Lena, we have to part ways.”
Gennady spoke with a gentle, fatherly tone that he always adopted just before unveiling another unpleasant maneuver.
Comfortably reclining in his large chair, his fingers intertwined over his stomach, he continued, “The company requires a new image. Fresh energy. You get what I mean.”
I studied his polished features, noticing the expensive tie — one I had once helped select for his last corporate event.
Understand? Absolutely, I did. I knew the investors were pushing for an independent audit. And he was desperate to eliminate the only person aware of every detail. Me.
“I get it,” I replied evenly. “New energy — like Katya at reception, who confuses debit with credit but happens to be twenty-two and laughs at all your jokes?”
He grimaced.
“It’s not a matter of age, Lena. Your methods feel outdated. We’ve been stagnant. We need progress.
‘Progress.’ This word had echoed in his speech for months. I had helped build this company from scratch alongside him when we squeezed into a cramped office with peeling paint.
Now, with the office looking sleek and modern, I apparently no longer complemented the setting.
“Alright,” I said calmly, rising. A chill fell inside me as stillness took over. “When should I clear out my desk?”
My tranquility unsettled him. He expected tears, protests, a meltdown — reactions allowing him to feel like a magnanimous winner.
“Today if you want. No urgency. HR will sort the paperwork: severance and everything else.”
I nodded and moved toward the door. Hand already on the handle, I glanced back.
“You know, Gen, you’re right. The company does need a leap. And I suppose I’ll be the one to deliver it.”
He didn’t grasp it, simply smirking in disdain.
Amid the open space where roughly fifteen employees sat, the air was thick with tension. Everyone was aware of the situation.
The women avoided eye contact, ashamed. I proceeded to my desk, where a cardboard box awaited me — efficient and impersonal.
Silently, I placed my belongings inside: photographs of my children, a cherished mug, a pile of specialty journals.
At the box’s base, I nestled a small bunch of lilies-of-the-valley from my son — a spontaneous gift from him just the day before.
Then I retrieved what I had carefully prepared in advance: a dozen scarlet roses — one for each colleague who had stood by me over the years — plus a thick black folder wrapped tightly with cords.
I walked around the office, offering each person a rose.
- Quiet words of gratitude accompanied each presentation.
- Some embraced me, others shed tears.
- It felt like bidding farewell to family.
Returning to my desk, only the folder remained in my hands. I gathered it and, ignoring my coworkers’ puzzled stares, headed back to Gennady’s office.
The door was slightly open. He was laughing over the phone.
“Yes, the old guard is leaving… It’s time to move forward…”
I didn’t pause to knock, entering and setting the folder atop his desk papers.
He looked up in surprise, covering the receiver.
“And what’s this?”
“Gen, this is my farewell present. In place of flowers. Inside, you’ll find every ‘leap’ from the past two years,” I explained.
“Complete with figures, invoices, and dates. I believe you’ll find it engaging to review when you have some time. Particularly the section on ‘flexible methodologies’ for fund transfers.”
Without another word, I left the room, sensing his gaze searing through the folder and following me as I walked away.
He muttered into the phone before hanging up, but I did not look back.
Through the office, I carried the empty box. Everyone watched silently.
Fear and quiet admiration mingled in their eyes. Scarlet roses adorned each desk — resembling a poppy field after a battle.
Near the exit, Sergei, the head of IT—a quiet man Gennady often dismissed as just a function—caught up to me.
When Gennady fined Sergei heavily over a server mishap caused by his own error, I had gathered evidence to defend him. He hadn’t forgotten.
“Yelena Petrovna,” he whispered, “if you ever need data or cloud backups, just ask. You know where to find me.”
I nodded silently. His was the first sign of support amidst looming resistance.
At home, my husband and college-aged son awaited. They understood everything at once when they saw the box.
“Did it work?” my husband asked, taking the box from me.
“The first step is done,” I replied, removing my shoes. “Now we wait.”
My son, an aspiring lawyer, hugged me tightly.
“Mom, you’re incredible. I reviewed the documents again. There’s absolutely no loophole. No auditor will overlook these.”
It had been my son’s help that sorted the chaos of double bookkeeping I had covertly collected over the past year.
All evening, I anticipated a phone call. It never arrived. I envisioned Gennady in his office, leafing through each page, his composed face gradually paling.
