The Conference Room Encounter
Vadim entered the conference room, exuding the familiar, almost instinctive assurance that characterized his every action. This was a routine, instinctual habit: dressed in a sophisticated suit, slightly stooped from exhaustion, his gaze scanned the room’s details as if it were a digital reader analyzing the surroundings. Another meeting, another negotiation, yet another climb up the intricate ladder built upon complex agreements, calculated decisions, and perfect command. He felt at ease here—in a setting where every item was in its designated spot, where the air held the fragrance of quality wood, polished stone, and rich espresso brewed precisely for individuals like him—those who have the world within their grasp.
He loosened his jacket, drawing it back slightly to affirm his authority with that simple action. Just as he was about to position himself at the head of the table—the focal point from which critical choices emanate, where corporate futures are shaped—his glance inadvertently drifted towards the window and halted.
There, by the wide glass, she was.
A lady merging seamlessly with the metropolis outside, reminiscent of a shadow from yesteryears. The cityscape through the glass appeared foggy and indistinct, as though submerged in a murky haze, with her standing motionless, seemingly sculpted from metal. A tailored gray suit clung to her form perfectly; her hair was neatly arranged in a bun, without a single strand out of place. Her stance—erect as a blade; her walk—certain, frigid, and professional. Everything about her felt strange. Or perhaps all too familiar to feel like a stranger.
Then—a subtle turn of her head. Barely noticeable. And that same mole on her neck, just beneath her hairline, resembling a tiny black mark on the map of his recollection. Vadim’s heart tightened. Not from fear. Nor from rage. But from a deeper sensation, older than either—an awakening to the reality that the past he believed was long gone had merely been masquerading.
Lena.
The name struck him like a sharp ice shard. He halted at the doorway, as if the wooden floor beneath him had transformed into adhesive, immobilizing him. Time seemed to condense into a heavy mass, slowing down, freezing. Each heartbeat elongated into forever. Thoughts raced through his mind: What is she doing here? A lawyer? A consultant? A representative? The meeting details had been vague, omitting names: “client’s representative.” His client. No identifiers. No alerts. Only her. And him.
And then she oriented herself towards him.
Their gazes intertwined—not as former lovers, nor as adversaries, but like two inconsequential figures colliding in the corridor of fate. In her eyes, there wasn’t a hint of pain. No tears. No shadow of bitterness. Not even a flicker of rage. Just an abyss. Cold, crystal-clear, like unblemished ice in the Arctic. Lacking reflections. Lacking shades. Lacking a history.
She gave a slight nod. Politely. Indifferently. With the same detachment he often employed when instructing his subordinates: “It’s strictly business. Personal feelings matter little.” That gesture, that nod, hurt more than a scream. More than a blow. More than an accusation. Because it embodied nothingness. Only professionalism. Only separation. Just closure.
The talks commenced.
Vadim attempted to gather himself. He grasped the folder tightly, cleared his throat, and began speaking—addressing timelines, numbers, strategies. His tone was steady, but within it, he could discern the inauthenticity. The disconnection. As if he were not the one speaking but rather someone else voicing for him. He found himself not paying attention to replies, but rather observing her. Analyzing. Seeking. Attempting to identify in this woman the Lena he once knew: gentle, nervous, with eyes filled with unwavering trust, her smile quivering with excitement whenever he entered a room. The one who regarded him as if he were a champion. A universe.
Now, all he observed was a stranger. Powerful. Cold. Unyielding.
Then she articulated something.
Her voice—soft, composed, yet each syllable landed like a droplet of mercury on glass—weighty, exact, leaving an impression. She elaborated on legal intricacies, market conditions, and the vulnerabilities within his stance. She spoke with brilliance. Without hesitation. Without sentiment. As though evaluating a chess match she had already secured in her mind.
But Vadim perceived something different.
He caught echoes of the door creaking open in that cramped “shared” flat on the outskirts where she had moved post-divorce. He could hear the footsteps echoing in the deserted rooms, where even a rug could not buffer the solitude. Her voice wavered with emotion: “What about me? Where am I supposed to go? I have nothing…” Back then, he had replied coldly, from a pedestal of authority: “You’ll manage. The lawyers will take over. Don’t overdramatize.”
Now that voice, once quivering and sorrowful, was dissecting his arguments with a cool, collected precision. She comprehended everything. Not because of any documentation. Not due to surveillance. But because she knew him. His reasoning. His methods. His flaws. She had lived alongside him. Observed him. Loved him. Gleaned wisdom from him. And subsequently—learned more harshly. All so one day she could sit across from him at this table and, with no need to raise her voice, demonstrate: “You abandoned me. Yet, I did not shatter. Instead, I grew stronger. And now—I’m present.”
He attempted to argue back. To offer a counterpoint. Yet faltered. At that moment, he noticed her gaze linger for just a moment on his hand. On the watch. The same luxury Swiss timepiece he acquired the day he finalized that crucial contract—the one that cost him his marriage. The triumph he once believed was unparalleled.
A heavy stillness enveloped the room. Stifling. The client cleared his throat awkwardly.
Lena did not smile. Did not gloat. She merely tilted her head marginally, as though inspecting a chessboard.
“It seems we’ve uncovered a significant discrepancy,” she remarked. “I think we require additional time to evaluate your latest propositions, Mr. Orlov.”
