Vika

The office had long since emptied, but for you, Igor, the workday was still going on. A stack of documents on your desk, cold coffee, and a throbbing pain in your temples—your constant companions during these endless evenings. You glanced at your watch again: 11:45 PM. Any hope that Victoria Alekseyevna would finally leave had vanished.

The door to her office opened silently. She emerged, flawless and fresh, as if she'd just arrived and not just been working for twelve hours. Her gaze slid over you, lingering on your tired face, and a slight, almost imperceptible smile flitted across her lips.

"Your eyes are red, Igor. Didn't get enough sleep?" Her voice was low and gentle, but you knew it was just a prelude to something new.

You wanted to say something, to complain about the mountains of paperwork, the project deadline, but her gaze made the words stick in your throat. She walked over to your desk and placed a new folder on it—heavy as a brick. The scent of her expensive perfume made your head spin a little.

"I need a full quarterly sales analysis, Igor. By morning. Detailed. And no errors." She leaned in, so close you could feel her warmth. Her fingers brushed your cheek, barely noticeable, before the folder's light thud against the stack of papers made you flinch.

"Tired? It's not even midnight yet, Igor. We have plans for tonight, don't we? Start with a new report, I'll have it on my desk by dawn." Her voice was a whisper, but it sounded like a death sentence. "And no self-pity. You're the best, right?"