The café smelled of burnt milk and damp coats. Outside, an autumn downpour battered the streets, and customers dragged mud across the worn tile floor. Near the entrance, dirty water pooled in uneven streaks, reflecting the flicker of fluorescent lights overhead.
Dasha was barely standing. It was her second shift in a row. Her phone vibrated again in her apron pocket — another reminder from the bank. Student loans did not disappear out of pity, and her mother’s medication had gone up in price again this month. Numbers chased her thoughts relentlessly. There was never enough.
“Miss! I asked for no sugar!” a man barked from the third table, slamming the menu down.Dasha flinched. The cup rattled on her tray, tilted — and a splash of brown coffee spilled across the man’s crisp white cuff.
“Are you out of your mind?” he shot to his feet. “This shirt costs more than you make in a month!”Her throat tightened. Not from humiliation — from exhaustion.“I’m so sorry… I’ll bring napkins—”
“Get out of my sight.”From the back of the café, two men observed the scene. Expensive suits. Watches that cost more than the café’s monthly rent. Detached, mildly bored expressions — like visitors from another world.
“Seriously, Ruslan, this place?” Kirill muttered. “We could’ve gone somewhere decent.”“They make the strongest coffee in the district,” Ruslan replied quietly, drumming his fingers against the table. “I need to stay awake. I’m meeting Arkady Semyonovich in two hours.
If I don’t secure the contract for the logistics center, competitors will tear me apart. And the old man keeps saying, ‘An unmarried man isn’t stable. If he can’t maintain a family, he can’t run a company.’ I might as well hire an actress.”
Kirill’s lips curved as he glanced toward Dasha, who was on her knees wiping the floor.“Well, there you go. Need a wife? There’s one. Clean her up, dress her right. She looks… obedient. Perfect for a conservative investor.”
Ruslan frowned.“Don’t be ridiculous.”“Bet?” Kirill’s eyes lit up. “My new bike against your golf club membership — you can’t convince her.”Ruslan looked at Dasha again. Thin wrists. Pale face. Red-rimmed eyes. Tired — but not empty.“Get your keys ready,” he said, standing.
The storage room was cramped, stacked with vegetable crates and flour sacks. Dasha sat on a wooden box, trying to steady her shaking hands.“You can deduct the dry cleaning from my salary…” she murmured when the door opened.“I’m not here about the shirt,” Ruslan said calmly.
She looked up. His gaze was cool, assessing.“I have a business proposal. Fifty thousand for three hours.”“I don’t provide those services,” she replied instantly.“You’d play my wife. Just for dinner. Smile. A few polite words. Nothing else.”
“Why me?”“Because I don’t have time. And because you need the money.”The words landed precisely.Dasha closed her eyes for a second. Loan. Medicine. Groceries.“Money upfront. And something in writing.”
Ruslan’s mouth twitched slightly.“Deal.”An hour later, Dasha sat in his car wearing a deep emerald dress that fit as if tailored for her. The heels, however, were merciless.“Your name is Daria. We’ve been married three years. No kids yet, but planning. You don’t work. Your hobby is embroidery,” Ruslan recited.
“I don’t know how to embroider.”“Doesn’t matter. Just be a beautiful background.”“Background,” she echoed softly.The restaurant greeted them with crystal chimes and the scent of expensive wine. Arkady Semyonovich was thin and sharp-eyed. His wife, Vera Pavlovna, wore a warm, open smile.
“Four minutes late,” the old man noted.The conversation quickly shifted to business. Arkady dismantled the proposal piece by piece.“The northern entrance will be unusable in winter. Steep incline. Residential area. I won’t finance this.”
Ruslan fell silent. The air thickened with failure.Dasha suddenly spoke.“The northern entrance isn’t for heavy trucks.”All eyes turned to her.“Large freight vehicles should enter from the south, through the industrial zone. There’s an abandoned railway branch there.
Lease the land and build an access road. Direct warehouse connection. No residential complaints. No steep climb. Separating traffic flows increases capacity by at least fifteen percent.”Silence.“Are you a logistics specialist?” Arkady asked.
Ruslan hesitated only briefly.“She’s my chief consultant.”Arkady slowly nodded.“Prepare the documents. If the land checks out, we have a deal.”The rain had stopped by the time they reached Dasha’s apartment block. The asphalt shimmered like black glass.
“You saved me,” Ruslan said quietly. “Where did you learn all that?”“I’m finishing my master’s in transport logistics. My thesis is about optimizing road and rail flow in urban environments.”He handed her an envelope.“Fifty. And another fifty for the idea.”
Her fingers tightened around it. It meant more than money. It meant breathing room.“Agreement fulfilled?” she asked.“Fulfilled.”She turned toward the entrance.“Dasha.”She stopped.“I need a head of analytics. Be at my office tomorrow at ten. It’s not charity. It’s an offer.”“And the background role?”
He stepped closer.“I was wrong.”A faint smile touched her lips.“I’ll think about it. If the coffee’s better.”For the first time that evening, Ruslan smiled without calculation.“You can choose the machine.”Dasha disappeared into the dim stairwell, the envelope warm in her hand — like the beginning of something new.
Ruslan got into his car and called Kirill.“Well?” Kirill’s sleepy voice answered. “Did he sign?”Ruslan started the engine.“Get your bike keys ready. And know this — that was the best joke you’ve ever made.”
