Anna Sergeevna always arrived at work fifteen minutes early. Not out of zeal or a desire to impress—simply because it felt right. While other employees were hastily finishing their coffees in the hallway, she was already sorting the mail, preparing documents for signature, and checking the director’s meeting schedule.
Her workstation—a small desk outside the office of Maksim Petrovich Volkov—was organized with mathematical precision. Folders were arranged by color and date, pens lay strictly parallel to the edge of the desk, and the phone sat at a forty-five-degree angle to the computer monitor. Colleagues teased her pedantry, but they admitted: whenever something needed to be found or clarified, everyone went to Anna.
“Anya, where’s the contract with Systema Plus?” someone from Sales would ask.
“Third shelf, blue folder, section ‘Active Contracts, S–T,’” she’d reply without even looking up from her computer.
And sure enough, the contract was always exactly where she said it would be.
Dmitry worked in that same Sales department. He had been her husband for three years. Tall, with slightly tousled light-brown hair and a perpetually wrinkled shirt, he seemed the polar opposite of his wife. If Anna was the embodiment of order, Dmitry personified creative chaos. His desk looked like a battlefield—papers, pens, empty coffee cups, business cards, and mysterious notes stuck together in peculiar little pyramids.
“Dim, you forgot to send the request to accounting again,” Anna would say after work as they walked to the car.
“Oh, right. I’ll send it tomorrow,” he’d wave her off, already thinking about something else.
But tomorrow he would forget again, and Anna would have to discreetly remind the folks in accounting that Dmitry Kravtsov’s request was still on its way.
She loved him. Or at least she thought she did. They had met in college, married right after graduation, and got jobs at the same company. Back then it seemed romantic—building careers together, supporting each other. But over time Anna began to notice that the support only went one way.
Dmitry was often late to important meetings, forgot deadlines, and had a habit of promising clients what the company couldn’t deliver. Anna learned to read his schedule and gently, as if in passing, remind him about important tasks.
“Dim, you’ve got a meeting with Technostroy at ten tomorrow,” she’d say in the evening.
“Mm-hmm,” he’d nod, buried in his phone.
“They want to discuss the possibility of lowering the price. I did the math—seven percent is the maximum we can give without hurting profitability.”
“Mm-hmm, seven. Got it.”
The next day he promised the clients a fifteen-percent discount and full technical support the company simply didn’t offer.
Maksim Petrovich Volkov, the company director, was about forty-five, with perceptive gray eyes and the habit of listening carefully. Unlike many bosses, he didn’t like to yell and preferred to resolve conflicts through dialogue. Anna had been his secretary for several years and knew: if Maksim Petrovich furrowed his brow while looking at documents, it meant someone had overpromised again.
“Anna Sergeevna,” he called one morning, “do you have a minute?”
She took her notebook and went into his office. He stood by the window, holding some papers.
“Tell me, how long has your husband been working in Sales?”
The question was unexpected. Anna felt her heart tighten.
“Three years, Maksim Petrovich.”
“And how much of your time do you spend fixing his mistakes?”
She was silent. He turned to face her.
“I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. But the numbers speak for themselves. Last quarter the Sales department showed its lowest results in two years. At the same time, client complaints increased. And eighty percent of those complaints concern one employee.”
Anna knew exactly whom he meant.
“Maksim Petrovich, I understand this looks unprofessional…”
“Anna Sergeevna,” he interrupted gently, “you’re the most valuable employee in this company. You know all our processes, you remember every contract, you know how to work with clients. Honestly, you handle responsibilities better than half the managers. Why are you working as a secretary?”
“I like my job.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
She looked at him and suddenly realized she couldn’t lie. You couldn’t lie to this man—he saw right through people.
“When we first got hired, I wanted to try Sales. But Dmitry said that two competitors in one family wasn’t right. That he’d feel awkward if I earned more.”
Maksim Petrovich nodded, as if he’d received exactly the answer he expected.
