I stand in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection.Officially, I am Elizaveta Andreyevna Korableva, 30 years old, Development Director at a major IT company On paper: successful, strong, confident.
Inside… exhaustion. Deep, heavy, accumulated over years.Today, however, I am not the director.Today, I am Liza. A simple girl, without shine, without status.I take off my Cartier watch, once a symbol of achievement, and tuck away my diamond ring.
I pull on my sister’s worn jeans and a cheap supermarket sweater. My hair goes into a simple ponytail, my face bare of makeup.The mask disappears. Only the human remains.I am not a top manager today. I am a candidate for a secretary position.
“Why are you doing this?” my friend Katya asked yesterday.“You have everything: career, money, respect…”
How could I explain? That I can no longer endure the lies? That every smile I see is fake, vanishing the moment I turn around? That the employees appear perfect in meetings, but behind myback it’s gossip, complaints, deception?
I want to see the truth.The truth about my company. About the people who actually hold it together.The familiar office smell—coffee, paper, toner—greets me. But today I’m not going to the18th floor, my panoramic office. Today, I go to the fifth. For an interview.
HR head Oleg Sergeyevich was shocked when I asked him for this, but he agreed. For the experiment. Or for me.Marina Viktorovna greets me.“Elizaveta Andreyevna?” she asks over her glasses. “Yes. But today… I’m Liza.”
I sit, trying to look like an ordinary, slightly nervous job seeker. She asks; I lie: fabricated past, modest experience, humble reasons. When she mentions the salary—twenty-five thousand rubles—I want to laugh. I spend more on lunch than that. But I nod.
Monday. First day of my new life.My workspace is a small desk near the entrance to Sergey Ivanovich’s office. The chair squeaks with every move.“Liza, make coffee,” he says without looking up. For a moment, I pause.
I, who used to have coffee brought to me, now make it for someone else. I wonder how my assistants felt when I asked them to do the same.In the kitchen, I meet Olya from accounting.“Hi, new girl. What’s your name?”
“Liza.”“I’m Olya. Don’t worry, people here are okay. Ask if you need anything.”Simple, sincere words. When was the last time someone spoke to me without pretense or ambition, just as a person? By lunch, I begin to see another world.
Sergey Ivanovich—the confident leader in meetings—is nervous here, irritable, shouting over small mistakes, but polite and almost servile when someone from above calls.
I watch the employees struggle quietly.
Olya working late because three people’s jobs were dumped on her, and her bonus cut anyway. Sveta hiding in the bathroom to wipe away tears after an angry client screamed at her for a warehouse mistake.
Masha bringing tea from home because five rubles in the machine is too much, with two kids counting every ruble.During Friday lunch, they mention me: “Korableva, the development director… cold, like an iceberg.”
My name. My other self.My heart drops. This is how they saw me.That evening, while sorting papers, Valya, the cleaning lady, comes over.“You look tired. Here, take a candy. Sweetness warms the soul.”
A small, old caramel. I, used to luxury, taste it and suddenly cry. Quietly. Silently. Because here is real humanity—not in diamonds, but in a simple gesture.
**I finally understand:** I wasn’t building a company. I was building an illusion. Profit, growth, efficiency—beautiful, but empty. I forgot the people. Those who come every day not for bonuses, but for their children, for food, for peace.
The next week, back on the 18th floor, in my executive office, I see things differently. I call a meeting.“Today we talk about people, about fairness, about what it means to be a company, not a money machine.”
I announce: employees’ salaries increase by 30%, leadership salaries decrease by 20%. Luxury cars, fancy dinners—gone. The money goes to the people who actually fight every day. The room freezes. I do not flinch.
I go down to the fifth floor, to Olya.“I am Elizaveta Andreyevna Korableva,” I say softly.“But thank you. Thank you for showing me who I really was. And I’m sorry.”She nods, eyes wet.At home, I drink simple tea from a bag, no ritual, no luxury.
I don’t think about profits or strategies. I think about people. About a world where Valya doesn’t have to share her last candy, where Sveta doesn’t cry in the bathroom, where Olya doesn’t work until midnight because “it’s urgent.”
And I know: Liza, the simple, poor, real Liza, stays with me.She was never a mask.She was my true face. The person I was always meant to be.