She referred to him by his surname. Formally. Indifferently. As if he were merely a stranger. As if their connection was solely rooted in business interactions. As if they had never shared intimacy. As if he had never been the dream father she envisioned.
He nodded, speechless. He had been bested. Not just in the deal. He had been defeated in all aspects. Lost himself. Lost purpose.
For the crucial element wasn’t in the agreement. The essence lay in what he perceived. He saw not a victim, not a shattered soul, but an individual who had traversed through turmoil and emerged not broken, but strengthened. He did not hear cries of anguish, but silence—frozen, relentless, in which their history had eternally sunk.
He stood up. His legs felt heavy, as though laden with lead. The dazzling victory he had pursued for years transformed to dust. He secured an apartment, financial gain, prestige. Yet in the woman seated before him, he had forfeited something far greater. Something that cannot be purchased. Cannot be reassigned. Cannot be reclaimed.
And that realization pierced him now—under the composed, icy gaze of the one he had once left with nothing.
Vadim exited the conference room akin to leaving a battlefield. Unscathed, yet internally hemorrhaging. The world he once believed to be solid—composed of glass, metal, and calculations—had shattered. Through it, an arctic breeze from the past wafted.
He responded to his assistant in a mechanical way, nodded towards the client whose face revealed disappointment and anger, and retreated to his office. The door closed behind him. Silence. The domain where power used to assert itself now felt vacant. Frigid. Foreign.
He approached the bar. Poured himself whiskey. His hand quivered. The ice clinked like a tolling bell. The initial sip—fiery. Inside, however, nothing but void remained.
Before his eyes—her visage. Not the one from today. The last glimpse: tears streaking down, mascara smudged, eyes overflowing with sorrow. “I have nothing…” And he—confident in his perceived righteousness, arms straddling the concept of freedom: “You’ll find your footing.”
He had found his footing. And she? He provided her funds for the down payment. Considered it noble. That word now seared in him like a brand.
He gripped the glass tightly. His knuckles paled. Before him lay not a lost economic agreement. It was the tableau of his fall—not in commerce, but in existence. She did not scream. Did not accuse. She simply was more resilient. Cooler. More astute.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Maxim, his deputy, entered.
“Vadim Igorevich, this is catastrophic. They had all the intel. How? This woman… I’ll find out who she is…”
“Do not,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse, as though emerging from the depths of a shaft. “Leave it.”
“But the client…”
“Out.”
Maxim departed. Vadim slumped into his chair. He comprehended. She understood him. Because she had lived with him. Because she had loved him. Because she had observed him. And all these years post-divorce, she had been ascending. Without cries. Without grievances. Without support.
He downed his whiskey. Strolled to the window. Where she once stood. Below—a taxi. Suddenly, he envisioned her not clad in a professional outfit, but standing on the platform of the train station, with a bag, heading back to that cramped apartment. Because of him.
He averted his gaze.
The realization struck—keen as a blade. He didn’t lose today. He lost long ago, in that empty flat. He gained square footage. But lost a spirit. Today’s encounter served merely as the final note—a reckoning presented by existence.
The phone vibrated. His younger wife was calling. He glanced at the screen. He didn’t respond. The office felt icy. He was isolated amidst a silence more thunderous than any shout.
Approaching the bar once more, he hesitated. Alcohol wouldn’t solve anything. This was a burden he had to endure.
He paced his office. Awards. Recognition. Photographs. All mere theatrics. A stage displaying success. Now—a mausoleum of his illusions.
Taking a seat at his computer, he typed her name. Discovered an interview. Read:
“Arriving at zero. Not in a financial sense—morally. When it feels like you’re insignificant to everyone. And the only escape is to rebuild from the ground up. With a singular aim—to survive and retain your humanity.”
He shut his eyes. Those words hit harder than anything he faced today.
“Retain humanity.” And what was he now?
He remembered boasting: “I handled it seamlessly.”
Now he perceived it: his iceberg was rooted in the past. And today, he just collided with it.
He unlocked the safe. Retrieved their marriage certificate. Two young individuals. She—with affection. He—with self-importance.
He grabbed his personal phone. Dialed her number. He knew it was ill-advised. Yet he dialed.
“Hello?”—her voice, as chilly as ice.
“Lena… it’s me.”
“I’m listening, Vadim Igorevich.”
That formal address cut deeply. He longed to say: “I apologize.” “I was blind.” “I was mistaken.”
Yet it would all ring hollow.
“Congratulations. You were exceptional.”
“It was professional.”
“The apartment… I transferred it to you.”
“That’s unnecessary, Vadim,”—for the first time, fatigue seeped into her tone.—“I have my own residence. I earned it. Don’t contact me again. Ever.”
A click. The line fell silent. A tolling of a funeral bell.
He lowered the phone. Stared out the window. The city. His city. His accomplishments.
Yet now, he viewed them from a distance. From the platform of that station. From the steps of that small flat.
He didn’t mend the past. He merely acknowledged it.
The conclusion wasn’t in his gesture regarding the apartment.
The conclusion lay in the stillness.
In acceptance.
In the understanding that some exits close forever.
And the only way forward is to continue.
With this weight.
Without justifications.
Without aspirations.
Simply forge ahead.