Standing before the mirror, I examine my reflection meticulously. Elizabeth Andreevna Korablyova, a 30-year-old Development Director at a major IT firm. Publicly, I embody success, strength, and confidence. Beneath the surface, however, a profound fatigue lingers, accumulated over years.
But today, I am merely Lisa—no gloss, no title, just a woman from an ordinary neighborhood. I remove my expensive Cartier watch, once a proud emblem of achievement, and tuck away my diamond ring safely. Slipping on my sister’s faded jeans and a modest sweater bought from a typical supermarket, I tie my hair into a simple ponytail, strip away all makeup, and the polished image dissolves to reveal a person stripped of pretenses.
Gone is the executive. Here stands a mere applicant for a secretary’s position.
“Why are you doing this?” my friend Katya asked yesterday. “You have everything: career, wealth, respect…” The explanation is complex: I can no longer bear the pretense. Every step I take is accompanied by forced smiles that vanish the moment I turn away. In front of me, the staff are exemplary professionals; behind my back, they gossip, complain, and deceive.
I am determined to discover the truth—about my company and the people who truly sustain it.
The familiar office aroma—coffee, paper, toner—welcomes me like any day. But today, instead of ascending to the nineteenth floor where my panoramic office awaits, I descend to the fifth. With agreement from Oleg Sergeevich, the HR manager, I attend an interview as an ordinary job seeker. His shock at my unusual request turned to acquiescence, either for the experiment or for me personally.
I enter Marina Viktorovna’s office.
“Elizabeth Andreevna?” she peers over her glasses. “Please, sit down. Oleg Sergeevich informed me.” I take a seat, sitting straight but not stiffly, aiming to appear like an average candidate hunting for employment. Anxiety bubbles within: what if she doubts me? What if I am rejected?
“Do you have prior secretary experience?”
“A little,” I respond hesitantly. “In a small firm.”
“Understood. Why did you choose our company?”
“It’s large and stable… a reliable place to work,” I reply as Marina nods and scribbles notes onto a résumé I painstakingly fabricated from scratch.
She describes the duties, schedule, and probation period.
“The salary is twenty-five thousand rubles. Will that suffice?” Twenty-five thousand—the sum makes me smile inwardly. My lunch exceeds that amount. Still, I nod.
“Yes, that’s acceptable.”
Monday. The first workday of a new existence.
My desk is a small one positioned near Sergey Ivanovich’s sales department office. An old computer and a squeaky chair that protests every move complete the scene.
“Lisa, make some coffee,” he commands without lifting his eyes from papers.
“Of course,” I reply, heading to the kitchen. Previously, coffee was brought to me; now, I am expected to serve. I wonder how my former assistants felt when I requested such favors.
At the kitchen, I meet Olya from accounting.
“Hey newbie! What’s your name?”
“Lisa.”
“I’m Olya. Don’t worry, people here are decent. If anything happens, just call me.” Warmth flows from her simple, sincere words. When was the last time someone spoke to me without pretentiousness?
- Sergey Ivanovich’s authoritative facade cracks, revealing a nervous man who scolds employees over trivial matters and instantly shifts to obsequious politeness when senior management calls.
- The stark contrast between formal meetings and real office interactions becomes clear as I observe daily.
“Lisa! Where’s the contract with ‘Technosphere’?”
“You took it to your office an hour ago…” I reply quietly.
“Don’t argue! Find it,” he snaps.
I remain silent, fetching the document visible on the desk and hand it over.
“See? You can do it when you want,” he smirks, as if the achievement were his own.
I want to reveal my true identity and watch his reaction, but restraint holds me back—timing is everything.
“Let’s have lunch,” Olya invites. “The cafeteria food is good and affordable.”
Used to elegant restaurants and office deliveries, I now face a ground-floor cafeteria: queues, trays, the scent of stewed cabbage and borscht.
“What do you recommend?” I ask.
“The borscht’s great today, and the cutlets are fresh. Choose the combo — it’s cheaper. Two hundred fifty rubles.”
For me, trivial; for Lisa, almost ten percent of her daily income.
At the table, Olya, Sveta, and Masha chat about children, school, rising prices, and not having enough for basic needs.
