Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Ella
The confirmation email hit my inbox at nine Friday morning.
A formal message. HR letterhead. "Congratulations, Miss Collins, you've passed your probationary period, now a full-time architectural designer, salary adjustment effective next month, please sign the official employment contract this week."
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then closed the email and went back to revising blueprints.
Lily was the first to find out. She spun my chair around, eyes bright as headlights.
"You got confirmed?!"
"Yeah."
"Ella!" She lowered her voice, but the volume still made two people at nearby desks look up. "This is good news! You should be happy!"
"I am happy."
"You don't look happy."
I thought about it, tried pulling my mouth into a smile. "See? Happy now."
Lily gave me that "you're bullshitting me" look for three seconds, then sighed and dropped into the chair beside me, voice low. "Is this about Mr. Volkov?"
I didn't say anything.
The silence was answer enough.
Word spread through the architecture department fast. All morning, colleagues came by to congratulate me. Andrew clapped my shoulder, said the project turned out great, looking forward to the next one. Even a few seniors who usually ignored me nodded and smiled, said congrats.
When Brianna passed my desk, she looked at me once and snorted hard. I didn't care. I had other things on my mind.
Three o'clock, Misha came to find me.
She came every day now—dropped off in the morning, picked up around four by Bogdan, and in between, she roamed between the architecture department and various floors, but always ended up sprawled beside my desk at some point, those amber eyes watching me, tail sweeping the floor softly.
I crouched down to pet her head. She immediately rested her chin on my knee.
"Misha," I said quietly, "how was your day?"
Her tail swept faster.
"I got confirmed," I said. "Want to congratulate me?"
She lifted her eyes to mine, then nuzzled her nose into my palm.
"Thanks," I said. "You're the first one today who made me really smile."
The words surprised me as I said them.
I looked around the architecture department. Colleagues busy at their stations, computer screens casting blue light on everyone's faces. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the afternoon sun, everything outside blurred away.
Three months.
From that rainy Saturday, that corrugated iron shed, that kiss, to now. Three whole months.
In those three months, I'd finished that million-dollar commercial complex project from start to finish. Seven drafts of the proposal, four site visits, countless sleepless nights, and finally produced something even I was satisfied with.
But between Sergei Volkov and me, something had been cut.
I couldn't say when it started.
Just one day I realized he'd stopped calling me to his office.
Work reports went through Andrew now, not delivered by me personally.
I'd gone to the forty-second floor a few times.
Emily politely told me every time that Mr. Volkov was in a meeting, or with clients, or out of the office—just leave the materials, please.
At first, I thought he was busy with work.
Then I noticed Misha still came every day, still found her way to my desk at some point to lie down, but the person picking her up changed from Sergei to Bogdan, to assistants, to anyone else—just never him.
I tried not to think about it.
I focused on work, on finishing the project well, on paying back the debt bit by bit, on everything practical, tangible, real.
But sleepless at night, fragments kept surfacing—rain on the shed roof, how close he'd been teaching me Russian words, that inexplicable light in his eyes when he watched me fall asleep holding Misha.
And that kiss.
I shoved those images down, rolled over, stared at the ceiling, told myself this was reality, don't be surprised, don't feel wronged, we were always people from different worlds.
"Misha," I looked down at her, chin still resting on my knee, eyes half-closed. "How's your dad doing lately?"
She yawned.
"Right," I said. "Just making conversation."
I played with her for a while. She tired quickly and found a sunny spot to doze.
I watched her space out for a bit, then quietly opened my drawer and pulled out a folder.
Inside were clothing designs I'd drawn for Misha.
A thick stack. Sketches I'd done over three months between shifts, from studying fashion magazines to taking Misha's measurements. Took real effort. Got caught slacking at work more than once, docked pay, and had to pick up a coffee shop gig to cover the losses.
I'd wanted to share this precious work with the first person who supported my dream. But now it seemed pointless. He'd probably forgotten anyway.
I stared at the sketch of a little red vest, fingers tracing across the paper.
"Misha," I said it once in Russian.