Finally, at eleven o’clock at night, the call came. I put the speakerphone on.
“Lena?” the panic in his voice was unmistakable. “I looked over your… papers. Is this some kind of joke? Blackmail?”
“Why the hostility, Gen?” I answered calmly. “This isn’t blackmail — it’s a thorough audit. A gift.”
“Do you realize I can ruin you legally? For slander! For document theft!”
“Are you aware the original documents are no longer with me? And should anything happen to my family or me, these documents will be dispatched to some very interesting recipients — the tax authorities, your main investors, for example.”
Heavy breathing filled the line.
“What is it you want, Lena? Money? To have your job back?”
“Justice, Gen. I want you to restore everything you stole from the company, down to the last cent. And for you to walk away quietly.”
“You’re insane!” he shouted. “This is my company!”
“It was OUR company,” I interrupted coldly. “Until you decided your own pockets mattered more. You have until tomorrow morning.”
“At nine, I expect your resignation. If it doesn’t come, the folder begins its journey. Good night.”
I hung up without hearing his strangled curses.
The next morning arrived without news. At nine-fifteen, Gennady sent me an email.
An urgent company-wide meeting was scheduled for ten o’clock, with a personal note to me reading: “Come. We’ll see who wins.” Clearly, he was playing his final card.
“So, what will you do?” my husband inquired.
“Attend, naturally. You can’t miss your own premiere.”
Dressed in my sharpest pantsuit, I arrived at the office at 9:55 a.m. The room was filled with employees already seated.
Gennady stood near the large screen. Upon seeing me, a triumphant grin spread across his face.
“Ah, here she is. Please, Lena, have a seat. We’re all eager to hear how an incompetent CFO tries to blackmail upper management.”
He launched into a grandiose speech about trust, which I had allegedly betrayed. He held my folder aloft like a banner.
“Look here! This is the ravings of someone who can’t accept their time has passed!”
The room was silent. Colleagues lowered their gazes, ashamed yet fearful.
When Gennady paused to sip water, I seized the moment to send a message from my phone to Sergei: one word — “Go.”
Instantly, the screen behind Gennady cut to black, then displayed a scanned document.
A payment order for fictitious “consulting services” paid to a shell company registered under his mother-in-law’s name.
Gennady suddenly froze. One after another, documents appeared on the screen: invoices for personal vacations, quotes for remodeling his country house, screenshots of text messages discussing bribe amounts.
“W-what is this?” he stammered.
“This, Gennady, is called ‘data visualization,’” I announced, standing tall. “You spoke of a leap?
Here it is — a step forward for the company’s cleansing from theft. You said my methods were obsolete? Maybe. I am old-fashioned: I believe stealing is unacceptable.”
I turned toward my colleagues.
“I’m not asking anyone to choose sides. I’ve simply presented the facts. You decide what to conclude.”
I placed my phone on the table.
“By the way, Gen, all this is being sent right now to our investors’ inboxes. So resigning might be the kindest outcome you can anticipate.”
Gennady glanced between the screen and me. His face had drained of color. His bluster had crumbled, revealing only a frightened man.
I strode toward the exit.
Sergei stood first, followed by Olga — our top sales manager whom Gennady constantly marginalized. Then Andrey, the lead analyst whose reports were claimed by Gennady.
Even Marina from accounting, often bullied to tears, rose. They weren’t quitting for me — they were leaving him.
Two days later, an unfamiliar man contacted me, identifying himself as the crisis manager hired by investors.
He curtly informed me that Gennady had been removed, a company review was underway, and thanked me for the “information provided.” He offered me a chance to return and assist in stabilizing the situation.
“Thank you for the offer,” I responded. “But I prefer to create anew rather than rebuild ruins.”
The initial months were challenging. We operated from a small rented space reminiscent of our early days.
My husband, son, Sergei, Olga, and I worked twelve hours daily. Our firm’s name, “Audit and Order,” proved fitting.
We secured our initial clients by demonstrating skill through action, not promises.
Sometimes, I pass by our old office.
The sign has changed. The company failed to survive both the “leap” and the scandal.
Key Insight: I wasn’t dismissed because of my age, but because I reflected in a mirror the incompetence and greed Gennady wished to hide.
He attempted to shatter that mirror — forgetting the sharpness of its broken edges.
In the end, this experience became a profound lesson on integrity, resilience, and the power of standing up for what is right.