of them. Then I straightened out the papers with the edge of my hand.
“I’ll show you the documents,” I said. “But first, the same question as at the interview. German Nikolaevich, your resume says you personally built the client base and managed the key clients yourself. Name the top three: buyer, product, and monthly amount.”
“Here we go again,” he smirked, glancing at Lev Yakovlevich, who stayed silent. “Well, ‘Uyutny Dvor.’ That’s a chain. There was a lady named Nina, I think. They bought all kinds of stuff. What does it matter, it’s been years!”
“Nina Sergeyevna Glukhova,” I corrected. “Eleven stores in Nizhny Tagil. Household chemicals and gardening tools, nine hundred thousand per month, thirty days deferred payment. She sent her order every Tuesday. After I left, your network lasted less than a year with you.”
German tried to interrupt, but I was already listing the next one.
“Second was Safiullin from Kamensk-Uralsky: enamel cookware and oilcloth, four hundred thousand. He called every Thursday before lunch because on Fridays he was at the market. Third—‘Stroydvor’ in Pervouralsk, six hundred thousand, and they only paid after reconciliation.”
As I spoke, I could see the smirk fade from his face. He nervously patted the back of his head, unable to get a word in, since he didn’t know a single one of those numbers. Seven years had gone by, but I remembered them the way others remember family phone numbers.
“Now the paperwork.” I opened the folder. “Handover act, May 2019. ‘Client database—140 entries. Received, no complaints.’ Your signature, German Nikolaevich. I didn’t take the database with me—I handed it over with your sign-off.”
The rest of the documents followed. German didn’t even look at them.
“List of the plant’s clients. None matches your old ones: we sell corrugated packaging to manufacturers, you sold buckets. My resume from the personnel file, from 2019. My job title was listed accurately—secretary. Boris Arkadyevich hired me as a manager on a probationary period. Also the evaluation sheet, filled out by Yana. My case—two points, while the other finalists had eight and seven. My previous work references weren’t confirmed.”
I placed the last sheet separately in front of my ex-husband.
“A written rejection letter with reasons, as the law requires. Sign the second copy, please.”
Lev Yakovlevich picked up the act, read the signature, and took off his glasses.
“I’ve read Valeria Pavlovna’s resume twice,” he said. “Once when I approved her for the commercial role, and again when I made her director. I know what she was officially called. Now I know who she really was in that company. Issue closed.”
He turned to German:
“And you, Mr. Kudryavtsev, please sign and go. I’ll keep your letter. Just in case you decide to write to anyone else.”
German signed. The pen slipped in his hand, and his signature turned out to be half as long as the one on the official document. He stood up, straightened his cuffs, and at the door, he hesitated and looked back.
“Lera.”
“Valeria Pavlovna,” I said. “And one more thing, German Nikolaevich. The coffee is in the machine on the first floor. Black, with two sugars – you just press the button.”
***
A month and a half passed. He didn’t call or write anymore. I heard from Eva that her father got a job as a manager at a building materials store, making seventy thousand, and he never mentions the factory anymore. I don’t wish him any harm. He’s good at talking to customers, and there are people there who can handle everything else for him.
People greet me differently at the entrance now. The security guard stands up, the packers smile, and the girl whom German promised coffee last time brought me an application for further studies just last week—she wants to become a technologist. I approved it the same day. The sales department is now led by the candidate with the best resume; she’s forty-one. During the interview, she listed her clients before I could even ask.
That Monday, Lev Yakovlevich stayed for a minute in my office. He stood by the desk, glanced at the nameplate, and said, “Update the portrait on the website. The wrong manager has been posted there for three months.” By evening, it was changed.
In the mornings, I arrive before everyone else. I turn on the coffee machine, wait for it to finish humming, and bring a cup to my desk. Just for myself, not for anyone else. My mouth doesn’t go dry anymore when a man’s sharp voice echoes in the hallway.
The nameplate is still in its usual spot. But now it faces the door. I don’t need to get used to it anymore, and it’s good for visitors to know who they’re talking to.