Katya woke up on Sunday to the loud sound of someone furiously pressing a pin code on the door. Someone was banging on the buttons with such rage as if the ATM had refused to dispense their salary.
She jumped up—in an old T-shirt, with a ponytail on top of her head and panda-like eyes after a night out. She fumbled on the floor, pulled on some shorts, ran to the door, and peeked through the peephole.
There she stood. With a diagonal blush on her cheeks and a leather folder under her arm. Alina Vitalyevna. A lawyer. Pavel’s lawyer. The same Pavel—the ex. And, as it turned out, the new love of his life.
“Good morning, Ekaterina Andreyevna,” she said coldly, as if delivering biopsy results. “We have an important matter to discuss.”
Katya silently opened the door.
“Come in, since you’re so eager,” she nodded, as if inviting her to an execution.
Alina entered and started examining the interior. Katya immediately sensed that now the air would smell like formality—like the scent of a new folder from the stationery store.
“I represent Pavel Sergeyevich’s interests. He has filed a lawsuit for the division of jointly acquired property.”
Katya sighed weakly and leaned on the windowsill.
“So, has his love for you suddenly sharpened his legal mind? Or did he just decide to finish you off before you got back on your feet?”
“I’m not here to discuss personal matters,” Alina replied unemotionally.
“You should be. If you had any sense of personal matters, you wouldn’t be having an affair with a man whose toothbrush is still at home.”
Alina ignored her and continued:
“The apartment, according to him, was purchased during the marriage, so it is subject to division.”
Katya whistled.
“Has Pavlik gone completely mad? That apartment was a gift from my parents for my 30th birthday. Before him, before the marriage, before anything.”
“Do you have documents confirming this?” Alina looked at her like a librarian about to call security for a lost library card.
Katya turned to the shelf. From behind a book with a recipe for navy-style buckwheat, she pulled out a plastic folder. Old, worn, but inside it held something sacred: a gift contract. The gifted apartment. Before the marriage. Signatures. Stamps. No room for interpretation.
“Here, read it. Just don’t drool on the pages—they’re precious to me.”
Alina flipped through the documents with a gloomy expression. It took about a minute, but the tension in the room thickened like a line at the therapist’s office.
“This changes things, of course…” she muttered, her voice slightly trembling. “But Pavel claims he contributed financially to the renovation.”
“He bought a toilet once. And even then on sale. And he took out the construction trash exactly one evening—because I promised not to nag for a week. That’s all. That’s his entire ‘participation.’”
Katya stepped closer and leaned on the back of a chair.
“Listen, Alinochka, I get it—you’re now his lawyer, his new love, and, rumor has it, even the mistress of his new dacha. But if you’ve ever loved someone so much that you glue together three mortgages, two grievances, and one real ‘I love you,’ you’ll understand—right now, you’re just serving someone else’s revenge. Someone else’s dirty revenge. And you’ll pay for it yourself.”
Alina was silent. A heavy tension hung in the room. Katya suddenly felt tired. Not from words. From everything.
“You know,” she said quietly, “you’re not the first person to come here with a bundle of papers and the look of a bulldozer. Before you, there was a court. Before the court, a notary. Before the notary, Pavel’s mistress from the tax office, who also shouted that I ruined his life. So, I think, welcome to the queue, baby. There’s a coffee machine in the corner, though it doesn’t make cappuccinos—only patience.”
“Ekaterina,” Alina started without force, “I’m not made of iron either.”
“You should be. You’re now his shield. His fence. His legal way to get revenge on me for not forgiving him. I don’t regret it. And I don’t miss him.”
Alina put the papers away. Slowly. Carefully.
“I’ll tell Pavel that your documents are in order. I think it’s better if you talk personally.”
“I don’t think so. My last talk with him ended when he tried to carry out an armchair and got stuck in the doorway. Too symbolic to repeat.”
Alina stood up. Approached the exit, then stopped.
“Katya…” She turned. “He really believes you deserved all this.”
Katya raised an eyebrow:
“And he believes he deserved me. Well, everyone has their illusions.”
Alina left. Katya remained standing in the hallway with the look of someone whose insides are burning, but who doesn’t scream—because she holds papers, not a knife.