Tongue against the roof of my mouth, then released. Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, closed the folder, and shoved it to the back of the drawer.
Seven that evening, Sasha was already waiting at the Italian restaurant.
She'd booked a window seat and ordered a bottle of red wine. Saw me come in and stood up with open arms, pulled me into a hard hug.
"Confirmed!" she said loudly. "My genius best friend!"
"Keep it down." I smiled and pushed her off. "The whole street can hear you."
"Let them hear," she pressed me into a chair. "Tonight you're the star. Everyone should know."
Wine poured, she raised her glass.
"To Ella Collins," she said. "A woman carrying two hundred grand in debt, working three jobs, too stubborn to sleep an extra hour, who took down a million-dollar project in three months and got confirmed with a doubled salary." She paused, eyes bright. "I'm proud of you. You know that?"
My nose stung.
"Don't," I looked down, sipped my wine. "You'll make me cry."
"Then cry," Sasha said. "You've earned it."
We drank, ordered food, talked about work, about her new photography project, about her new orange cat—she said the cat chewed up her most expensive pair of shoes, but she still couldn't give him away.
Then she set down her fork and looked at me with those eyes that missed nothing.
"All right," she said. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Ella, I've known you twelve years," she said bluntly. "You've been fake-smiling all night."
I went quiet, turned the stem of my wine glass, and watched the liquid trace arcs along the sides.
"Remember that person I told you about."
"Mr. Volkov." Sasha said it instantly, no hesitation. "Yeah. You told me about the construction site, the elevator, and that dog named Misha."
"Right." I paused. "I haven't seen him in three months."
Sasha didn't speak right away. Waited for me to continue.
"All work goes through Andrew now," I said. "I try to see him, get blocked every time. Misha still comes every day, but the person picking her up is never him anymore. It's like..." I thought about it. "Like one day he just decided, okay, done with this person."
I shrugged, tried to keep it light. Didn't want to ruin Sasha's carefully planned celebration.
But Sasha didn't take the bait. Her expression went serious.
"You're hurting," she said.
"I feel stupid," I said. "I know from the start I shouldn't have expected anything. He's the CEO, I was an intern assistant, now a regular employee. The distance between those two things is a gap you can't cross no matter how you calculate it. And a guy like him never lacks women. What am I?"
"You're not stupid," Sasha said. "You fell for someone. That's not wrong."
"But the result—"
"The result isn't in yet," she cut me off. "Ella, you're just guessing right now. You haven't even asked him."
I looked up at her.
"Go find him," Sasha said, dead serious, not casual advice. "Ask him face to face. Even if the answer's bad, it beats rotting like this."
"He's my boss." I sighed. "And even if I see him, what do I say? Ask him 'why'd you suddenly stop talking to me?' That's pathetic—"
"No, Ella, listen to me." She said. "First, you're not going to cry to him or interrogate him. You're going to get clarity. Those are different things."
"But—"
"Your current state," she interrupted, "is what's actually pathetic. You sat in that office every day, held his dog, guessed at his thoughts, spent three months doing that, turned yourself into this—what do you call that? Self-imposed prison."
I said nothing.
"And," she continued, "worst case, he really isn't interested anymore. Then what? You landed that project in three months. Your resume can get you into any architecture firm now. Quit if you have to, Ella. You know that Chinese saying?"
She said something in terrible Chinese, then translated. "Means 'those with nothing to lose fear no one.'"
I looked at her.
"But," she softened her tone, "if you don't ask, you'll regret it. I know you. You'll bury this and chew on it in the middle of the night, and it'll get more and more bitter."
Regret.
I stared at the wine left in my glass, turned that word over and over.
She was right.
I would regret it.
Outside the window, New York glowed in the night. Yellow cabs flowed down rain-slicked streets, pedestrians with umbrellas walked past with heads down, everyone with their own direction and destination.
I remembered that morning three months ago. He'd draped his suit jacket over my shoulders and said, "Return it next time we meet," then in the car said, "Goodnight in advance," then smiled and watched me close the car door and walk into my building—
That memory had a strange texture now, like looking through glass. Visible but unreachable.
