Rimma Lvovna appeared from behind the column so suddenly, as if she had been standing there on watch since early morning.
I hadn’t even pressed the elevator button when her dry, bony fingers grabbed my collar and yanked so hard that the air got stuck in my chest.
— You wear things like this? — her voice snapped across the lobby, cutting through the dull murmur of the morning office crowd. — You put it on and feel proud of it?
I felt the silk tighten around my neck, painfully digging into my skin. To the side stood Marinka from accounting and our new IT guy, Artem, who had only been working with us for a few weeks.
They both stared wide-eyed. I slowly raised my hands to loosen Rimma Lvovna’s grip, but she pulled even harder.
The knot gave way, and my favorite blue scarf — the one with the “paisley pattern” that I bought with my first bonus — ended up in her fist.
— This is Denis’s — she hissed, stepping closer to me. — You bought it with the money he brought home. And now you’re acting bold? You’re nothing.
I stood there with my neck bare, feeling the cold air sweep over me from the open doors. My fingertips went numb. I watched her mouth, the overly pale lipstick trembling with righteous anger.
A completely irrelevant thought crossed my mind: they had forecast rain today, and my umbrella was still in the car.
— Rimma Lvovna, give it back — I said quietly, evenly. Too evenly for someone who had just been humiliated in front of half the office. — People are watching us.
— Let them watch! — she raised the scarf like a trophy. — Let them see what you really are! You live off everything provided, and you don’t even respect your husband’s mother!
She turned on her steady heels and walked toward the exit, waving the blue silk in her hand.
Marinka coughed and suddenly found the elevator schedule extremely fascinating. Artem buried himself in his phone. I ran my hand over my neck. It burned.
It’s fine, Rimma Lvovna. A scarf is just fabric. Fabric tears. Documents don’t.
I went up to the seventh floor, passed the security post, and sat down at my desk. My small office in the HR department of “Gidromash” had always been my fortress.
The air smelled of old plastic, printing ink, and a hint of lavender air freshener that my colleague Zoya had brought.
Zoya was already there. She looked at my bare neck, then at my face. — Inna, why are you so pale? And where’s your scarf? You’re never without it. — The wind took it — I replied, and began taking things out of my bag.
My hands didn’t obey me. I had to try three times before the hand cream landed on my palm. Rimma Lvovna always knew exactly where to strike.
She believed my marriage to Denis was her personal business project, in which I was only a temporary employee with a questionable reputation.
Denis was a good husband—until it came to his mother. Rimma Lvovna received a so-called “corporate allowance” from our factory — a special payment for long-serving former employees.
Fifteen thousand rubles a month plus quarterly bonuses. Not much, but for her it was a matter of status.
A year earlier, when I had just joined HR, I accidentally saw her file. There was a note: “Eligible under condition of no entrepreneurial activity.”
And yet I knew that for six months Rimma Lvovna had been renting out two apartments through her sister, and the money was transferred to her personal account as “gift income.”
Legally, a gray area. But for the “Care Fund,” it was grounds for immediate termination.
Back then, I said nothing. I corrected a small error in the document she brought and turned a blind eye to an improperly issued certificate. I just wanted peace in the family.
I opened the database. Entered her name: Savelyeva Rimma Lvovna. The screen flashed blue: “Status: Active. Payment scheduled for the 10th.” Today was the 8th.
— Zoya — I called without turning around. — When is the audit from the “Care Fund”? — Starting tomorrow — she yawned. — Why? — Nothing, just checking if everything’s uploaded.
On the screen it read: “Income certificate — approved by Inna Maksimovna.” My digital signature glowed green. If auditors found discrepancies tomorrow, I’d be the first to fall.
My cursor hovered over the mouse.
“Confirm entry” or “Send for manual verification”
The difference: loyalty or survival.
Denis walked in at that moment. He looked uneasy, his tie crooked. — Inna, why did you upset Mom? She came in tears. Says you lashed out at her in front of colleagues. He placed the scarf on the edge of my desk.
I looked at it. Then at him. — She tore it off me by the elevators, Denis. There are cameras there. He grimaced. — Well, she lost her temper. She thinks you’re wasting my money. She means well. Just call her, apologize. She’ll calm down.
I picked up a pen, moved it from one side of the desk to the other. — Apologize for what, Denis? — Inna, don’t escalate. She’s elderly. And by the way, she asked if everything is okay with the payments.
I slowly raised my eyes to him. He stood there, shifting his weight, waiting for me to nod as usual. — Everything is fine, Denis. Go work.
When the door closed, I looked back at the screen. One click. One life.
All day I worked like a machine. But inside, everything hummed. Rimma Lvovna called at noon. I didn’t answer. She sent a message:
“Inna, if even a penny is delayed, I’ll go straight to the director. Don’t forget your place.”
I read it standing in line at the cafeteria. Took cabbage salad and a cutlet. I had no appetite.
Svetlana Yuryevna, our department head, sat beside me. — Tomorrow’s audit. The “Care Fund” is reviewing all recipients. There were anonymous reports about hidden income. I froze. — Reports? — Yes. Standard story. Neighbors or offended relatives.
My fork slipped from my hand.
This was no longer just a family matter.
That evening I took out the file. Rimma Lvovna’s documents were there, with my signature. My responsibility.
If I stayed silent, we would both sink. If I acted, only she would.
I leaned over the keyboard.
“Discrepancy detected — income verification required.”
Enter.
One click.
The system came alive.
Half an hour later, security called. — Savelyeva? This is Makarov. We confirmed it. There’s business activity. Good catch.
I swallowed. — I was checking current data for the audit. The integration updated.
— Well done. You saved us trouble.
I hung up.
The blue scarf lay on the desk. I folded it carefully and put it into my bag.
I will never wear it again.
That evening Denis came home unusually cheerful. — Inna, Mom called! She invited us to dinner tomorrow at six. Says she wants peace.
— I’m not going, Denis.
He froze. — What do you mean?
— Tomorrow will be a difficult day for her.
— What are you talking about?
— You’ll find out. Around ten in the morning. When her bank card stops working.
Silence.
Then his phone rang.
— What did you do?! — he whispered.
— I stopped lying, Denis.
He stared at me.
— You ruined everything.
— No. I just stopped letting it ruin me.
He said nothing.
The next morning Rimma Lvovna was already at the office, shouting in the reception. Accusing, screaming.
I sat quietly at my desk.
The director called me in. — Good work. You handled it correctly.
When I came out, she was still there.
— You’ll regret this! — she shouted.
— I already don’t — I said.
Denis left later.
I didn’t cry.
I just sat there, staring at the wall.
Then I bought a bottle of wine.
And for the first time in a long while, there was silence.
Around me.
And inside me.
