— Can you believe he actually said that? — Victoria slammed the car door so hard it nearly came off its hinges. — “Maybe we should make Anton deputy?” Anton! The guy who can’t even tell oil from antifreeze!
She stood in the middle of the parking lot, wearing the dealership’s branded suit with the logo on her chest, trembling—not from the cold. The July sun was baking the glass, but inside her was a fine tremor. From anger. From humiliation. From shock.
— Want some coffee? — asked Lidka, her assistant, flicking a thermos with “#BossLady” written on it.
— Coffee? I need valerian root— a liter, and still flat!
They stood behind the dealership, near the service entrance, where Victoria had rushed out so she wouldn’t punch her own husband. At least, in front of witnesses.
And it all started like something out of a glossy magazine.
Three years ago, she took over the dealership from her father. Her late father was a tough, principled man. He didn’t just sell cars—he sold a lifestyle. Victoria followed in his footsteps. No skirts above the knee, no “kitty-kitty” to clients on camera. Everything was strict, with tickets, CRM, and proper profit margins. In two years, she made the dealership profitable and even began building a second one in Podolsk.
Then Dmitry appeared. Handsome, attentive, “I’m so proud of you,” “You’re amazing”… Three months of dating, a ring, registration, his things in her apartment, his cup on her shelf. Love, they said.
Yeah, right.
— He came into my office, — Victoria continued, staring off into space. — With that look like “I’m about to say something smart, hold onto your chair.” He says, “Vik, mom’s worried you’re taking on too much. We talked…”
— Wait! — Lidka jumped in. — “We talked?” He actually said “we”?
— “We.” Like they’re shareholders now. And deciding who to trust with the company.
Lidka whistled.
— Wait, that Anton of theirs? He’s somewhere in Krasnogorsk, at his “Stroymat” office, shuffling papers. Does he even know where a car’s hood opens?
— He doesn’t need to. He needs an office. A chair. A driver. And to inherit everything. The dealership is a “family asset,” as Mom puts it.
Ah, yes. Elena Pavlovna. The mother-in-law. A tank of a woman. At first glance—cultured, glasses, neat hair, smelling of rose soap. But once she opens her mouth, you’re just a worthless daughter-in-law who “put the boy under her heel.”
She never liked Victoria. Too independent, too confident, too much built without their involvement.
— Now look at this. — Victoria pulled out her phone and shoved it under Lidka’s nose. — An email. Official. “Due to workload and frequent negotiations, I propose considering Anton as deputy for administrative matters.”
— From whom?
— From Dmitry. Officially. To my corporate mailbox.
— What a jerk, — Lidka sighed.
— You don’t get it. I asked him at home that evening what nonsense it was. He said, “Vik, you yourself said you’re tired. And besides, Anton is family.”
— And you said?
— I… — she stopped, bit her lip. — I told him if Anton tries anything, I’ll personally hit him with the scanner on the head.
Dinner was silent. Dmitry chewed his cutlet like it had a microchip inside. Glanced at his phone, smirked. Victoria pushed salad leaves around her plate. She made the cutlets, by the way.
— You still haven’t apologized, — he said suddenly.
— For what? For the fact there’s no golden throne in this house yet for your mother?
— Don’t start, — Dmitry sighed. — I was just trying to help. Just an option. Anton could take some responsibilities.
— You want me to let a guy who can’t tell a Toyota from a Nissan into the business?
— You’re dramatizing. He’s an adult. Besides, mom thinks…
— Mom again. Mom, mom! Let her build your business then, since she’s so smart.
He got up, left his plate unfinished, slammed it down in the sink.
— I’m just trying to get things in order! And you react like a bomb went off.
— Because you want to steal my business! — Victoria jumped up. — I let you into my life, into my business, and now you and your mommy are telling me how to live?!
— You always want to do everything yourself! Only your decisions, only your rules! And we and mom are nobody, right?