I didn't want to numb myself with memories anymore.
Whatever the answer was, at least I'd tried.
Better than spending a lifetime wondering "did he ever like me at all."
"You're right." I threw my head back and drained the glass. "I'll go find him tomorrow."
Sasha raised her glass, clinked it against my empty one.
"That's my girl. That's the Ella Collins I know."
That night I drank too much, came home and crashed, dreamed all night about that shed, that rain, that kiss.
The next morning, I stood in front of my closet for twenty solid minutes.
What to wear?
Not too formal—that'd look calculated. Not too casual—that'd look disrespectful.
Finally, I picked a light blue blouse, a dark gray knee-length skirt, beige trench coat over it. Hair down. Light makeup.
Checked myself in the mirror for ages, made sure I looked professional but warm, then took a deep breath and walked out.
Got to the office at eight-fifty.
Didn't go to my desk. Went straight to the elevator.
The forty-second floor button lit up. Just me in the elevator. Watched the numbers climb, heartbeat accelerating with each floor.
Ding.
Doors opened.
The forty-second floor hallway looked the same—harsh lighting, thick carpet, faint scent of aromatherapy in the air. Emily's desk at the end of the hall, directly facing the CEO's office door.
I walked over.
Emily looked up, expression unchanged.
"Miss Collins, what can I do for you?"
"I need to see Mr. Volkov." My voice steadier than I expected.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
"Then I'm sorry, Mr. Volkov is very busy today—"
"I know." I cut her off. "But I have something important to discuss with him. About the architecture department's latest project. Please let him know I'm here."
Emily looked at me, something like surprise in her eyes—probably didn't expect me to push this hard.
She hesitated, then picked up the desk phone.
"Mr. Volkov, Miss Collins from architecture wants to see you. Says it's about a project."
Couldn't hear what he said on the other end.
Emily hung up, looked at me.
"Mr. Volkov has a guest right now. Please wait in the lounge."
A guest.
I nodded and walked to the lounge area.
The couch was soft, but I sat rigid, palms sweating.
I rehearsed what to say in my head.
"Mr. Volkov, I'd like to talk to you." Too formal.
"Why'd you suddenly stop talking to me?" Too direct.
"Did I do something wrong?" Too pathetic.
The more I thought, the more anxious I got. I bit my lip.
Screw it. Wing it.
I waited maybe ten minutes.
The door at the end of the hall opened.
I stood up, straightened my coat collar, then—
I froze.
Walking out of the office wasn't just Sergei.
Brianna was with him.
She wore a black fitted dress, hair down in waves over her shoulders, makeup flawless. She was turned toward Sergei, saying something, smiling, expression relaxed and intimate.
Sergei stood in the doorway, no suit jacket, just white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. He held a document, listening to Brianna, occasionally nodding.
They stood close.
Too close for a normal CEO-and-employee distance.
Brianna finished talking. Sergei said something. She laughed, reached out to take the document from him, fingertips brushing his hand.
My stomach felt like someone had punched it.
Brianna turned, saw me, smile freezing for an instant before becoming even brighter—that victor's brightness.
"Oh, Collins?" she said, tone airy. "Here to see Mr. Volkov?"
I couldn't speak.
Sergei saw me too.
His gaze landed on my face, held for one second, then moved away. Expression unchanged.
Like I was just a regular employee. Same as any other.
"Miss Collins said she has something to report," Emily said from the side.
"Come in." Sergei said, tone flat as saying "nice weather today."
Then he turned and walked back into his office.
Brianna passed me, footsteps pausing.
"Good luck, Collins," she said quietly, that smile I wanted to tear off her face. "But don't take too long. Mr. Volkov and I still have business to discuss."
She clicked away in her heels.
I stood in the hallway, staring at that open door, at Sergei's figure sitting behind his desk inside.
My heart raced. Something shattered in my chest, shards piercing into blood vessels, stabbing with each beat.
Cinderella never existed after all.
I took a deep breath, walked into the office, and closed the door.