- Sveta sighs, mentioning her son entering first grade and the mountain of supplies she must buy despite a thirty-thousand-ruble salary.
- Masha complains about cut bonuses allegedly due to missed plans, which puzzles me since the team consistently overachieves targets.
Their wary gazes question my knowledge.
“Where did you hear that?” Masha asks suspiciously.
“Just overheard,” I mumble, narrowly avoiding oversharing.
After lunch, the phone rings.
“Sales department, speaking.”
“Is Sergey Ivanovich available?”
“He’s in a meeting now. Can I take a message?”
“Yes, please. Mikhail Petrovich called about shipment. When will he be free?”
“In about an hour.”
I note it down. Mikhail Petrovich is a key client who expects immediate attention. However, Sergey remains tied up in a meeting about reports that could have been postponed.
Half an hour later, Sergey returns.
“Was there a call?”
“Mikhail Petrovich called, asked to call back.”
“When?!” he jumps up.
“Half an hour ago…”
“Why didn’t you say?!”
“You asked not to disturb during the meeting,” I remind him quietly.
Frustrated, he dials repeatedly; the line is busy.
“Busy again! I’ll lose the client because of you!” he rages.
I silently observe and realize: Sergey Ivanovich’s aggression masks fear—fear of losing clients, failure, the boss’s wrath, dismissal, and the collapse of his livelihood. He is trapped, not cruel—a victim of relentless pressure like many others.
“I now see him not as an irritable boss, but as a man caught between a rock and a hard place.”
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday roll by, each day peeling away another veneer from the company’s facade.
I witness Olya working late at night, not from choice but because she’s been given tasks meant for three individuals while her bonus is still cut under ‘cost-saving measures.’
Sveta hides in the restroom, wiping tears after enduring twenty minutes of shouting from an angry client—blame incorrectly placed on her instead of a warehouse error.
Masha brings her own thermos of tea daily, not from dislike of coffee, but because each cup in the machine costs fifty rubles; with two children, every kopeck matters.
- During Friday lunch, Olya asks where I live. I fib — “An hour away by metro.” The truth: I live ten minutes away with a driver and executive parking. These women endure long commutes to barely afford rent and food.
- The conversation shifts to the company’s management, seen as out of touch and indifferent to the staff’s struggles.
“Recently, a director named Korablyova came by, acting coldly, treating us like furniture,” Sveta recounts, mentioning my own name and former self.
My heart tightens.
“What’s wrong?” I ask calmly.
“Everything!” Sveta bursts out. “They sit in their panoramic offices, raking in huge salaries, while we get crumbs and are expected to show ‘high involvement’ and ‘enthusiasm.'”
I sit stunned. Every word hits hard.
“We just increased our own salaries by thirty percent,” Masha adds, “but we get told ‘it’s a crisis, be patient.'”
“How do you know?” I ask softly.
“Lenka from HR accidentally let it slip. We calculated that one of their salaries equals almost our annual earnings.”
Speechless and ashamed—not of the company, but of myself.
Friday evening ends with Sergey yelling on the phone, then switching to a flattering tone when summoned by senior management.
“Lisa, stay an hour to organize documents,” he orders.
I remain while the office quiets down, only cleaning lady Valya humming an old tune as she mops the floor.
Sorting papers, memories flood in: a month ago, I denied the sales department bonuses, citing cost reduction, yet the next day bought a new car for myself. Six months prior, I fired Kira from accounting after three tardies without inquiring about her circumstances or health. I had been indifferent.
“Why the long face, girl?” Valya approaches.
“Just tired,” I confess.
“Tired? So young and already worn out. Here, take this,” she says, handing me an old caramel candy wrapped in paper. “Sugar lifts the spirit and warms the soul.”
I unwrap it, taste the sweetness, and tears silently fall.
“Thank you, Aunt Valya,” I whisper.
“No thanks needed. We support each other here. The bosses don’t care—we have to remain human.”
That moment crystallizes the truth: all these years, I built not a company, but an illusion. Efficiency, profits, growth—all impressive but hollow, because I ignored the people—the ones who come daily not for bonuses but for their children, bread, peace of mind.
I realize I was never a leader but part of a crushing system.
