Chapter 1
“Let go of me!” I struggled against the greasy hands of a fifty-something pig of a man who was forcing his way under my skirt.
“Oh, come on, sweetheart,” he slurred, his breath reeking of alcohol and cheap cologne. “You’ve been so nice to me. All those smiles—don’t tell me you didn’t want it too.”
His thick fingers were nearly at my underwear, and I was desperately trying to push him off.
But it wasn’t easy. A hundred kilos of entitled male flesh pinned me between him and the desk. I’m small. Fighting him off felt like trying to move a boulder with bare hands. His disgusting breath hit the side of my neck, making my skin crawl.
I smiled at you because you’re my boss, you bastard. Because I’m your secretary and I needed this job. But this pervert had been staring at my chest since the day I walked in, like my neckline was some kind of open invitation.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he grinned.
Oh God, when will he stop?
I leaned back against the desk to keep some distance between us, but that only made it easier for him.
“How about a bonus? A little raise?” he said, like I was some cheap toy he could buy. “Or better yet—how about you become my mistress? I’ll spoil you, take you on trips, buy you anything you want.”
As if every woman dreams of sleeping her way to stability. As if being someone’s well-kept secret is some kind of prize.
“Think about your kid, sweetheart. It’s tough being a single mom…”
That was it.
One word. That one word about my son was enough. I slapped him hard across the face and drove the sharp heel of my shoe into his polished loafer.
“Don’t you dare,” I hissed.
He stumbled back, clutching his foot, trying to balance his overgrown belly.
No one gets to use my son. No one.
I jumped off the desk, yanked my skirt back down, straightened my blouse—two buttons ripped—and marched for the door.
“You’ll regret this!” he barked behind me as I grabbed the handle.
“I quit. Effective immediately.” I didn’t look back. “I’ll bring my resignation letter tomorrow. Start looking for a new secretary.”
He stood there, stunned that one of his underlings dared defy him. That I wasn’t willing to crawl into his bed just to survive.
Right before I slammed the door behind me, I heard it. Low, but clear:
“Bitch.”
The door shook behind me as I stormed out. The hallway seemed to flinch, as if the building itself recoiled from the filth that had just taken place inside. My chest heaved. Blood pounded in my ears.
God. I could still feel his slimy hands on my skin, hear his filthy voice ringing in my head like poison.
I clutched the fabric of my skirt, as if it might help me hold myself together.
Inhale. Exhale.
My legs were trembling—not from exhaustion, but from fury. From disgust. From rage so deep it made my bones feel hot.
I walked down the hallway fast, not seeing the curious glances or hearing the whispers. Let them stare. Let them talk. I had nothing left to lose.
I took a cab home — my beloved Prius was still at the repair shop, waiting patiently for me to come rescue it.
The whole ride, I simmered with rage. Anger, humiliation, fury — all of it boiled under my skin.
The driver, bless him, must’ve sensed my stormy mood and kept quiet the entire trip, letting soft jazz hum through the speakers like a gentle buffer against my thoughts.
But when I stepped into the elevator and caught my reflection in the mirror… everything inside me shifted.
Mascara smudged. Lipstick smeared. Blouse torn, two pearly buttons gone. A red mark bloomed on my wrist — the imprint of his filthy fingers. Even my favorite tights had a run in them.
And on top of it all… I lost my job.
No — I don’t regret quitting. There’s no excuse for what he did, and I won’t stay silent or play along like nothing happened.
The girls at the office used to whisper about him, warning me to be careful. But I never imagined this. This was beyond disgusting.
I felt so... small. So violated. Like his hands had touched more than just my body — like they’d soiled a piece of my soul. I wanted to scrub myself clean. Wipe the shame off my skin.
One tear rolled down my cheek. Just one. I wiped it away fast and sharp.
Self-pity wasn’t an option.
I needed to pull myself together. I needed to find a new job — fast. With what little savings I had left, I could pay the nanny for another month. Maybe. If I was lucky.
My son.
Just thinking of him made my walls crack. My strength wavered.
I reached my floor, shoved the key into the lock, and stepped inside. The hallway light clicked on automatically. I kicked off my heels, tossed my purse onto the bench, and slid down the wall — coat still on, unable to move.
I’d just ordered medicine too. Thought I’d pay for it with my next paycheck. But now...
Everything was crashing down like a cruel test from the universe:
“Go ahead. Break. Just break already.”
I was ready to let it out — to sob, to scream into the silence. But then I heard it. That angelic voice from somewhere deeper in the apartment.
“Mommy! Mommy’s home!”
Tiny footsteps came running, and suddenly, there he was — my entire world. Bright smile. Flushed cheeks. Little arms wide open, ready for me.
He paused.
Of course he did — I was still crumpled on the floor, sitting where I’d never let him sit, probably with my ruined makeup scaring the life out of him.
I wiped under my eyes in a rush, hoping it was enough to make me look halfway human. But the smile that came to my lips was real. It didn’t need effort. Not around him.
