Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Ella
Three days before Christmas Eve, I called in sick.
Not that I was actually sick—though my stomach had been twisted in knots, and sleep was a disaster.
Every night around three or four, I'd wake up staring at the ceiling, replaying everything Dmitri said, over and over, until dawn light crept in and car sounds started outside. Only then would I drift back off.
But that wasn't being sick. That was just life reminding me, in its special way, that luck was something I'd never had.
Sasha stayed with me for two days.
She brought a bag of instant curry and a six-pack, sat on my beat-up couch, and listened while I told her about the gala night again and again.
She didn't push me or feed me any "chin up" bullshit.
Just sat there, listened, and occasionally cursed out Dmitri—cursed him precisely, creatively—made me laugh even when I was crying my eyes out.
That was Sasha.
Sergei texted.
First one was the night of the gala. Short. "Did you get home okay?"
I stared at it for a long time. Didn't reply.
Second one came the next morning. "Didn't see you today."
Stared at that one too. Still didn't reply.
Third one came that afternoon. "If something's wrong, you can tell me."
I flipped my phone face-down on the table, sat by the window, and stared at the gray-white sky for a long time.
Sasha put her hand on my shoulder. "Are you going to tell him?"
"I don't know how."
"From the beginning."
"Which beginning?" I said. "That Dmitri's his nephew? That there's a two-hundred-thousand-dollar debt? Or why I dumped his nephew and then slept with him?"
Sasha went quiet.
"He'll believe you," she said.
"I'm not sure."
And that was the real problem. Not Dmitri's threats, not the debt, not "what if Sergei finds out"—it was that I genuinely wasn't sure if he'd believe me.
He was naturally suspicious. I knew that.
He divided people into two categories: pawns and enemies. And which one was I? I couldn't even say.
So I never replied.
Not until the fourth message. "Whatever."
Just that one word.
I stared at it, and my stomach clenched hard.
Christmas Eve morning, I woke at seven.
Fine snow drifted outside—not much, melting as it hit the ground—but the air had that clean, cold quality. I lay in bed listening to the occasional passing car, picked up my phone, and put it down again.
Then I sat up and pulled the box out from the paper bag under my bed.
Cream-colored wrapping, tied with a deep red ribbon. Inside was the Christmas gift I'd gotten for Sergei.
Nothing expensive, but it took me three months.
A scarf—charcoal gray—and a matching mohair sweater. I'd made them myself.
Stitch by stitch, three weeks of work, pricked my fingers countless times, stayed up late night after night.
I'd chosen the fabric carefully—soft but wouldn't pill, perfect for winter.
The scarf had a subtle pattern woven in: Misha's paw prints.
You had to look close to see them, but they were there.
Plus a sweater for Misha. Burgundy, with a little golden reindeer sewn on the chest. When I was wrapping it, I'd wondered what Sergei's face would look like when he saw it.
I held both boxes in my lap, took a deep breath, packed them back in the bag, got dressed, and left.
Through Manhattan's streets. Christmas decorations everywhere—red poinsettias, green ivy, gold bells gleaming in shop windows. Passing Rockefeller Center, the massive tree was already lit—even in daylight, the star on top caught the morning light and scattered it.
Today was Christmas Eve. The company would probably let people go early.
Maybe after I gave him the gift, I could ask if he had plans tonight.
Maybe things weren't as bad as I thought.
The Volkov Group lobby had its Christmas tree up, covered in gold ornaments and red ribbons. The two girls at reception wore Santa hats. When I walked in, they smiled. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas."
The elevator arrived. I stepped in, pressed fifteen.
When the doors opened, I smelled familiar coffee.
The architecture department's open workspace already had people at their desks. Computer screens glowed blue against the red-green Christmas lights. A few colleagues glanced up as I came in—
They looked, then quickly looked away, exchanging glances.
I stopped mid-step.
What? Was I being paranoid?
I walked to my desk, set down my bag and the gift box, and booted up my computer.
Then Lily appeared.
She wore a red sweater today, hair in a low ponytail.
"You're finally back." Relief in her voice, but then her expression changed. She pressed her lips together, glanced around, lowered her voice. "Good timing. I was looking for you. Come with me for a second."
She pulled me into the break room and shut the door.
"Did you know," she said, "this weekend, someone posted on the company forum."
I looked at her, waiting.
