This day wasn't different from the others. The same faces, the same fatigue, the same signatures that supposedly determine something important. Another contract, on me — as always.
I work at WEST Raid. Unofficially — lawyer, accountant, and analyst all in one. Officially — no one. No higher education, but with a mind that proves more useful than diplomas on the walls. I was dragged here by personal recommendation — someone I helped once. And the boss took full advantage of it: minimum pay, maximum work.
Am I surprised? Obviously not.But the money — it's stable. And stability is the only thing I can call "mine."
When I walked through the main lobby, office "goddesses" in heels rushed by, wearing skirts that seemed more like a plea for attention than anything meant to cover. I often wondered — why dress like that? As if they believe they're living in a romance where the boss will inevitably fall for the secretary and give her not just a ring, but a life she doesn't deserve.
It's cliché. Funny. But worst of all — it's not about us.Our boss — Vel. Fat, unpleasant, ugly in his own way. With a personality that makes you want to wash your hands after dealing with him.
He'd rather pay for a prostitute than touch an employee. Although... he knows how to grope.Just not me.
My suit is too gray, too closed off, too "leave me alone." My hair — tied back in a tight ponytail, my face — emotionless. There's nothing on me to grab onto. And that's my choice.
Be quieter. Be invisible.It's easier to survive that way.
I entered the meeting room first.The tall windows looked out over the city, stretching far beyond the horizon — always noisy, dusty, indifferent. Just like the people inside these walls.The office — painfully standard: a long table, cold light. Everything like in an office architecture textbook — meant to inspire a sense of importance in those who have no power.
I took my usual spot — by the wall, closer to the exit. The place where I'm not visible, but I see everything.Gradually, the staff trickled in: two from our team, manager Rick and his assistant Betty. Then came the personal secretary to the boss.Then he appeared. Vel. As always, disheveled: his shirt hanging out of his pants, no tie to speak of, his jacket hanging loosely on his stomach.He sighed loudly, threw a folder on the table, and sat down like everything here belonged to him. In some ways, it did.
I overheard secretary Katya whispering to him:— Is it true they're... you know, a mafia clan?— Mafia is from the movies. Now everyone just makes money. Sometimes not quite legally. Relax.
Rick and Betty whispered in the other corner but quickly fell silent — the door opened.Everyone turned, except for me.I stared at the table. At the folder.
An orange one.It was supposed to be white.I clearly remember handing over the contract in a white folder. I don't make mistakes with these details. Never.Did they move it?
My throat went dry.Something was wrong.
First, a guard entered the room.Black suit, square jaw, shoulders like a door. He scanned the room without lingering on anyone — just a quick scan. Mechanically. Calmly.
Next came the lawyer. Ordinary. Average build, tired look, folder in hand. No threat, no extra confidence. Just a representative.
And then he came in.His scent arrived before his steps. Expensive. Complex. Masculine.He entered slowly — like someone who doesn't need to rush. Everything already belonged to him.
The tie.The suit was flawless. The jacket fit his frame as if it were sewn directly on him.His hair — neatly styled.His steps — measured. Hands in his pockets. His gaze — direct, heavy.He didn't need an introduction. You could feel him before he spoke.
And behind him — a second guard.He quietly closed the door. Locked it.
The room fell into silence. Not awkward, but marked.There was a different energy coming from them. Not ours. Not office-like.Smooth, heavy, like marble.
I glanced quickly at their faces.Two guards. One lawyer.And him.
Teron Veskari.So that's why the women in the office dress like they're heading to a party.Why they fall in love with the bosses, even knowing how it always ends.A man like him makes you forget what common sense is.
My gaze slid to our boss.The irony hit like a slap in the face.Yes, disappointment is a feeling too.
No one was looking at me. Thank God for that.I sat by the wall like furniture, like a shadow — not existing until someone wants to get rid of it.
Our boss began speaking. As always: gratitude, fake smiles, pompous phrases about "mutually beneficial partnerships." His voice sounded too sweet, like honey smeared on stale bread.
Mr. Teron Veskari stayed silent. Didn't nod. Didn't smile. Just watched.Then he spoke.Low. Even. Without emotion.— I'm here for one reason. And I won't hide it. You all know.He paused, as if he were looking deeper into the person rather than at them.— I need your ports in Asia and Central Asia. You got access to them on favorable terms. Now I can either buy them from you — for a sum that exceeds their real value by a hundred times, or...He placed his hand on the table — not sharply, but with certainty.— Or we can strike a deal. My company gets access to your unloading sites. For a good fee. Transparent terms. No fuss.
Vel perked up, like a fat cat promised meat.— Of course, of course, — he nodded. — But you understand... these sites are assets. A constant income. Won't sell. But... rent? Monthly?He smugly slapped the folder.— I thought it over and came to the conclusion: for the amount you've offered, we can find common ground.
He didn't even notice how the air in the room thickened.But I noticed.Veskari didn't move. But it got cold.
Katya retrieved the folder from Vel's arm and handed it to the lawyer from the partners' side.He opened the documents silently, began reading — calmly, thoughtfully. And already by the second paragraph, he raised an eyebrow and showed something to Veskari.
— The contract hasn't been corrected, — he said shortly. — You gave us the old version.
Vel stretched over the table, grabbed the folder, and began reading — not commenting aloud, but his eyes quickly found me.— Mirey? Did you redo the draft?
I didn't even sigh. I just stood up, walked to the table, and without a word took a small UV flashlight from my pocket.Opened the first page.Covered the corner with my palm, shone the light — and of course, there was no mark of mine.
I always put it there. A small ultraviolet mark in the corner: "checked" or "final." Sometimes just initials. Everyone has their own paranoias — that was mine.
— I apologize, — I said quietly. — The latest version is probably still on your secretary's desk. I'll bring it now.
I wasn't apologizing. I was stating a fact.But even through my even tone, I could feel someone from the partners was looking at me.Is it possible that, for the first time today — they're actually looking?
I left quickly. Not running, but almost. No time to wait for the elevator.Two flights up — to the reception.The folder was on Katya's desk. White. With a bright marker note: "For today." Exactly where I put it. Where she asked me to.Thanks, Kat. Empty.
Grabbing the documents, I returned. Before the door to the meeting room, I paused for half a second. Breathe. Exhale.Calm. Precision.
I entered.Confidently. Without rushing.
And then — his gaze.Mr. Veskari.Straight. Into my eyes.Not arrogantly. Not with interest. Just... attentively.As if analyzing.
And yes, Vel had already started.— Sorry. She... works here.He smiled falsely at the partners.— I assure you, we don't have such unprofessionalism among our staff. She will be removed.
Perfect. Just perfect.First, they threw the folder at me. Now they throw me out.
The lawyer skimmed through the pages.Nodded.— Everything's perfect.
Teron took the documents, looked at the signatures — and suddenly lifted his gaze.Straight at me.Calmly. Not judgmentally. Just — without looking away.
— What does she do for you? — he asked.
He asked Vel.But he kept looking at me.Unwaveringly. Coldly. As though he wasn't asking a question, but studying, checking, reading.No game. No flirting.Just control.
I sat up straight. Didn't avert my gaze.Though inside, everything screamed:This attention — isn't a compliment.It's a target.