“I see. In that case, I have a proposal. Think about a promotion. Deputy for Business Development. Twice the salary, your own office, travel. Are you willing?”
“What about Dmitry?”
“What about him? This is your career, Anna Sergeevna. Your life.”
That evening at home she told her husband about the offer. Dmitry listened, growing darker with every word.
“Deputy for Business Development,” he repeated. “So you’ll be making more than me?”
“Dim, that’s great! We could afford more, maybe finally get a bigger apartment…”
“And what will people say? The wife making more than her husband?”
“Why does it matter what people say?”
“It matters to me,” he snapped. “I won’t be a kept man.”
“Dmitry, what are you talking about? Kept man? We’re a family, a team…”
“A team,” he smirked. “In a team, everyone’s equal. And you want to be the boss.”
“I just want to grow!”
“At my expense.”
The conversation ended in a fight. Anna turned down the promotion.
A month later a new employee joined Sales—Alyona Smirnova. Twenty-six, a degree in marketing, experience at a major retail chain. She was bright and energetic, with long dark hair and a habit of laughing at any joke her male colleagues made.
Anna noticed the change in her husband almost immediately. Dmitry started staying late at work, paid more attention to his appearance, bought new shirts, and even signed up for a gym.
“We’ve got a new hire in the department,” he mentioned over dinner. “Very promising girl. Alyona. She’ll help me with major clients.”
“That’s good,” Anna said, though her heart tightened for some reason.
Alyona really was a good specialist. But Anna quickly realized it wasn’t just professional. Dmitry chatted with his new colleague in the smoking area, stayed late with her to “discuss work,” and mentioned her name often.
“Alyona says our sales strategy is outdated,” he’d tell his wife.
“Alyona thinks we should focus more on customer service.”
“Alyona suggested a great idea for a new ad campaign.”
Anna kept quiet. She saw how he looked at Alyona, how his face lit up when he heard her laughter in the corridor. And she understood she was losing him.
The end came surprisingly fast. One February evening Dmitry came home and said:
“We need to talk.”
They sat in the kitchen across from each other. Dmitry fiddled with a cup of cold tea for a long time.
“I’m leaving,” he said at last.
“Where?” Anna didn’t understand.
“Leaving you. I’m leaving you—for Alyona.”
The world seemed to stop around her. She heard her own voice as if from outside:
“How long?”
“What—how long?”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Since December.”
Two months. For two months he’d come home to her, kiss her goodnight, make weekend plans—and for two months he’d been seeing someone else.
“Why?” she asked.
Dmitry shrugged.
“We’re different, Anya. Too different. You’re so… proper. You always know everything, remember everything, plan everything. Next to you I feel like a failure.”
“I never said you were a failure.”
“You didn’t say it. But your look did. When I forgot something important, when I messed up the numbers, when I let clients down. You silently fixed my mistakes, but I saw that expression on your face.”
“I just wanted to help.”
“And Alyona… with her I feel like a man. She laughs at my jokes, admires my ideas. She believes in me.”
“And I didn’t?”
“You controlled.”
Anna realized arguing was pointless. Dmitry had already decided. He packed his things that very evening and moved in with Alyona.
At work, everyone pretended nothing had happened. Colleagues avoided meeting Anna’s eyes, and Dmitry and Alyona tried not to appear together where she might be. Anna worked as usual—precisely, neatly, professionally. Only sometimes did Maksim Petrovich linger on her with a look, as if he wanted to say something.
A month later Dmitry submitted a request to transfer to a branch on the other side of the city.
“It’ll be better for everyone,” he told Anna when they met in the hallway. “We shouldn’t run into each other at work.”
She nodded. Alyona was transferring with him.
On the day they left, Maksim Petrovich called Anna into his office.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine,” she answered.
“Anna Sergeevna,” he paused, “you deserve more.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You are a smart and beautiful woman. You deserve a man who will value that.”
She felt her cheeks flush.
“Maksim Petrovich, I don’t think that’s appropriate…”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But it’s true.”