"About you..." She paused. "Saying you... slept your way up. Implying you have an inappropriate relationship with Mr. Volkov." Anger flashed in her eyes. "The post got deleted, but screenshots are everywhere. Look—"
She pulled out her phone, opened a page, and handed it to me.
The photo was taken from the side, perfectly angled—me coming out of Sergei's office, turning to look at him, cheeks flushed, mouth curved, expression completely unguarded. The text was in large font. I glanced at it once and scrolled past. Couldn't look twice.
The comments were worse.
"Ella," Lily's voice was worried, "are you okay?"
"I'm fine." I handed back her phone. "Thanks for telling me."
My hands were steady.
Strangely steady, like I'd rehearsed this scene a thousand times in the middle of the night, and now that it was real, I felt nothing.
"Someone did this on purpose," Lily said through clenched teeth. "That kind of photo—you can't get it without staking out beforehand—"
"I know."
I knew who did it.
But I had no proof.
And even with proof, I couldn't go to Sergei—not now, not before I'd explained everything.
Lily opened her mouth to say something, but the break room door pushed open.
Brianna stood in the doorway in a white turtleneck, hair swept up high, expression relaxed, holding her monogrammed mug. Seeing me, her mouth twitched upward.
"Well, Collins. Feeling better?"
"Yes."
"Good." She walked past me slowly, that heavy perfume trailing. "Health comes first. Someone in your situation needs to be careful."
"What situation?"
She glanced at me and smiled—a smile full of everything except kindness.
"After all—" She lowered her voice just enough for me to hear. "You can ride on looks and tricks for a while, but not forever. Eventually, you get replaced, right, Collins?"
Lily's face went red with anger. Before she could speak, I squeezed her hand.
"Did Andrew talk to you today?" Brianna changed subjects, setting her coffee cup on the counter. "He looked at your new proposal. Said the style doesn't match the company's direction. He's sending it back to you."
I froze.
I'd spent a week on that proposal, revised it three times, following the approach from the previous project—one Sergei and the entire architecture department had approved.
"Doesn't match the direction," I repeated.
"Yeah." Brianna shrugged. "Andrew said so. If you have questions, take it up with him. No point telling me."
She picked up her coffee and left.
At the door, she paused without turning around. "Oh, and he said please follow proper channels for work reports going forward. Don't need to... run upstairs anymore."
The door opened and closed.
I stood alone in the break room.
Watched a droplet form on the faucet, slowly fall, drop into the sink. Disappear.
Andrew talked to me for ten minutes.
His tone was gentle, that "I'm looking out for you" voice, saying the recent gossip wasn't good for my career development. He suggested I keep a low profile for a while, report through department channels, and don't skip levels. "It's safer for you that way."
When he said those last words, we both knew he wasn't talking about workplace safety.
I nodded, said I understood, stood up, tucked the rejected proposal folder under my arm, and walked back to my desk.
I opened my computer.
On screen: CAD drawings from last time, lines densely packed. I stared at them for two minutes. Couldn't draw a single line.
Lily passed by and lightly touched my shoulder.
I kept my head down. Didn't look up.
At lunch, I took the gift bag to the roof.
The December rooftop—wind fierce, whipping my hair around. I leaned against the railing, looked at Manhattan's skyline in the distance, and pulled out my phone to call Sasha.
She answered fast. "How's it going? Work okay today?"
"No. The post thing."
"What post—oh God, he actually did it?"
"Screenshots are everywhere."
Sasha launched into a long string of curses—Dmitri to Brianna to anyone she suspected of being behind it—cursing with impressive layering. I leaned on the railing listening, eyes getting hot.
"Go to Sergei," Sasha said. "Tell him. Let him handle it."
"I can't."
"Why not? He's the one in charge there—"
"Because Dmitri's his nephew," I said. "If I go to him, I have to explain everything. The loan, my past with Dmitri, how he threatened me at the gala, why I haven't been replying to his messages."
"Then explain it all," Sasha's voice rose. "Ella, he's not a stranger—"
"I know," I said. "But I can't. Not now."
Two seconds of silence.
"Why not now?"
"Because—" I paused, searching for the real reason. "Because I don't want to use him to solve this. I want to solve it myself."
Sasha sighed.
That sigh held everything—sympathy, helplessness, the exhaustion of knowing me too long to change my mind.
"You stubborn ass," she said. "Fine. But remember, if you can't take it anymore, call me. I'll come right over."
"I know. Thank you."
I hung up, shoved my phone in my pocket, and looked up at the sky.