Page 51 of Filthy Little Fix
"That will depend on what I think of your report. And onDante."
She showsthis. A stagnant, tired disgust—Dante. Considering the respect with which she spoke about him last time, I imagine they are on bad terms now. Because of me, for sure.
She turns to the door. "We'll inform you tomorrow."
Svetlana appears to be the kind of person who plans ahead and resolves issues well before deadlines. Dante, on the other hand, has a difficult temperament—he must be turning the whole monotonous routine she exudes into a personal hell.
"Yes, ma'am."
I watch her heels click down the hall before closing myself in the room again.
The next morningis a silent insult.
There's no Dante. No screams, no threats, no blood-laced stolen kisses. There's just Luca knocking on my door, holding an ironed suit and polished shoes I'd never wear in my life.
"Mr. Volkov has decided you'll return to your normal activities," he says. He leaves the clothes hanging on the doorknob and walks away.
I thought Dante would go to greater lengths for me. It's disappointing.
"Is that all?" I ask, and Luca just nods.
"A car will take you to work."
The lack of fanfare is the strangest part. No last threat, no final possessive touch. Just a cold order, delivered by an intermediary.
I put on the suit. It's expensive, made of a fabric I've never felt on my skin, and it feels like a costume; a disguise of normalcy that no longer belongs to me—I barely recognize myself in the mirror. The bandage on my hand is a reminder of it.
Luca escorts me to the front of the mansion. The waiting car isn't luxurious enough to attract unwanted attention, but it's far more than I'd ever need. The driver is a large man in a suit, and another enforcer takes the seat beside him; people I've never seen, who drive me in silence. I say nothing.
Facing my destination building, I barely recognize myself in the reflection of the glass doors. The clotheslooklike something I would wear, but they don'tfeellike it—too ironed, too polished, too expensive. I usually come to work in wrinkled dress pants and old shoes, never really caring what to wear or how I look.The state of my hair, my barely healed face, is unsettling against the normal appearance those selected clothes exude.
I walk in. Brenda greets me with a nervous smile, glued to the computer on her desk. Not my problem. I walk past her, and the turnstile camera recognizes me this time. My face is still bruised, but at least it's no longer swollen.
I step into the elevator. I press the button, look at the closed doors, and then my gaze drifts to the floor. My own reflection bothers me. I'll have to ask them to bring me my own clothes.
When I step out of the elevator on my floor, I catch the familiar aroma of the citrus essential oil Nicole drops into the humidifier every morning. I always take the same glazed-over path to my cubicle, avoiding anyone I can. But this time, something beyond the citrus scent bothers me in the air. The suppressed desperation of a swarm of average workers has been replaced by a frantic tension.
Brenda's nervousness extends to the entire IT team. Employees check their emails with a nervous energy that makes their hands tremble on the mouse, struggling to click the 'x' on open windows. Some are on their personal phones, others peek into Chad's office with restless legs, waiting for some important announcement, and others—most alarmingly—are gathered in small huddles, whispering amongst themselves. IT staff aren't usually that social.
Something is off.
Cardboard boxes are scattered across the gray carpet, haphazardly stacked like headstones of a failed startup. Some are open, revealing the pathetic contents of an office life: mugs with motivational quotes, family photos in frames, staplers.
I walk past a group. Nobody notices me.
"…they said the restructuring was to optimize…"
"…they're firing everyone in marketing…"
Honestly, I don't care about marketing. The comments pass me by like some strange, isolated event. Then I see them—at the door of Chad's office, there's Nicole, biting her nails with a furrowed brow, and next to her, the manager himself, with his disheveled comb-over, gesticulating non-stop.
He sees me. His face lights up with misplaced relief.
"Leo! You're back! Thank God!" he says, approaching with open arms. I dodge any attempt at an embrace. "You won't believe what happened!"
I look at the boxes, at the terrified faces, at the mess.
"What happened?" I ask.