The phone rang. The screen showed “Elena Viktorovna.”
“Well, Katyusha?” The lawyer’s voice was brisk and dry, like flat champagne. “Ready for war?”
“Nope, Lena. Not for war. For victory.”
Pavel appeared like a mosquito in July: unexpected and unwanted. He arrived at the house in a brand-new Touareg, dressed in a designer suit that Katya probably couldn’t pronounce on the first try. Although once she used to iron his shirts—and knew exactly where the collar stretched and his armpits betrayed slight sweat.
He came upstairs and knocked. Didn’t call, didn’t write, didn’t announce himself in advance—no, just like he likes: invading without asking and pretending it’s normal.
Katya opened the door on the chain lock. No makeup, in a thin robe on bare skin. Hair slightly tousled, lips after a glass of wine she poured herself to fall asleep but couldn’t.
“Hello, Katyusha,” Pavel said as if they hadn’t divorced but just went to different sanatoriums for two days.
“Hi. Forgot? We’re not open for visitors.”
“I want to talk. No lawyers. No papers. No comedy.”
Katya looked through the crack.
“You call this comedy? Darling, this is drama. And you’re the pathetic supporting actor. Okay, come in. But warning—you’ve got a man in my bathroom. Though ceramic, but he looks disapproving.”
Pavel entered. Smiled. Looked around—as if the house still belonged to him. As if she still belonged to him.
“You haven’t changed,” he said walking into the living room.
“Yeah, I don’t have the ‘Update to Naive 2.0’ function.”
Katya went to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses.
“Wine?”
“Surprise me.”
She poured. Set the glass before him, sat opposite. The robe opened a little more than it should have, but she didn’t fix it—let him look. Let him see what he lost. What’s no longer his. And never will be.
“I didn’t want it to end like this,” he said, staring into his glass.
“Really? And how did you want it? For me to see you with Alina and offer her friendship and a place in the wardrobe?”
He looked at her—long, with that look that once sent shivers down her spine. Once. And now? Now only irritation and familiar aching emptiness.
“You know, I was… confused then. All that stress, work, you became a stranger…”
“Oh yes, classic. ‘You changed.’ They say that every time they just want to get into someone’s pants. Then they look for ‘the one’ in others—the one they already lost once.”
He took a sip. Was silent. Then stood up, came closer. Leaned in.
“But you still want me,” he whispered. “I feel it.”
Katya lifted her eyes. Stood up. For a moment, there was silence between them. Dangerous. Tense. Like electricity before a storm.
“I want to get back what was stolen from me. Not you. Myself.”
He still stood close. Too close. She smelled his perfume. And the scent of memories—that don’t fade even after a thorough cleaning.
He leaned to her cheek. Kissed. Slowly, gently. As if waiting for a reaction.
And she… did not pull away.
But did not respond either. Just looked him in the eyes.
“Funny. Before, this used to squeeze me inside. Now—silence. As if you’re kissing not me, but the ghost of who I was before you.”
Pavel pulled away.
“You can’t imagine how bad I feel without you.”
“I can. But you know what’s worse? Being with someone who kisses you and lies at the same time.”
“Alina is gone.”
“Are you sure?” with a smirk. “Or is she just in the kitchen counting spoons?”
“I didn’t come for that. I want you back. Everything back. Let’s start over.”
Katya sat back down, crossed her legs. The fabric of the robe slipped a bit, revealing her thigh. He noticed. Of course, he noticed.
“You do understand,” she said looking straight at him, “even if I forgave you… it doesn’t mean I’d wash your socks again and pretend you didn’t betray me. I’m different, Pavel. I’m no longer the wife who’s afraid to be alone.”
He sat beside her. Took her hand.
“I’m ready to change. To fight. To move. Anything.”
She looked at him and… smiled. Ironically. The tired smile of someone who had to forgive too much—and got too little in return.
“Just don’t forget that this apartment is mine. Like my choice. And here it is: you’re leaving now, walking away, and starting your own life. Without me. Without us. Because there won’t be a second season to this tragicomedy.”
He understood. She saw it in his eyes. In the way his shoulders dropped. How he stood up. Silently. Without drama. Only with a suitcase of regrets he dragged himself.
“Goodbye, Katya,” he said on the threshold.