In the weeks that followed, something changed between them. Maksim began staying later at the office, finding reasons to talk with Anna. He sought her opinion on business matters and invited her to lunch to discuss new projects. For the first time in a long while, Anna felt professionally wanted—someone truly listened to her ideas and took them seriously.
“You have excellent intuition with clients,” he said one day. “You always sense exactly what they want.”
“I just listen carefully,” she replied.
“Not just. You have a gift for understanding people. That’s rare.”
Gradually, their work conversations shifted into personal ones. Maksim told her about his childhood in St. Petersburg, how he started the business from scratch, his plans for the company’s growth. Anna shared her thoughts about life and how she saw her future.
“You know,” he said one evening when the two of them were alone at the office, “I got divorced five years ago. I thought for a long time I’d never love anyone again. Then I realized I just hadn’t met the right person.”
Anna knew where he was heading, and felt her heart quicken.
“Maksim Petrovich…”
“Maksim,” he corrected. “Just Maksim.”
“Maksim, I don’t know if I’m ready for a new relationship.”
“I do,” he said softly. “You’re ready. You’re just afraid to trust again.”
He was right. Anna was afraid—afraid of being vulnerable again, of believing someone could truly value her.
Their first kiss happened a month later, at a corporate party celebrating the signing of a major contract. Anna had organized the event and stayed late to oversee cleanup. Maksim was helping her pack the remaining documents.
“Great party,” he said. “You thought of every detail.”
“That’s my job.”
“No,” he took her hand. “It’s your talent—creating harmony where there wasn’t any.”
And then he kissed her. Gently, carefully, as if afraid to startle her.
Their romance unfolded slowly and cautiously. Maksim didn’t rush or pressure her. He was simply there—reliable, understanding, ready to support her in a difficult moment. With him, Anna felt not like a secretary fixing other people’s mistakes, but like a true partner.
Half a year later he proposed. They registered their marriage quietly, without any fuss, inviting only their closest friends.
“I want you to remain my deputy,” Max said on their honeymoon. “Not a secretary—a deputy. We’re a team, a real team.”
“And what will people say?” Anna smiled, remembering her ex-husband’s words.
“What can they say? That a smart CEO married the best employee in the company? Let them talk.”
The pregnancy was a surprise—pleasantly so. At thirty-two, Anna felt truly happy for the first time.
“We’ve got this,” Maksim would say, wrapping his arms around her rounding belly. “We’re going to have a wonderful family.”
In her seventh month, Dmitry came to their office. The branch director had recommended reviewing his employment contract—too many client complaints had piled up. Max decided to hold a personal meeting before making a final decision about firing him.
Anna was at her desk sorting the mail when her ex-husband walked into reception. He’d aged, grown gaunt; there was a nervous restlessness in his eyes. Seeing her, he stopped and smirked:
“So you’re still a secretary—didn’t have the brains for anything more,” he sneered, not knowing she was now the wife of his boss.
Anna looked at him calmly and smiled. Then she rose slowly, and Dmitry saw her rounded belly. His face shifted—first surprise, then confusion.
“Darling, is everything all right?” Maksim Petrovich came out into reception. He touched his wife’s shoulder tenderly and looked at Dmitry with a cold gaze.
Dmitry stood there, glancing from one to the other. He saw the wedding bands on their hands, saw how Max was carefully steadying Anna, saw how she looked at her new husband—with warmth, trust, and love.
“Please come into my office, Dmitry Evgenyevich,” Maksim said coolly. “We have a serious conversation ahead of us.”
Dmitry slunk into the office like a whipped dog. The talk didn’t last long. Twenty minutes later Max walked him to the door and returned to his wife.
“Well, personnel matters settled,” he said, taking from a folder the signed termination order. “You know, I’m unbelievably lucky.”
“With what?”
“My beloved woman has become not only my best aide, but my wife—and soon the mother of our child. What could be better?”
Anna hugged him and felt the baby kick inside her, as if agreeing with his father. Yes, they truly were lucky. All three of them.
