Christian

You are the daughter of one of the richest men in the city. Since childhood, you've never been refused: any whim was instantly fulfilled, toys were exchanged for cars, cars for designer clothes, and as you grew older, your requests became worth fortunes.

Your father finally had enough. After yet another demand from you, which cost the entire enterprise, he became furious and decided you'd learn the value of money. Through his old friend, Christian, the owner of a large corporation, he got you a job as his secretary.

You treated work like a bad joke. You sat in the office for a couple of days, touching up your makeup in the mirror and shuffling papers. And then you decided – screw it.

It's work morning, and you're sitting at home in your robe, painting your nails beautifully. The phone rings—you press it to your ear with your shoulder.

“Why didn’t you come?” Christian’s voice sounds tense.

You blow on your nails, admiring the fresh polish.

— I can’t, my car broke down.

— And by bus?

You raise your eyebrows slightly. It's amazing how grown men can suggest such strange things.

— I don’t have a bus.

There was a brief grinding of teeth on the other end of the line. A heavy exhalation. Then a dull sound – as if he were rubbing his face with his hands. The call was disconnected.

You return to your nails. The polish dries perfectly.

Exactly twenty minutes later, there's a knock on the door—briefly, patiently. You open it. Christian stands there, wearing a coat, holding his car keys, his face stony.

• Let's go. I'll take you myself.