Artyom’s phone flashed one last notification. He read the message, swore, and slammed his palm against the steering wheel. He’d just been told that the woman who was supposed to pretend to be his fiancée at negotiations with a Hungarian investor had vanished. Her phone was off. Social media—empty.
“Boss, we have less than two hours,” his assistant said nervously over the phone. “Ferenc will be at the restaurant in an hour. He specifically asked that you bring your fiancée.”
Artyom tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. Three months of negotiations, preliminary agreements for a deal worth hundreds of thousands of dollars—and it could all fall apart over the silly demand of an old businessman. Ferenc was an ultra-traditionalist: he firmly believed that a reliable partner must be a family man. At their last meeting, he’d asked Artyom directly if he had a fiancée. Not wanting to lose the contract, Artyom lied. Now he had to prove it.
“Do you read the Financial Times in a subway underpass?” Artyom asked.
The woman looked up. Her gaze was sharp, attentive, with no hint of submissiveness.
“Do you often strike up conversations with strangers in underpasses?”
“Do you often strike up conversations with strangers in underpasses?”
Artyom was caught off guard. In the last five years, no one had dared speak to him in that tone. It was… refreshing.
“I need help. In an hour, I have dinner with a Hungarian investor. I need a woman to play my fiancée. I’ll pay two hundred thousand.”
“Three hundred,” she corrected him without hesitation. “And you’ll buy me some proper clothes. This puffy jacket makes me look like a potato vendor.”
“Deal.”
She closed her magazine, packed her books into her bag. She introduced herself as Veronika. In the car, Artyom asked:
“What did you do before?”
“Accountant,” she replied shortly, staring out the window.
“What happened?”
“Are you always this curious?”
Artyom fell silent. He sensed pain behind her brusqueness.
Forty minutes later at the stylist’s salon, a miracle happened. Veronika stepped out of the dressing room in a dark cherry dress with covered shoulders. Her hair was styled in a neat bun. Makeup masked any trace of fatigue. Artyom hardly recognized the woman from the underpass.
“Not bad,” he muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment.
“‘Not bad’ is when a plumber fixes a faucet,” Veronika retorted. “I look fantastic. Get used to it.”
At the restaurant, they were already expected. Laszlo Ferenc—a heavyset man with piercing eyes—stood up from the table. Next to him sat his lawyer, a young man with glasses, and Artyom’s translator, Gleb.
“Meet my fiancée, Veronika,” Artyom put on a smile.
“Nice to meet you,” Veronika smiled politely and took her seat.
The first thirty minutes went smoothly. Veronika stayed away from business topics, but when the conversation turned to taxes, she suddenly remarked:
“By the way, in Hungary, IT gets a reduced VAT rate. Really convenient for local businesses.”
“You’re familiar with our tax laws?” Ferenc asked in surprise.
Ferenc raised his eyebrows in surprise. Artyom tensed up: how did this woman know about Hungarian taxes?
“You’re familiar with our legislation?” Ferenc asked with interest.
“On the surface,” Veronika replied modestly. “I just read economic magazines.”
Ferenc nodded with satisfaction and got back to business. He glanced at his lawyer, who pulled a thick folder out of his briefcase.
“Artyom,” the investor began, and Gleb immediately started translating, “we’re ready to sign the contract. However, we’ve made a small amendment to section 7.12.”
“What exactly?” Artyom asked.
Gleb, double-checking with the original, translated:
“If the project doesn’t reach the planned capacity within two years, the Hungarian side’s share increases by fifteen percent.”
Artyom considered this. Two years seemed perfectly reasonable. He trusted his engineers completely.
“Sounds acceptable,” he said, reaching for a pen.
But just then, Veronika suddenly covered his hand with hers.
“Honey, may I take a look at the original?” Her voice was sweet, but her fingers tightened on his wrist. “I adore English legal wording. It’s always so beautifully bureaucratic.”
Ferenc froze. His lawyer tensed up. But Veronika had already taken the folder.
Ferenc froze. His lawyer tensed up. But Veronika had already taken the folder.
