Three months passed. Three months of searches, interrogations, frozen accounts, and screaming headlines in the press. The Belozorov empire was collapsing like a house of cards. They weren’t just accused of attempting a hostile takeover of our business. During the investigation, other, much dirtier deeds came to light.
And we worked. We regained control of the company. My father, having shed the weight of betrayal, seemed 10 years younger. He was generating new ideas, signing contracts. We didn’t just restore the business; we took it to a new level, becoming a symbol of resilience and a fair fight.
I was sitting in my new office, located next to my father’s, sorting through documents for a new project. A news channel was playing silently on the wall-mounted TV. I glanced at the screen and saw the familiar face of Igor Belozorov. He was being led out of the courthouse by guards. Handcuffs on his wrists, a dead, hunted look in his eyes. The news ticker at the bottom mentioned the seizure of all his assets. I felt not gloating, but a cold satisfaction. Justice had prevailed.
Just then, my cell phone rang. An unknown number. I hesitated but answered anyway. “Hello.” “Kira…” The voice on the line was quiet, broken, barely recognizable. But I recognized it. Vladimir. I remained silent. “Kira, it’s me, Vladimir,” he whispered. I could hear tears in his voice. “I… I’m begging you, help me. My father… they just took him away. They took everything from us. Everything. The accounts, the houses, the cars. We’re left with nothing. I don’t know what to do.”
He continued to babble something about injustice, about how he was just a pawn, that he was innocent. A pathetic, crushed man, stripped of his usual luxury and power. He didn’t even realize he was asking for help from the very person he had tried to destroy. I listened to him in silence, watching the TV screen where his father was being put into a police van.
When his rambling monologue dried up, I spoke coldly and distinctly, putting a final verdict into every word: “Vladimir, remember one thing. The game always ends. Especially for those who don’t know how to play fair.”
I pressed the end call button and, without a second thought, added his number to my blacklist. The door to my office opened, and my father appeared in the doorway. He had apparently seen the news too. He walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Who called?” “Vladimir,” I answered curtly. He understood everything without another word, stood there for a moment, and then said, “You did the right thing, sweetheart.” I looked up at him and smiled. A genuinely warm and peaceful smile. For the first time in many long months, I felt that the war was over and we had won. “I know, Dad. And now, back to work. We have a lot to do.”
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