On Sunday he went into the office. He thought better there, in the quiet of empty hallways. No people, no calls, no Susan with her notes. He took the termination paperwork out of the drawer. Held it in his hands. Put it back in the bottom drawer. Didn’t throw it away—just in case he had read everything wrong. Though he was starting not to believe that.
He opened the file on company apartments. The firm had two corporate units. One in a downtown high-rise for visiting partners, and one smaller one in a neighborhood near the park that had been sitting empty for six months. The last person there had been a manager transferred in from out of state. He called the property management company on a Sunday. They told him it was clean, furnished, appliances working. Two bedrooms, kitchen, one bath. Twenty minutes from the office by train.
— Good. Have an employee housing agreement ready Monday. I’ll send the information.
He hung up and looked out the window at the empty street. Then he called Daniel Walsh. Daniel was a family attorney, one of the best in the city on divorce and custody cases. They had known each other seven years, had lunch now and then. Thorough, tough in court, and able to talk to clients without making them feel helpless. That was rare.
— Mike? — Daniel answered on the second ring. His voice carried mild surprise; it was Sunday after all. — Something happen?
— Not to me. I have an employee who needs help.
Mike spoke briefly, directly. Woman, two children. Left her husband. Husband controlling, history of intimidation. No criminal record, but there are witnesses and possibly physical evidence. Need divorce with primary custody, no room for the husband to show up unpredictably.
— Can you take it?
— How soon?
— Immediately.
— Mike, you understand this won’t be quick. Even with solid evidence, divorce, custody, restrictions on a father’s access—that takes months.
— I understand. I need the process started as soon as possible. And I need her safe while it’s happening.
— All right, — Daniel said. No extra questions. He knew when not to ask them. — Have her call me. Give her my number.
— She doesn’t know yet. I’m talking to her first.
— Understood. I’ll be ready.
Mike put the phone down. Got up from the desk, paced the office. Stopped at the large mirror by the door—it was there so he could check himself before important meetings—and looked at his reflection.
He thought about how the conversation would go. How she would walk in, back straight, waiting for him to say something about lateness and discipline. How she would tense up even more when he didn’t. He thought about the fact that he needed to be direct. No circling around it, no soft opening that only drags out the discomfort. She wasn’t a child, and she wasn’t fragile in the way people sometimes mean when they say that. She was a person who had spent two months in a crisis center with a nursing infant and still showed up for work, stayed quiet, and kept going. People like that don’t need delicate handling. They need specifics.
“What do you need? Specifically.” That was what he would say.
He turned away from the mirror. Sat back down. Opened the laptop and started drafting a policy for flexible scheduling for employees with children under one year old. A change to internal rules the company should have made long ago, and now it would. He worked until evening. At eight he put the papers away, turned off the light in his office, and went down through the empty lobby.
The security guard at the front nodded to him. Mike nodded back. Outside it was cold and quiet. He stopped for a second, turned up his coat collar. Tomorrow was Monday. Workweek. Conversation with Alina Kazakova at 6:00 p.m. As he walked to the car, he thought about how long it had been since he had looked forward to a Monday. Usually Monday was just the next day, same as the last one, only with new tasks. But this one carried something like anticipation. Not anxiety, not worry—anticipation. Like before an important negotiation, when you know the stakes are high and what you say will matter.
He started the engine. Monday began as usual: gym at six, cold shower, coffee without sugar. Mike moved through the familiar routine, but something in the background felt different. A low tension he usually felt only before major deals or difficult negotiations. He didn’t analyze it. Just accepted it and drove to work.
At the office everything moved as usual. He sat by the elevator with his tablet and a short list of the day’s priorities. He listened, nodded, clarified details. When Susan finished, he said calmly:
— Susan, have Kazakova come see me at five. No explanation, just tell her I need her in my office. And don’t schedule anyone else then.
Susan didn’t blink. Wrote it down.
— The termination paperwork?
— Leave it for now. I don’t need it.
Again she didn’t blink. Just nodded and left. In seven years she had learned not to ask questions when her boss said “for now.”
The day passed in the usual rhythm. Meetings, calls, documents. At lunch Mike made a point of not looking at the clock and not thinking about Alina. It was an old habit of his—not to run thoughts in circles before an important conversation. You never come up with anything new that way. You just waste concentration. Still, around two-thirty he caught himself looking out the window. The parking lot below, familiar cars, people moving back and forth on their own errands. He thought: she’s somewhere in this building right now, at her desk, doing her job, and she has no idea that at five o’clock her life is going to change again. This time in the other direction. He hoped so.
At four-thirty he asked Susan for fresh coffee and cleared everything unnecessary off his desk. Left only a clean legal pad and a pen. No personnel file, no documents that would make the meeting feel official. Just the desk, two chairs, and the city outside the window in the fading light.
At exactly 5:00 there was a knock at the door.
— Come in, — he said.
Alina walked in. Maybe for the first time he really saw her—not in passing in the hallway and not from a distance in the parking lot. She was small, maybe five-five, with brown hair pulled back simply, no fuss. A well-shaped face, defined cheekbones, dark attentive eyes, and right now very tense. She wore dark slacks and a gray sweater—nothing extra, nothing showy. The sleeve on her left arm was pulled a little lower than usual.
She closed the door behind her and stopped near it with her back straight and her face completely calm. Only her hands were clasped a little tighter than natural. A person who knew how to hold her expression, but not always her hands.
— Have a seat, — he said, indicating the chair across from his desk…
