With numbers like these, it’s surprising you were hired for this position at all,» Natalya Andreyevna said with thinly veiled contempt, handing the folder back to me. «It’s astonishing how some people manage to move up the ladder with no real experience.»
A chill ran down my spine, but I kept my face impassive. That was already her fifth jab of the day—each one louder and more cutting than the last.
My name is Darya Alekseyevna Klimova. I’m 27, and for the past two years I’ve worked as an analyst in a large company—one run by my father, Alexey Yuryevich Romanov. No one knows that. Even my husband thinks his father‑in‑law and the legendary CEO are two different people.
When I joined, I took my mother’s surname—my father’s condition: no special treatment. «Here you’re just another employee. Until you prove yourself, no one should know,» he told me then.
And I did prove myself, earning a reputation for strong ideas and solid projects—no favors, no advantages. At least, until Natalya Andreyevna arrived.
My mother‑in‑law.
Six months ago she transferred to us from a rival firm. Our wedding had been modest—my father was away on business and couldn’t attend. At work we kept quiet about our family ties; she pretended she didn’t know me, though she occasionally slipped in a barbed remark.
«Do you even know how to draft commercial proposals, Darya Alekseyevna?» she’d say when I suggested new approaches.
«So young and already so self‑confident,» she would whisper to colleagues, assuming I couldn’t hear.
At first I chalked it up to her adjusting, or maybe it was just her nature. But after a family dinner three weeks ago it became clear: she thought I wasn’t good enough for her son.
«Yegor could’ve found someone better,» she told him, thinking I was still in the bathroom. «She’s too ordinary. No connections, no ambition.»
If only she knew …
Her pressure at the office only grew. She interrupted me in meetings, nit‑picked my reports, set impossible deadlines. I stayed silent, focusing on my work. I had to win this with professionalism, not family connections.
Yegor noticed my strain.
«Everything all right?» he’d ask in the evenings.
«Just a rough spell at work,» I said—no point putting him between wife and mother.
I understood the truth would come out eventually, but I never expected it to be so soon—and so public.
That Monday everything changed. We held a big planning meeting with our entire department and neighboring teams. I presented a new client‑data analytics system I’d spent a month building—one that let us track consumer behavior in real time and adjust strategy on the fly.
When I finished, colleagues were nodding—the idea was clearly innovative.
Then Natalya Andreyevna stood.
«You’d do better learning to produce error‑free reports,» she said coolly, arms folded. «Stop embarrassing us with these absurd proposals.»
Silence. I stood there clutching the laser pointer, shocked. Had she really just used the informal «you» in front of the entire team?
«Natalya Andreyevna,» the IT‑department head began, «Darya’s proposal makes sense if you look at the data—»
«Or maybe she’s just spouting nonsense,» she cut him off, eyes locked on me.
The blow was direct and unexpected. Someone coughed; a few gasped. HR’s Maria froze, jaw dropped. Natalya Andreyevna had obliterated any hint of professional decorum.
My cheeks burned, temples pounding. Usually calm and collected, I felt anger rising. Private digs were one thing; public humiliation was another.
«Thank you for your comment,» I said, mustering every ounce of composure. «If we review the figures, you’ll see the system already boosted results in the test group.»
My restraint only seemed to provoke her.
«Fine,» she said, standing. «I’ve spoken my mind. Carry on.»
The meeting ended in tense silence. As colleagues filed out—many with sympathetic glances—I packed my papers. Behind me I heard her voice, loud enough for all to hear:
«These are the people they hire now—looks over competence. No brains at all.»
I didn’t turn around. I calmly finished gathering my things and left, back straight.
In the restroom I ran my hands under ice‑cold water. Deep breath, slow exhale—ten times. I stared at my reflection.
You’ve got this, I told myself. You always find a way.
But something had cracked. The line I’d guarded between work and family was gone. My mother‑in‑law was trying to destroy me, and I couldn’t pretend it didn’t affect us all.
I knew what I had to do.
My father’s office is on the top floor. I rarely went there; we’d agreed our relationship stayed strictly professional at work. But today was different.
His secretary, Elena Viktorovna, looked up, startled.
«Darya Alekseyevna? How can I help?»
«I need to see Alexey Yuryevich. Personal matter.»
«He has a meeting in fifteen minutes, but—»
«It’s urgent,» I said. Something in my voice convinced her.
She buzzed him: «Alexey Yuryevich, Darya Alekseyevna Klimova is here—says it’s urgent.»
«Send her in,» he replied.
When the door shut behind me, the professional mask slipped.
«Dad,» I said, my voice shaking.
