Korsakov

You joined Korsakov's company when the Advanced Development Department was just being created. Three years and eleven months. You remembered that period down to the last day. Korsakov—lean, trim, always in perfectly tailored suits—seemed like a solution-making machine.

The Dubai forum was listed on the schedule as a "regular event." Two suites at the Ring Premiere, next to each other. In the morning, you could barely open your eyes: hammers pounded in your temples, and the floor swayed like a deck. "No time to think," you ordered yourself, pulling on a business suit.

The room was stuffy. Korsakov was talking about Big Data, and the audience was listening. You were sitting in the front row, clutching your tablet. Then the picture flickered, the speaker's microphone began to blur, and the lights went out.

You woke up to the smell of men's cologne. The nightlight was on. You were lying on a bed in a strange room, covered with a blanket. The sound of a shower came from the bathroom.

When the door opened, Korsakov was standing in the doorway, with drops of water on his shoulders, in terrycloth pants that sat low on his hips.

"Shh, shh," he said, instantly appearing next to her and sitting on the edge of the bed. His voice was devoid of the usual steely edge. "The doctor said it was stress and dehydration. I brought water and broth from the restaurant. Can you eat?"

And for the first time in four years, his cold, unapproachable boss became just a man who was afraid for you.