— Nastya, come in,” came Igor Petrovich’s voice — casual and weary, as though he were being distracted from something more important.
But Anastasia, who had worked at the company for twenty years and had learned every nuance of her boss’s intonations, instantly sensed — something was wrong. This wasn’t just a summons.
She stepped into his glass-walled office, feeling the silence that had descended in the open space behind her. A dozen and a half eyes were on her. The keyboards had fallen quiet, as if someone had cut the sound.
Igor Petrovich didn’t offer her a seat. He stood by the window, back turned, studying the city panorama as though deciding which tower to add to his portfolio.
“The company is entering a new stage,” he began, sounding like he was reading off a presentation. “There will be restructuring. Optimization, rejuvenation of the team, synergy… You know the trendy buzzwords.”
Anastasia stayed silent. She remembered how decades ago the company had been just a couple of basement rooms, how its founder — old Semyonych — had sketched dreams on napkins, and how she had believed in them with all her heart.
“My department has met 140% of its targets two years in a row,” she said evenly. “What exactly needs optimizing?”
He turned. His eyes held fatigue, irritation, almost contempt.
“Numbers are only half the story. Your methods are outdated. You cling to old clients, fear innovation. You stifle young talent with your experience. You’ve become ballast, Nastya.”
That last word cut like a knife. Not “veteran,” not “mentor.” Ballast. Dead weight to be thrown overboard.
“I see,” she managed, feeling the cold rise from her stomach to her throat. “And the terms?”
“Everything’s by the book. Resignation by mutual agreement, two months’ salary as compensation. Papers are ready — no need to tire you with details.”
He handed her the papers. Through her haze, she caught sight through the glass of Svetlana — her former assistant. The girl she herself had once taken on as an intern, trained in everything she knew. Svetlana was typing quickly on her phone, struggling to hide a smile.
At that moment, Anastasia understood everything.
She signed the papers silently. Walked back to her desk under gazes — some sympathetic, some fearful, some quietly triumphant.
Packing twenty years of a career into a cardboard box took ten minutes. A photo of her son, a mug labeled “Best Manager,” work notebooks, greeting cards.
No one came up. No one said a word. Everyone was afraid.
In the elevator, as the doors closed — cutting her off from her past life — she called her husband.
“Sergey, it’s done. He said it. Word for word.”
Silence on the line. Then his firm voice:
“Then they’ve signed their own death warrant. The lawyers just finished the due diligence. We now have every reason.”
Anastasia pressed the button for the first floor. Inside there were no tears, no resentment. Only an icy, perfectly clear calm. The calm of someone who knows: the operation has begun.
The next month she didn’t sleep. She worked day and night with her husband’s team — analysts, lawyers, experts. It turned out Sergey’s investment fund had been negotiating for six months to buy a controlling stake in her company.
The firm had potential. But its leadership was fragile. Igor Petrovich was the weak link — chasing appearances, surrounding himself with sycophantic incompetents.
Firing Anastasia — the best manager — was the final straw for Sergey. It wasn’t just a mistake; it was corporate suicide. He sped up the deal, using the data Anastasia provided about the company’s real state to negotiate a lower price.
Meanwhile, chaos erupted at the office. Svetlana, barely gaining authority, replaced the coffee machine, repainted the walls in “inspiring turquoise,” canceled planning meetings, and introduced “creative flash mobs” in chat — turning work communication into meaningless noise.
Two key clients, whom Anastasia had personally managed, announced after their first meeting with Svetlana that they intended to terminate their contracts.
Igor Petrovich panicked. Called Anastasia — she didn’t answer. He felt the ship was sinking but couldn’t see where the hull had been breached.
The reckoning came on Monday. A short email went out to all staff: “3:00 PM, emergency meeting. Attendance required. New board of directors.”
The meeting room was tense. Igor Petrovich sat at the head of the table, struggling to maintain control.
At exactly three, the door opened.
Anastasia walked in.
She had changed in a month. Dressed in a flawless storm-gray suit, her gaze calm, piercing. Behind her — her husband Sergey and two men in expensive suits.
“Nastya?.. What are you doing here?” stammered Igor Petrovich, his face flushing red.
Anastasia didn’t even glance at him. She walked to the head of the table, and he jumped up from the chair as if it had suddenly grown hot.