— With mom! — she shouted. — Hey, do you even hear what you’re saying?! Are you married to me or her?!
He said nothing. Just left the kitchen and slammed the bedroom door.
Victoria was left alone with an empty frying pan and ringing in her head.
Two days later, Elena Pavlovna came without warning. Like she owned the place.
— Hello, Vikulya, — she said, taking off her gloves by the door. — We need to talk.
Victoria was in sweatpants, hair in a ponytail. No battle readiness. But she pulled herself together fast.
— You here for Dmitry?
— I’m here for you. We need to discuss Anton.
— Is he okay?
— Yes, but you’re acting like a hurt child. Dima worried you’re on edge. Understand, you’re a woman. You can’t run such a business alone. Dima’s father… may he rest… always wanted Anton to have a role in the structure. It’s normal—family in business.
— It’s my business. My father built it. Where were you when I was writing contracts at night and freezing at the car market?
Elena Pavlovna sat on the edge of a chair, hands folded on her knees.
— Victoria, family support is the most important thing in life. Not pride. Not stubbornness. You’re young but not omnipotent. Think about the future.
— I am thinking. That’s why Anton is out.
— You’re making a mistake, — the mother-in-law said calmly, but with steel in her eyes. — You’ll lose everything.
— Leave. — Victoria stood up. — I didn’t invite you.
— I’ll come back when you’ve cooled down, — Elena Pavlovna said, rising. — And you’ll thank me.
That evening Dmitry didn’t come home. No calls, no texts. The next morning Victoria learned he’d stayed at his mother’s. And that Anton showed up at the dealership “on her orders” to “get acquainted with the processes.”
— Vika, — Lidka said on the phone. — He’s really walking around here, in a suit, with a tablet. Tried to ask a client questions. Our Stas almost threw him out. What to do?
— Don’t touch him, — Victoria said. — I’m coming.
She arrived at work grinding her teeth. Went to reception—Anton sat in her chair.
— What are you doing here? — she asked, looking him in the eyes.
He stood up. Uncertain, but holding himself.
— I’m just helping. Dima said…
— Dima doesn’t say anything here anymore. Leave.
— Wait, why are you so angry? I was told…
— I said: get out.
When he tried to back away, she grabbed his collar and pushed him out the service door. In front of employees. In front of clients.
Then she went to her office, grabbed a bottle of mineral water, and drank it all in one gulp. Her hands trembled.
Fifteen minutes later Elena Pavlovna called.
— You crossed the line.
— No, you did, — Victoria replied, — when you decided I’m just decoration here.
— You don’t understand what you’re doing. You want to be alone?
— Better alone than with you.
She hung up.
At that moment she realized: there was no turning back.
— So you think you can handle it alone? — Dmitry stood in the doorway, bag on shoulder, looking like someone kicked out of his own summer house for drunkenness and yelling accordion.
— You were living with your mom, weren’t you? — Victoria answered coldly, not looking up from her laptop.
— Don’t call her mom. That’s my mother.
— Oh, really? I thought she was the devil’s accountant.
He came into the apartment, dropped the bag, went to the bathroom. Without permission. Without “may I?” Like everything was normal.
— You really think you can just kick my brother out of the business, and that’s it? — came from behind the door. — By the way, you don’t own 100%. There’s joint property. And you’re married!
— For now, — she threw back. — But not for long.
The bathroom went silent. Then a door slammed.
— Are you filing for divorce?
— Did you think I’d hold onto you? To someone conspiring with mom to push me out of my business?
— I just wanted things to be humane! Anton’s a good guy! You’re digging your own grave!
— There’s the door. Get out. Before the scene starts.
— It already has, Vik. Already.
He left. Slammed the door. Didn’t even take slippers. Thank God.
Two days later came the summons.
“Court hearing on the division of joint property of spouses L.”
And for the first time in all this, Victoria’s legs gave way. Because it wasn’t about division. It was about control. Access. Management.
