Chapter 6 - Menlow
The next morning, I fire Wallace and Tillman before my first cup of coffee, and they don’t even see it coming.
The duo strolls into my office at nine sharp, probably expecting an update on their little spy operation. Instead, they find Pavel waiting by the door and two security guards flanking my desk.
I don’t bother standing. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming in early.”
Wallace recovers first. He’s got the kind of smile that’s fooled a lot of people over the years. “Mr. Karpov. We were hoping to discuss the transition timeline with you. There are some matters that require—”
“There’s nothing to discuss. You’re both terminated, effective immediately.”
The smile freezes on Wallace’s face. Tillman goes pale beside him.
“I’m sorry,” Tillman manages. “Did you say terminated?”
“I did. Clear enough for you?”
“On what grounds?” Wallace’s composure cracks. Just slightly. Just enough for me to enjoy it.
“Attempted coercion of an employee. Conspiracy to commit corporate espionage. Threatening behavior.” I tick off each item on my fingers.
“Should I continue? I have a longer list if you’d prefer.
We could discuss the part where you threatened to destroy a woman’s career unless she agreed to spy for you.
Or the part where you implied physical harm if she didn’t cooperate. ”
Wallace’s mask slips further. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t,” I reply. “Here’s what’s going to happen: You’re going to collect your personal belongings under supervision, you’re going to surrender your key cards and company devices, and you’re going to walk out of this building without making a scene.
If you manage all of that, I won’t have Pavel here break both your kneecaps in the parking garage. ”
Pavel adjusts his weight beside the door. Just enough to draw attention to his size.
Tillman looks like he might vomit. Wallace, to his credit, keeps his voice steady. “This is ridiculous. You have no authority to—”
“I most certainly do.” I nod to Pavel. “Escort them out. They have fifteen minutes to collect their things.”
Pavel steps forward, and both men have the good sense not to resist. But Wallace pauses at the door, turning back to face me with something ugly in his eyes.
“You’re making a mistake,” he claims with menace dripping from his tone. “You have no idea what you’ve stepped into.”
“I know exactly what I’ve stepped into. That’s the problem for you, isn’t it?” I hold his gaze until he looks away. “Fourteen minutes now. I’d hurry.”
The door closes behind them, and I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. Short-lived, though. This is just the beginning.
Over the next three hours, I work through the list Pavel and I compiled, the ones we weren’t certain about. I’m not taking chances anymore. Not with this. Not with Kirsten’s safety hanging in the balance.
HR is having a field day. I’ve given them a cover story about restructuring following the merger, and they’re too busy processing paperwork to ask questions. The head of HR, a nervous woman named Deborah, stops by around eleven to express concerns about morale and optics.
“All of these terminations in one day sends a message,” she tells me, wringing her hands. “The remaining employees will be frightened. Productivity could suffer.”
I don’t look up from my laptop as I respond, “The remaining employees will be relieved once they realize the dead weight is gone. Process the terminations, Deborah.”
She processes the terminations.
By noon, the building feels lighter. Cleaner. The Volkovs’ eyes and ears have been severed, at least for now. They’ll eventually find other ways to gather intelligence. They always do. But I’ve bought myself time.
Pavel stops by around one and drops into the chair across from my desk. “That’s the last of them. Kowalski from accounting put up a fuss. Started shouting about wrongful termination and lawyers.”
“How’d security handle it?”
“Reminded him that his employment contract includes an arbitration clause.” Pavel grins. “Also reminded him that we know about the gambling debts.”
“Subtle.”
“I can be subtle when the situation calls for it.”
I push my empty coffee cup aside. “Any word from the Volkovs?”
“Nothing concrete. They expected Wallace and Tillman to report in this morning. When they didn’t…” He shrugs. “Confusion, mostly. Alexei has people monitoring their communications.”
“They’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“They will.” Pavel’s grin fades. “And when they do, they’re going to want blood. You just gutted their entire operation inside this company.”