“Working, Igor Petrovich,” she said quietly but clearly. “Unlike some, who prefer to manage chaos instead of results.”
The silence in the room was so heavy that each syllable seemed to hang in the air like a drop about to fall.
“Allow me to introduce myself. Anastasia Vladimirovna Orlova. Acting CEO and Chairwoman of the Board.”
Her eyes swept the room — faces frozen in shock, disbelief, and cautious hope.
“As you may know, the company has been acquired by Horizon Investment Fund. Its head is my husband,” she nodded briefly toward Sergey. “And I, as the largest shareholder and the one who built this business from scratch, am returning to restore order. And I’ll start by removing… ballast.”
Her gaze locked on Igor Petrovich. He felt the chill run down his spine.
“Anastasia Vladimirovna! This is a mistake!” he stammered, voice trembling. “I always respected you! The dismissal — it was orders from above! I was just following instructions!”
She smirked faintly, opening the folder in front of her.
“Orders from above? Don’t degrade yourself with lies. The previous owner didn’t even know of your plans. It was your initiative. You were afraid — afraid that new investors would expose your incompetence. So you sacrificed me — a proven leader — for your own survival. Classic cowardice.”
She pulled out a report and placed it on the table.
“And here’s the record of your protégé’s performance,” her gaze shifted to Svetlana, who had gone deathly pale. “In three weeks under her management, the department lost ninety-seven million. She alienated clients the company had pursued for years. This isn’t ‘team rejuvenation.’ This isn’t ‘fresh ideas.’ It’s professional sepsis.”
“I… I tried…” whispered Svetlana, trembling. “I wanted to do everything right…”
“You didn’t try. You played at being a manager. Thought power meant choosing wall colors and humiliating staff. But power is responsibility. And you don’t even understand what that word means.”
Anastasia stood. Her movements carried no aggression — only cold resolve.
“Igor Petrovich, you’re fired. Cause: inflicting major financial damage on the company. Legal is preparing materials for criminal charges. Svetlana — you’re fired for complete incompetence. Security will escort you. You have five minutes to collect your things.”
The suited men stepped forward, politely but firmly escorting the two from the room.
When the door shut, Anastasia turned to the staff again.
“Now — to business. I won’t be staging purges. I remember who stayed silent, who was afraid, who tried to keep their dignity. The past is past.
From today everything changes. We work for results, not for noise. No more intrigue, flattery, or empty loyalty. If you can’t accept that — there’s the door. The rest — get to work.
In an hour I expect all department heads in my office. With real, concrete anti-crisis measures. No fluff. No pretty words. Just action.”
She looked at their faces — tense, uncertain, but in many eyes there was relief. Hope. And for the first time in a long while, she felt: she was exactly where she belonged.
Epilogue. One year later.
Horizon Media had become the industry leader. Analysts called it “a phenomenon of efficiency.”
Anastasia proved she could be tough — but fair. She won back old clients, brought in new ones. Introduced a motivation system where pay depended not on favoritism but on real contribution. Talent was no longer buried under patronage but given a chance.
She never saw Igor Petrovich again. Rumor had it he lost in court, his reputation ruined, and now scraped by as a consultant on the fringes of the market — without teams, influence, or power.
Svetlana, after a string of failed job interviews, married a wealthy man and now filled social media with captions like, “A true woman is a quiet corner in her man’s home.”
One day, Lena — a young designer who had once silently left a chocolate on Anastasia’s desk the day she was fired — knocked on her office door.
“Anastasia Vladimirovna, I’ve prepared a project…” she said shyly, handing over a folder.
Anastasia studied the sketches carefully. They carried boldness, freshness, a true vision.
“Excellent, Lena. Take the initiative. I’m giving you a budget, two people for a team, and the status of project lead.”
“But… I’m just a designer…” the girl stammered.
“I don’t see positions. I see potential. And in this company, we value not the plaque on the door, but the drive to move forward. There’s no room here for ballast anymore. Only for those ready to work. And those who dare to grow.”
That evening, on the terrace of their country home, Anastasia sat next to Sergey, watching the sun set behind the horizon.
“You’ve changed,” he said softly. “There’s steel in you now.”
“No,” she smiled. “I just stopped hiding. I became who I always was. I had only been afraid to believe it.”
It turned out, to move a ship forward, you don’t need to throw out ballast.
You just need to change the captain.