“Good luck, Pavel. And may you succeed. But not with me.”
The door closed.
Katya went to the mirror. Looked at herself.
“You’re back,” she told her reflection. “And now—live. How you want. Without fear. Without him. And without lies.”
Katya stood before the mirror buttoning her blouse. White, with sharp lapels like a prosecutor in a movie where the heroine always wins in the end. Hair tied back, lips red, eyes without a shadow of pity.
“If confidence had a smell,” she murmured to herself, “it would be Dior and a woman avenged.”
The court. A small hall smelling of stationery, despair, and cheap suits. Pavel sat to the left, compressed like a bun in cellophane. Next to him—Alina Vitalyevna. Blonde, of course. Narrow eyes, pressed lips, and nails so sharp it seemed she signed verdicts without ink.
Katya sat opposite. Her lawyer—Elena Viktorovna—a woman who even in a robe looks like a prosecutor. Stern, dry, with a voice you could drive nails with. One “I object” from her makes you want to surrender, even if you’re just passing by.
The judge was a tired woman with eyes that said, “I’ve seen all this before,” but Katya caught her glance and knew: today she was on her side. Not out of pity. Out of principle.
“Honorable court,” Elena Viktorovna began, standing, “our claim is simple. The apartment in question was gifted to Ekaterina Andreyevna by her parents before the marriage. The documents are in the case. The property title is present. The apartment cannot be considered joint marital property.”
“Allow me!” Alina Vitalyevna jumped up. “But during the marriage, the spouses did renovations, bought furniture, ran the household together. These investments…”
“These investments,” Elena Viktorovna interrupted, “were paid from the joint budget, but the apartment remained the sole property of my client. Moreover, Pavel Sergeyevich voluntarily signed a notarized consent stating he does not claim the property. A copy is in the case files.”
The judge snorted.
Katya looked at Pavel. He was pale. As if someone had sucked the air out of him. Alina drilled him with her eyes. Her face at that moment could be hung on a subway billboard with the caption: “Beware, deceiver.”
“Would you like to add anything?” the judge asked Pavel.
He stood. Hesitated. Coughed. Looked at Katya. At her lips. At her eyes. Then lowered his gaze.
“No,” he said quietly. “Everything is correct.”
Alina exploded like a Chinese firecracker on New Year’s Eve.
“What?! You said we… you promised! You’d win this damn apartment! You lied to me, Pavel?!”
“Alina Vitalyevna, please leave the courtroom,” the judge said calmly, and Elena Viktorovna leaned slightly to Katya and whispered with a smirk:
“The game is over. For them.”
Katya did not move. Sat like an actress in the last scene of a play, knowing the audience was already standing and applauding.
“By court decision, the ownership right is recognized for Ekaterina Andreyevna. Pavel Sergeyevich’s claim is fully denied.”
Somewhere inside, a lock clicked. The one that held fear, pain, and waiting inside her. She stood up, thanked the judge, and went to the exit.
Alina caught up with her in the corridor. Without heels, with disheveled hair and a face that read only one thing: the end of the show.
“You’re happy, huh? Think you won?”
Katya turned. Slowly. Calmly. Like a woman who knows how much that calm cost her.
“No, Alina. I didn’t win. I just didn’t lose. And that, you know, is already great for a start.”
“He’ll come back to me anyway.”
“Then listen to this advice: hide all valuable things and keep your eyes open. He knows how to hurt even when he smiles.”
“You’re so… self-confident.”
“I’m so free, Alina. Try it. It’s contagious.”
And she left. Not looking back. Alina remained standing in the middle of the corridor like a tulip washed ashore after March 8th.
Katya walked down the street. The sun shone brightly. Coffee in hand, documents in her bag. Silence in her head.
The phone rang. Elena Viktorovna.
“Katya, you’re great. By the way, I have an acquaintance who needs an interior designer. She herself runs an agency, influential. You can restart your studio if you want. I’ve arranged it.”
Katya laughed.
“Damn. Looks like I’ll have to live on.”
“You will, dear. You’ll have to live—beautifully.”
And Katya walked on. No longer an ex-wife. Not someone’s mistake. But a woman with everything ahead. Even freedom doesn’t come with a mortgage.
The end.