I shifted, dropping to my knees and opening my arms in return. He hesitated for a second longer — then ran into me, full force.
I wrapped him up, pulling him tight against my chest. My little bear cub. He smelled like strawberries and chocolate. His cheeks were so soft. I kissed each one in turn, and he burst into giggles — that warm, perfect sound that stitched me back together.
“Mommy’s upset?” Two dark button eyes stared up at me, and a tiny finger poked gently at my cheek. “Mommy, were you crying?”
I grabbed his little hand and kissed it again.
“No, of course not, baby bear. Mommy didn’t cry.”
But the way he looked at me — confused, worried — told me I wasn’t very convincing.
“Why would Mommy cry, huh? Don’t you remember? Mommy’s strong.”
I gave his round cheek a playful pinch, and he flinched with a little giggle, shoulders rising.
“Mommy is strong! And sooo pretty!”
My sweet boy.
Finally, I pulled myself up off the floor and started to take off my coat while he danced around me, full of energy.
From around the corner, Mrs. Benson appeared — my son Timur’s nanny.
“Good evening, Annie!”
She was an older woman, and I could tell she’d been busy in the kitchen, probably preparing something warm before I got home.
If it weren’t for her, I would’ve passed out from hunger weeks ago. With my schedule lately, I’d barely seen the kitchen — just rushed in for coffee before running out the door. She arrived early every morning and I’d leave Timur in her capable hands. Four kids of her own — experience wasn’t a problem.
“Good evening, Mrs. Benson,” I said, but my voice came out tight and tired.
“Everything alright, Annie? You don’t look like yourself.” Her eyes swept over me, reading more than I wanted her to.
I tried to keep my posture straight, to hide the truth — that half an hour ago I was nearly assaulted by my boss and walked out on the only job I had. But her gaze was soft, full of understanding and unspoken sympathy, and it hit me hard.
No, I’m not okay. I’m angry. I’m humiliated. I have no idea what tomorrow looks like.
But then Timur looked up at me again, his small hands wrapping around my fingers, and I forced a smile — a real one this time. One he could believe in. I straightened my shoulders.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Benson. It’s just… been a long day.”
I was so tired. But my little jumping bean had other plans.
“Mommy! Mommy, come on!” he tugged at my hand, his tiny strength no match for mine yet, but determined nonetheless.
“What is it, baby bear?”
“We made you a pie! Me and Grandma Margaret!”
“Timur, how many times have I told you not to call her that?” I sighed.
He pouted, lips pushed out dramatically. I turned to Tatyana Andreevna with an apologetic look.
“I’m sorry, he just…”
“It’s alright, Annie,” she smiled. “He can call me whatever he likes. I don’t mind being a grandma to such a sweet little angel.”
She ruffled Timur’s hair, and he smiled shyly, cheeks glowing with pride. She really did look like a grandmother — and she had become one to him in every way that mattered. They bonded quickly, even though Timur was usually wary of strangers.
He could be serious, quiet. But with me and her, he was like a little bear cub — soft, happy, open. They were together five days a week. Of course she became his family.
His real grandmother? She didn’t even want to see him. To her, he wasn’t a grandson. And I… I wasn’t a daughter anymore either.
I couldn’t even remember the last time she called to say happy birthday — let alone how are you, how’s the baby…
I’d never talked to Timur about it. He’s still too little. Though sometimes… far too perceptive for his age.
Timur’s still too young for school, but Mrs. Benson works with him almost every day. You can’t take the teacher out of someone like her. That part never goes away.
There was so much warmth in her eyes — it made me believe, just for a second, that maybe not all family turns away from you. That sometimes, family finds you again — not by blood, but by being there when it matters.
In short, Mrs. Benson was a miracle wrapped in an apron.
Before I knew it, I was seated at the table, a steaming cup of fragrant tea in one hand and a slice of delicious blueberry pie in the other.
“Mommy, do you like it?” Timur asked, bouncing around the table like a little ball of sunshine.
Until a rough cough caught him off guard.
Mrs. Benson and I were used to it — we’d been through it so many times — but still, my heart clenched the same way it always did. My hand instinctively reached for my purse, where I kept a spare inhaler for him.
But this time, Mrs. Benson was quicker. She pulled one from the pocket of her cardigan and handed it to him with practiced calm.
He took a slow breath in — and the coughing stopped.
“Back at it again, huh, Timur?” I said gently, stroking his hair, smoothing it down as his breathing settled.
Relief swept through me the moment his little lungs found rhythm again, and he gave me a sheepish smile.
“Sweetheart, remember — you need to keep your inhaler with you at all times.”
He nodded, solemnly, guilt swimming in his eyes.
“And please, baby bear, don’t run around so much.”
He looked disappointed, but he knew I was right. He gave a quiet, reluctant nod.
“Go play in your room for a bit, okay? I need to talk with Mrs. Benson.”