Monday. The next week.
I enter Marina Viktorovna’s office.
“Marina Viktorovna, I’m resigning.”
“What? You’ve only worked here a week…”
“Found a better job.”
Not entirely true, but also not false. The new role is becoming who I was meant to be all along.
Marina shrugs and processes my paperwork.
Wednesday.
Standing before my home mirror, my hair neat, makeup restrained, I don a formal suit accessorized with diamonds and watch. Elizabeth Andreevna Korablyova, Development Director once again.
Yet inside, I am changed; no longer the woman from a week ago.
Arriving at the office, I ascend to the nineteenth floor and enter my office.
“Anna Petrovna,” I call to my secretary, “gather all managers for a meeting in an hour.”
She nods, and calls begin.
The meeting starts.
I sit at the head of the table, everything as usual, but now my gaze holds new understanding. Sergey Ivanovich nervously adjusts his tie, anticipating a storm.
“I have a serious matter to discuss,” I begin. “About people, fairness, and what it means to be a company, not just a money-making machine.”
Silence follows; all wait.
“Starting tomorrow, every employee’s salary, without exception, increases by thirty percent,” I announce calmly.
The room erupts in shock; some drop pens, others clear throats.
“Meanwhile, the executive team’s pay will be cut by twenty percent,” I continue, “the difference balanced by this move.”
“Elizabeth Andreevna,” the financial director timidly raises a hand, “but the budget…”
“The budget will hold,” I interrupt firmly. “If it doesn’t, we will reduce costly corporate events, company cars, and extravagant expenses at five-star restaurants.”
My eyes lock with Sergey Ivanovich’s, now pale.
“Sergey Ivanovich, how are things in your department?”
“All… fine,” he replies.
“And with Mikhail Petrovich? The shipment issue resolved?”
“How do you know?” he exclaims, rising abruptly. “How did you find out?!”
“That’s irrelevant. What matters is your staff perform excellently, yet you shout at them. That ends now.”
A long, heavy pause ensues.
“Also,” I add, “I hereby cancel all penalties for tardiness. People may arrive when they can; the primary concern is results and respect.”
The meeting adjourns. Attendees depart, some shocked, some confused, others hopeful.
Later, I visit the fifth floor, entering accounting.
“Olya, may I speak with you?”
“Of course,” she replies, clearly bewildered.
“My name is Elizabeth Andreevna Korablyova. I am the Development Director.”
Her face pales; she grips the desk edge.
“Don’t be afraid,” I say. “I’m not here to inspect. I came to thank you and apologize.”
“For what?”
“For your honesty, for showing me who I truly was, for teaching me humanity.”
I sit in the creaky chair where Lisa once sat.
“I came here not just for reports but to confront reality. The truth was heavier than I imagined.”
Olya is silent, tears pooling in her eyes.
“Now,” I assure her, “everything will change. I promise.”
Standing near the door, I turn back.
“And one more thing, Olya… Thank you for the coffee, your kindness, and the caramel candy. I won’t forget.”
At home, I sit in the kitchen, sipping humble tea from a packet, without ceremony or luxury, and reflect—not on profits or strategies, but on people.
The company remains the same; I am the one transformed.
I have grasped the essence: people are not “staff,” “expenses,” or “resources.” They are meaning itself. Each carries pain, battles, and dreams.
My mission is not to squeeze maximum output from them, but to foster an environment where they can breathe freely, work with dignity, and live fully.
Where Aunt Valya no longer must share her last candy because someone felt ill.
Where Sveta isn’t overwhelmed with tears in the restroom, dreading another client’s wrath.
Where Olya does not stay late because “it’s urgent.”
Tomorrow marks a fresh beginning—not as a director, but as a human being. And Lisa—the simple, genuine, humble Lisa—will be with me, for she was never a mask but my true reflection, who I have always been meant to be.
Key Insight: Sometimes, genuine leadership emerges only when one steps away from titles and listens to the voices behind the facades.
Through this journey, the mask was shed, revealing that compassion and fairness must be the pillars of any thriving organization.
It is people who form the heart of a company—not just the profits or reputations. Recognizing that truth is a step toward meaningful change.