He rarely saw me like this—I was always the strong, composed one. Now I felt like a little girl in pain.
«What happened?» He rose from his desk.
«It’s time,» I said. «You told me to stay silent. I have. But now—either I leave, or she does.»
«Natalya Andreyevna?» His eyes hardened.
I told him everything: the first jabs, the rising pressure, yesterday’s public insult, the strain at home. He knew who she was, but not the details.
He listened, face impassive—but I recognized that look. My father seldom got angry, yet when he did, consequences followed.
«Are you certain?» he asked. «Everyone will learn we’re related.»
«Yes. I’ve shown I can succeed without your help. I’m not afraid of being called ‘the boss’s daughter.’»
He tapped his fingers thoughtfully.
«All right. Tomorrow, 10 a.m. Large conference room. I want the whole department—and Natalya Andreyevna—there.»
Relief and nerves washed over me.
«Thank you.»
«Don’t thank me yet,» he replied, CEO once more. «Go; I have a meeting.»
I left lighter. Tomorrow everything would change—I wasn’t sure how, but I was ready.
The large conference room filled quickly. Colleagues whispered—an impromptu meeting called by the CEO was rare. I took a seat in the corner.
Natalya Andreyevna entered late. Spotting me, she lifted an eyebrow, confidence radiating.
At exactly ten my father strode in. Conversations died. He scanned the room, paused on me, then spoke:
«Good morning. I’ve called you together for an unusual reason.»
A pause as he arranged his papers.
«Yesterday I was informed of behavior that violates not only corporate ethics but basic respect.»
A ripple spread through the room. I saw her shoulders tighten.
«Natalya Andreyevna,» he said, «please come forward.»
She rose, poised but uneasy.
«Darya Alekseyevna, you as well.»
My pulse raced as I stood beside him.
«I’ve received reports of yesterday’s incident,» he began, «and your public, highly unprofessional conduct. Is that true?»
She lifted her chin.
«I voiced a professional opinion. Perhaps emotionally, but—»
«‘You’d do better to learn error‑free reporting,’ ‘Your proposals are garbage’—were those professional opinions?» he quoted.
Color drained from her face.
«I… may have overstepped. But young specialists need discipline—»
«Darya Alekseyevna,» he said, «has spent two years proving herself, boosting conversion by 17 percent with her latest project. Marketing relies on her models. So why the remarks?»
She faltered.
«Alexey Yuryevich, perhaps I went too far. But—»
«My colleagues,» he turned to the room, «may I ask Darya one question? Your patronymic, please.»
I straightened and met her gaze.
«Romanova.»
Silence. Then a collective gasp.
«Yes,» my father confirmed. «Darya Alekseyevna is my daughter. She joined under her mother’s surname; I never interfered. Until yesterday, we kept that private.»
Shock crossed her face.
«This… can’t be,» she whispered.
«Moreover,» he said, «you are Yegor’s mother—Darya’s mother‑in‑law. You knowingly bullied your own daughter‑in‑law in this office.»
Murmurs filled the room.
«Alexey Yuryevich, I’m deeply sorry. Perhaps we can discuss—»
«No,» he said evenly. «You humiliated her publicly; you’ll face the consequences publicly. You’re dismissed, Natalya Andreyevna. HR will have your paperwork by day’s end.»
Her face twisted.
«That’s unfair! Only because she’s your daughter—»
«Because you broke corporate ethics,» he cut in. «I’d do the same if she weren’t. Meeting adjourned.»
People dispersed, buzzing. Some stopped to lend support. She fled without a glance.
When we were alone, he asked softly, «You okay?»
«Yes,» I breathed, weight lifted.
«Remember: eyes will be on you now. You’ve raised the bar—keep it high.»
«I will,» I smiled.
That evening I got home late. Yegor sat waiting, solemn.
«Mom called,» he began. «Gave me her version. Then Andrey from IT told me what really happened—and who you really are.»
Tension coiled inside me.
«Why didn’t you tell me?» he asked quietly.
«I didn’t want you to love me for status. I wanted to be just Dasha.»
He knelt, taking my hands.
«You’re right. Mom crossed every line. Thank you for staying above it. She’ll have to accept that I choose my life—and my wife.» He kissed my fingers. «I’m on your side.»
A month later I sat in my new office: head of analytics. The promotion was earned—results spoke for themselves. Colleagues regarded me with respect tinged with caution, but I was still the same Darya. Now everyone simply knew who I was.
On my desk stood a new photo—me, Yegor, and my father at a family dinner. A real family, without secrets.
I’d won respect not through a surname, but through skill, composure, and the courage to be myself. And that meant more than any title.