“I’m counting on it. Double the security rotation in the meantime. Anyone who doesn’t have a valid reason to be in this building doesn’t get past the lobby.”
“Already done.” He lingers, studying me. “What about the girl?”
“What about her?”
“Is she going to be a problem?”
I consider the question. Kirsten hasn’t spoken to me since last night.
She emerged from the guest room this morning dressed for work, accepted a cup of coffee without comment, and left in the car I arranged for her.
Separate from mine, as she requested. She didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t even look at me.
“She’ll adjust,” I decide. “She doesn’t have much choice.”
Pavel looks skeptical but doesn’t push. “I’ll check in later. Alexei wants an update.”
“Tell him to call me himself instead of sending his little brother to do reconnaissance.”
Pavel snorts. “I’ll pass that along.”
After he leaves, I turn my attention to the stack of personnel files on my desk. I’ve been going through them systematically, trying to get a handle on who’s who in this company. Who I can trust. Who I can use. Who might become a problem down the line.
My phone goes off with a text from the security team: Mrs. Karpov arrived at 8:47. Currently at her desk on floor three. No incidents.
Mrs. Karpov. The name still feels strange. I didn’t expect to have a wife at thirty-two. Certainly not one who looks at me like I’m the villain in her story.
Which, to be fair, I probably am.
Around three o’clock, I make a decision. I’ve been putting it off all day, telling myself there are more pressing matters. But the truth is simpler than that.
I want to see her.
I take the elevator down to the third floor and make my way through the analytics department. A few employees scramble to look busy as I pass. Others stare openly, and their conversations die mid-sentence. The new boss, walking the floors. Probably unprecedented around here.
Kirsten doesn’t notice me at first. She’s hunched over her desk, completely absorbed in whatever’s on her screen. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, and she’s wearing a simple blouse and dark slacks. Nothing fancy. Nothing that draws attention.
She’s trying to be invisible, I realize. Trying to blend into the background so no one looks too closely.
I stop beside her desk. “Ms. Berry.”
She startles, then catches herself. Her composure slides back into place so quickly I almost miss the crack. “Mr. Karpov.”
The formality is intentional. A reminder that we’re strangers here. That whatever exists between us doesn’t exist within these walls.
“I need to speak with you in my office. There’s a matter regarding the transition that requires your input.”
A few of her coworkers glance over. One woman two desks down doesn’t even pretend not to eavesdrop.
“Of course,” Kirsten replies coolly. “Lead the way.”
She follows me to the elevator, taking care to maintain a professional distance. We don’t speak until the doors close, and we’re alone.
The pretense drops the second the doors slide shut. “What do you want?”
“I’m promoting you.”
She blinks. “What?”
“You’re being moved to a new position. Executive analyst, reporting directly to me. Significant salary increase, better benefits, and your own desk in my office.”
“Absolutely not.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“I don’t care what it was. I’m not going to sit in your office all day like some kind of pet. People will talk. I don’t want anyone here to know about our so-called marriage, Menlow. They’ll assume I’m sleeping with you to get ahead.”
“Let them assume whatever they want.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose reputation will be destroyed. You’re not the one who’ll have to hear the whispers every time you walk down the hall.”
The elevator dings. I step out onto my floor, and after a moment, she follows.
“This isn’t about the promotion, is it?” she demands as we walk. “This is about control. You want me where you can watch my every move.”
“Partially,” I admit.
“At least you’re honest about it.”
I open my office door and gesture for her to enter. “I also need someone who understands how this company actually operates. The employees, the processes, and the politics. Someone who can tell me where the bodies are buried.”
She crosses her arms. “And you think that’s me?”
“I’ve read your file. Top marks in every performance review. Three separate recommendations for promotion, all ignored because you don’t play politics.” I settle into my chair. “You’re overqualified for your current position. You have been since the day you started.”
“You’ve been here less than a week. How do you know any of that?”
“I do my research.” I nod toward the chair across from me. “Sit. Please.”