He looked like he was about to sprint — then paused, as if remembering. He took one slow step. Then another. He walked — no bouncing, no skipping — straight into his room.
That’s my boy.
Now it was just the two of us.
“How was he today, Mrs. Benson?”
She smiled and waved a hand dismissively.
“Timur’s a treasure, Annie. Never gives me a bit of trouble.”
Only Mrs. Benson ever called me Annie like that.
“But the coughing’s been more frequent,” she added softly, pressing her hand to her chest.
She shook her head, worried.
I ran both hands through my hair. I thought things were finally getting better. For six months, he’d been stable. And now…
Timur was born with asthma. Severe.
He didn’t breathe when he was born.
I still remember his tiny body in that hospital incubator.
So small. So still. He couldn’t breathe on his own for weeks. He was born too early.
But my strong little boy is here. With me.
Mrs. Benson’s news wasn’t exactly comforting. I’d need to call Timur’s doctor again, the one who’s been monitoring his condition.
“Annie, don’t shut down on me. Don’t carry this all alone.” Her warm hand settled gently on my shoulder. “If you need help with Timur, I’m always here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Benson.”
“Well, now that you’re home, I should be heading out. My husband’s probably wondering where I am.”
She adjusted the shawl over her shoulders. Her kind eyes — lined with soft, motherly wrinkles — looked at me with such quiet care it made my chest tighten.
She moved around the kitchen quickly, speaking as she gathered her things.
“Timur and I made soup. It’s on the stove — eat up, sweetheart. You’ve gotten so thin lately, Annie.”
I hadn’t noticed. Well… maybe a couple of my pants felt looser at the waist, but everything else still seemed to fit.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Benson.” Those words weren’t nearly enough.
She wasn’t just a nanny. Not just a woman who watched over Timur while I worked. She’d become a part of our lives — a quiet refuge in a world that never stopped screaming.
“It’s nothing, my dear.”
I helped her into her coat, and she leaned in, whispering:
“You need a good man, Annie. You’re young. Gorgeous. And still no strong arms to lean on. No admirers knocking down your door?”
I just waved it off.
There are admirers...
But they only ever look at me like a piece of meat. I know I’m not unattractive. My mother was the beauty queen of her university, and my sister and I definitely inherited her looks. Even now, in her forties, my mom looks stunning.
And I got her figure too — full chest, a slim waist, soft curves that men always stare at first.
Too feminine. Too much, for men who only see skin.
They like the image — but none of them want to see what’s behind it. The ones who casually ask for my number, who smirk when they suggest dinner — there’s always a hidden message in their tone.
They don’t care what kind of wine I like. What movie makes me cry. What brings me joy. They don’t want to know about the sleepless nights, the anxiety over my son, the quiet fear that one day, I won’t have the strength to keep going. They just want one thing.
That’s why I stopped wasting my time on dates. My friend Sasha keeps saying I should stop being so stubborn. That I can’t be a single mom forever.
I just smile and wave it off.
“Drop it, Sashа. Seriously.”
If only she knew what it’s like — to be strong every single day. Because there’s simply no other option. Timur ran in to see Mrs. Benson off.
After he finished hugging her tight, I suddenly remembered what I’d forgotten to say.
“Oh, Mrs. Benson — you don’t have to come tomorrow.”
She paused.
“Why not, Annie? Don’t you have work? Who’s going to stay with Timur?”
“Um…”
What was I supposed to say?
“I was given the day off.”
“Oh, finally!” she smiled. “Poor thing, you’ve been running like a squirrel on a wheel — morning to night.”
It was late by the time I tucked Timur into bed.
The apartment had gone quiet. I sank into the living room couch, breathing in the stillness of the night.
I need a job. Fast.
I opened my laptop and pulled up a job search site. I’d post my resume in the morning, but I couldn’t just sit here doing nothing. Page after page, I scrolled — but the deeper I went, the heavier the disappointment felt. Like searching for a pearl in an endless sea of gravel.
One job offered a laughable salary — barely enough to cover childcare. Another demanded hours so brutal I wouldn’t see Timur until the weekend. And another wanted someone young and ambitious… and preferably child-free. Because full commitment clearly meant late nights alone in the office.
I dragged a hand across my face and leaned back into the sofa with a sigh.
God, is it really this hard?
A lump rose in my throat, but I forced it down. No tears. Not tonight. I couldn’t afford to break. But the weight in my chest was crushing — a sticky kind of despair that refused to let go.
Timur needs another doctor visit soon. His inhaler dosage will probably go up again. Which means more meds…
At my last job — even just as a secretary — I made enough to cover all that.
Though honestly, maybe that creep was just baiting me — throwing bonuses at my chest like tips for a show.
Either way… it helped. The rent. The meds. Mrs. Benson. I’d spent years there. And now it was gone. Just like that. It stung. But tears wouldn’t fix it.
I couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.
Because Timur has only me. And I have only him.
That means I have to protect him — our little world, however fragile. Because he is small. But to me, he is everything.