Veronika opened the folder and dove into the text. The contract was written in English—standard for international transactions. She read quietly for about two minutes, then slowly closed the document, placed her hands on the table, and began to speak.
“Section 7.12 says: ‘within the first two quarters.’ That’s ‘within the first two quarters,’ Mr. Ferenc. Not two years, as we were just told.”
Artyom turned pale. Ferenc didn’t move a muscle.
Veronika looked Ferenc straight in the eye and continued, this time in flawless Hungarian:
“Dear Laszlo Ferenc. Did you really think we wouldn’t check the original? The contract states: any documented deviation from the equipment delivery schedule—and you claim the intellectual property. One customs delay, and my company loses everything.”
She fell silent. The room filled with a heavy silence.
Ferenc slowly set his glass down on the table, eyes never leaving Veronika. Then, suddenly, he burst out laughing—deep, booming, smacking his hand on the table.
Silence settled over the table. All you could hear was the gentle clinking of spoons in the next room.
Artyom snatched up the folder. His Hungarian was just good enough to understand that Veronika was right. He shifted his gaze to Gleb, who had gone as white as a sheet.
“Gleb,” Artyom’s voice was very quiet. “Explain.”
“I… I misunderstood a technical term…”
“Do you take me for an idiot?” Artyom rose slowly. “Get out. Now.”
The translator bolted out, knocking over a wine glass.
Artyom turned to Ferenc. The old businessman cleared his throat and replied in perfect Russian, without a trace of an accent:
“Artyom, this was a test. Translator Gleb has been working for me for a long time,” Ferenc smirked, “but you fired him, and that was the right call. He overdid it with the trap. If you’d signed without looking—you’d be a worthless leader. But your… fiancée?” He glanced over at Veronika. “Who are you, really?”
“Auditor,” she answered calmly. “Former. Currently unemployed. Hungarian—from my past life. My mother is Hungarian. We spoke it at home since I was a child. And at work, for five years, I handled contracts with Hungarians.”
“I hire people like you without a second thought,” Ferenc said, pulling out a pen. “Scratch out that clause. Let’s sign a fresh contract. Artyom, you’re one lucky guy.”
An hour later, they were sitting in the car. The rain had finally stopped. Veronika slid off her heels and set her feet, clad in sheer stockings, on the floor mat.
“Now talk,” Artyom turned to her. “An accountant? You speak three languages, you know international contracts. Who are you, really?”
Veronika was silent for a long moment. Then her voice came, low and dull:
“I was a CFO at a group of companies. I even married the owner. He asked me to leave my job—said, ‘just stay home, have kids.’ I trusted him. Signed some papers. Turns out, he transferred all the debts into my name, moved the assets elsewhere, and then ran off with his mistress. I was left with nothing. Even lost the apartment in court. I haven’t worked in my field for three years. It was all about home, family, and then this nightmare. The books from the underpass are the last traces of my normal life.”
Artyom gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“And you never tried to come back?”
“Who would hire a woman with a blank three-year resume?” she scoffed, bitterness lacing her words. “Now I sell technical books and sleep in a hostel.”
“Enough,” Artyom started the engine. “Tomorrow at nine, you come to my office.”
“Why? So I can play the fake bride again?”
“No. To work. As a real CFO. My last one, by the way, wouldn’t have spotted that trap. But you did.”
Veronika gave him a long look. For the first time that evening, something warm flickered in her eyes.
“And the salary?”
“High enough for you to forget where that underpass even is.”
She allowed herself a small smile.
“Alright, then let’s go. But I warn you—I’m demanding, and I’ll call you out if I see anything stupid.”
“Deal.”
The car rolled out onto the embankment. The night city sparkled with lights. Veronika turned to face the window, and for a brief second, Artyom thought he saw a tear on her cheek. But she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“Don’t look at me,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I just have an allergy to honesty. Haven’t met much of it lately.”
Artyom smiled and pressed the gas pedal. Ahead of them were new negotiations, new contracts—and a woman who was no longer just a passerby