She doesn’t sit. “If I take this promotion, everyone will think it’s because of… us.”
“There is no ‘us’ as far as anyone here knows. You’re Kirsten Berry, a talented analyst who caught the new CEO’s attention through excellent work. Nothing more.”
“And the desk in your office?”
“A practical arrangement. I need someone close at hand to answer questions. You’re the logical choice.”
She eyes me for a long moment, trying to find the trap. I let her look. I have nothing to hide. Not about this, anyway.
“I want it in writing,” she finally states. “The promotion, the salary increase, all of it. Official documentation that proves I earned this based on merit.”
“Done.”
“And I reserve the right to transfer to a different department once the transition is complete.”
“We can discuss that when the time comes.”
“I want that in writing, too.”
I almost smile. “Fine. Anything else?”
“I want a new chair. Not one of those cheap ones from the supply closet.”
“I’ll have facilities order something appropriate.”
“And a plant. I want a plant for my desk.”
Now I do smile, just barely. “A plant.”
“It helps me think.” She lifts her chin. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. I’ll have one delivered.” I lean forward on my desk. “Do we have a deal?”
She holds my gaze. Then she sighs, and something in her shoulders loosens. “I suppose we do.”
“Excellent. Your desk will be ready by tomorrow morning. Take the rest of today to wrap up any outstanding work.”
She turns to leave, then pauses at the door. “For the record, I’m not doing this because of our… arrangement. I’m doing it because it’s a good opportunity and I’d be stupid to turn it down.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
She nods once and walks out. I watch her go—the stiff shoulders, the determined stride. She’s angry, resentful, and suspicious of everything I do and say.
And yet she took the promotion anyway. Smart enough to recognize opportunity, even when it comes from someone she despises.
The next morning, her desk is waiting. Positioned near the windows, angled so she can see both the door and my desk. A small potted fern sits in one corner. The chair is ergonomic, high-backed—definitely not from the supply closet.
Kirsten arrives at 8:15 and stops in the doorway. She takes in the arrangement. The desk, the fern, and the view of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“It’s… actually not terrible,” she admits.
“High praise.”
She drops her bag beside the desk and settles into her chair, running her hands along the armrests. “This is nicer than anything I’ve ever owned.”
“You asked for a good chair. I provided one.”
“I honestly expected you to ignore that request.”
“Then you don’t know me very well.”
She shoots me a look but doesn’t respond. Instead, she boots up her computer and dives into work. Within minutes, she’s completely absorbed, barely acknowledging my presence. Her focus is remarkable, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
I find myself watching her more than I should. The way she frowns at her screen when something doesn’t add up. How she mutters under her breath when she catches an error. When she reaches for her coffee without looking, her hand finds the mug by memory alone.
She catches me around midmorning. “What?”
“Nothing. Just observing.”
“Well, observe something else. It’s distracting.”
I return to my own work, but my attention keeps drifting. I can’t help it.
Over the next few days, a routine develops. We arrive separately, work in parallel silence, and leave at different times. She asks questions when she needs clarification. I provide answers without unnecessary elaboration, while remaining professional and distant. Exactly what she wanted.
On Wednesday, she finds a discrepancy in a quarterly report that has been filed incorrectly for eighteen months. Nobody else caught it. Nobody even looked.
“This could have cost the company millions if it went on much longer,” she tells me as she slides the corrected file across my desk.
“And you found it in two days.”
“It wasn’t hard. The numbers didn’t match. I followed the trail.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. Like anyone could have done it.
But they didn’t. She did.
She’s brilliant. Genuinely, quietly brilliant. And she’s been languishing in obscurity because she refuses to schmooze or self-promote.
Their loss. My gain.
“You’re staring again,” she complains on Thursday afternoon without looking up from her screen.
“I’m thinking.”
“Think in a different direction.”
I turn back to my laptop. But I’m smiling.
And from the corner of my eye, I catch the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
She noticed.