Raising My Boss's Child

The room was filled with his presence, as it always was when he was in a hurry, like a local typhoon about to sweep through. Dasha, his assistant, instinctively stepped aside, used to his whirlwind preparations. "Gray shirt, Dasha," he said, turning to her. "What color tie goes with a gray shirt?" "Bordeaux, perhaps," she replied, suppressing a smile. She still felt uneasy about smiling in his presence, even after working for him for two years. "Like Daniel Craig." Her boss raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Who?" "He played Bond," she explained. He shook his head skeptically, as if dismissing the thought, and then seemed to forget about her altogether. He took a personal phone call, leaving Dasha standing there, listening. When he finished, she handed him a neutral-colored tie, but one with a rich hue to ensure he didn't look boring. "Thank you, Dasha," he nodded. "What would I do without you?" "I'm going on maternity leave," she gently reminded him. Karim turned to her, surprised, and glanced at her flat stomach, barely noticeable under her baggy jacket. "Really?" "Yes, I'm adopting a child. I told you, I'm leaving tonight..." "Good for you," Karim interrupted. "Now, tie the tie." Tying his tie was always a torturous task for Dasha. She felt overwhelmed by the range of emotions he evoked in her, and each time she accidentally touched his skin, she forgot how to breathe. He should have visited the barber, she thought, making a mental note to remind him. And then she remembered that she'd be on leave, so she'd have to remind the person replacing her... She tied his tie, her fingers brushing against his skin. His hair, which had grown past his collar, was starting to curl. "You must have had curly hair as a child," she blurted out, her face reddening at the boldness of her question. Their relationship was strictly professional, with no room for personal liberties. Karim looked at her, narrowing his dark brown eyes, his gaze traveling from the top of her head to her toes, as if considering whether to fire her on the spot. "Yes," he replied, surprising her. "I was a blond child, my mother is Russian. My hair darkened over time." With the tie securely knotted, Dasha's hands fell to her sides. Karim nodded and exited the office. She stood there for a moment, catching her breath, waiting for her racing heart to calm down. Then she walked across the spacious office, taking in the city view. She lingered, running her hand over her boss's solid oak desk. In six months, when she returned from leave, everything would be different. Her position would likely be filled by another efficient and useful assistant. Two years ago, that's exactly how she had taken the job—Karim had noticed her when she was working as a secretary for one of his subordinates, underpaid and undervalued. When Karim's assistant fell ill, Dasha had stepped in, and when the original assistant returned, her place had been taken. "I'll miss this," she whispered, knowing full well that there were cameras everywhere. She didn't want the security service to think that plain Dasha Ivanovna was pining for her boss. Such thoughts could get her fired. And then, as if shaking off her doubts, she quickly left the room, almost running. She had grand plans. Tomorrow, she would become a mother. It had always been her dream, ever since university, when she imagined herself rocking her baby to sleep. She had rushed into marriage, full of hope and excitement. But then came the miscarriage, infertility, and divorce... Her husband had discarded her like a broken toy. So, she decided to adopt. What did it matter who gave birth to the child? She would give all her love, and she would be the best mother in the world. But between her and her dream stood her lack of money and an apartment. Karim Bulatov, her stern and demanding boss, didn't tolerate weakness or carelessness. Yet, he knew how to take care of his employees. Working for him, she had secured a loan for an apartment from his bank, a stable salary, and now she could finally afford her dream and the six-month leave with her child. Everything would work out. Her mother called as she was about to leave. Her bags were packed, every document accounted for—years of working for Karim had taught her to be meticulous and consider even the smallest details. "Are you going?" her mother asked over the phone. "Yes," she confirmed. "Why don't you wait? You're only thirty, dear... alone, adopting a child, without a husband? Give yourself more time. You'll find someone, get married, maybe you'll be able to have your own child..." At the mention of her pregnancy, a pain twisted inside her. Her mother, unknowingly, was striking at her most vulnerable spot. "This will be my child, Mom. I have to go, my flight is soon." A single woman with a mortgage wasn't a desirable candidate for adoption. Dasha was willing to take any child, but nothing seemed to be available. And then, through a federal database, she found a match—far away, in a small town deep in the countryside. A little boy, about two years old. She was certain he was waiting for her, and tonight, she would finally bring him home. She arrived in the distant city early in the morning. The town didn't have an airport, so she endured another two-hour bus ride, but it was all worth it. She had booked a hotel room, skillfully planned by her for Karim on countless occasions. She managed to take a shower and have some coffee. Looking at herself in the mirror, she noticed her pale skin—no vacations this summer or the last, as Karim needed her to work, and she needed the money. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of both excitement and a sleepless night. She wore a gray business suit, a faceless and shapeless ensemble designed to hide her figure, as instructed by the head of security when she was hired as Karim's assistant. "You shouldn't try to be pretty. You should be smart and useful," he had said. "If I sleep with you, I'll fire you myself. I don't need drama here." So, she had become a smart worker, enduring two challenging years. Outside, the autumn morning was misty, with red and bright yellow leaves on the trees. The small town seemed perfect, simply because her dream was about to come true. The orphanage, or rather the baby house, was small, housing about three dozen children. Most of them had living parents who were at risk of losing their rights due to their antisocial lifestyle. Dasha slowly climbed the steps and rang the bell, her heart pounding. "Dasha Ivanovna!" the director greeted her warmly. "We've been expecting you! Before we proceed, I'd like to talk to you about the child. There are some things you should know..." "Later," Dasha cut her off. "I want to see him first." As she followed the director down the corridor, she thought she might faint. But she didn't. She stood in the doorway, her heart pounding, and then... He sat on the floor of an empty room, seemingly unaffected by the cold. In front of him was a pile of building blocks, which he picked up one by one, turning them over in his hands, examining each side adorned with pictures. Dasha couldn't remember how she made her way to him. She lowered herself to the floor, sitting next to him. He lifted his head and looked straight at her, his eyes—hazel, like velvet, deep and wise—taking her in. "As you know, he's a foundling," the director said. "He was simply sitting in a parking lot one night, alone..." Dasha barely heard the director's words, her focus entirely on her son. She was afraid to touch him, but he continued to gaze at her silently. Finally, she extended her hand, gently brushing the tips of his light, honey-colored, curly hair.