If he could prove the business grew with his involvement over two years, the court might recognize it as jointly acquired property. Meaning Anton, mom, and their whole family would gain rights to demand a share. Rights to enter the business. Even part of the profits.
— Yulia, come here urgently, — she said on the phone.
Half an hour later her lawyer entered—an old acquaintance, dry, tough, short hair, prosecutor’s voice.
— Let’s read, — Victoria said, tossing the summons.
Yulia scanned it, smirked.
— So, he’s going to court? Good for him. This isn’t throwing slippers anymore. This is serious.
— He’s after money?
— After the business. A takeover. You know the scheme: first under the guise of “family involvement,” then court, pressure, expert opinions. And you get a deputy for security—Anton in sneakers.
— What do we do?
— Audit everything. All papers. All documents. When did you register the sole proprietor? How did contracts come in? Was he involved? Prove the dealership is your work, not joint. Prepare for battle.
— What about personal?
— Everything. First property. Then moral damages. Then custody of the dog. What world do you live in, Vika? Your marriage is a raider marriage. You were set up. First “you’re amazing,” then “mom and I decided.”
That evening Lidka called.
— They came today.
— Who?
— Mom and Anton. Said you’re temporarily suspended. There’ll be “internal reshuffles.” I called security, of course. But… people are shocked.
Victoria sat right on the floor. On the carpet. Stared at the wall. Just like Yulia warned. Their goal—paint her as unstable. Emotional. Unmanageable.
Two hours later another email appeared—from Dmitry:
“Vika, you’re acting like a hysteric. Think about your future. Before it’s too late. We can fix everything. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
She wanted to smash her phone. Throw it at the wall. Scream. But just lay on the floor and stayed like that. About twenty minutes. Eyes closed. Because if she cried now—there’d be no going back.
The next days were like wading through muddy water.
Yulia shuffled papers, made calls, processed paperwork. Victoria signed, collected, recalled, confirmed. Strange things began at the dealership—documents “disappeared,” clients complained about rudeness, suppliers suddenly delayed payments.
— It’s them, — Lidka said. — Anton walks around pretending he’s in a meeting. But he’s digging into contracts, asking everyone: “How long have you worked with her?”
— Don’t interfere anymore, — Victoria said firmly. — I’ll handle it.
But it wasn’t going well. Especially when one morning, Elena Pavlovna waited for her by the house.
— Have you thought?
— Get out of the way.
— We’re not enemies. We just want to participate. You’ll get tired alone. A woman can’t be iron.
— Really? And what have you achieved? Besides manipulation?
— I raised a son. That’s more than you understand.
— You raised a rat informant. Congratulations.
— Victoria… — she stepped closer. — You’ll destroy everything.
— I’m saving what you want to destroy.
She walked past without looking back. Heart pounding like a marathoner’s. Hands sticky. But no point going back now. Only forward.
Then came the court.
The first hearing. All proper. Benches, lawyers, smell of sour paper. Dmitry sat like a monk—hands folded, tragic face. He even shrugged when the judge asked:
— Plaintiff, you claim participation in the business creation?
— Yes, Your Honor. I supported my wife, we discussed clients together, I handled some correspondence…
— Did you receive a salary?
— No. It was family support.
— But documents were signed by the wife?
— Yes. By agreement.
Victoria’s lawyer stood.
— Your Honor. We have 54 documents proving the entrepreneurial activity started by Victoria L. before marriage. All key contracts, loans, purchases—registered solely to her. Moreover, the plaintiff is not listed in any accounting reports.
— But we were family! — Dmitry interrupted. — And now she’s kicking me and my family out! For money!
The judge raised an eyebrow.
— This is about ownership rights, not family feelings. Please be seated.
Victoria was silent. Yulia said all that was needed. She just looked at her ex-husband and thought: How many faces you had. And none was yours.
After court she went outside, stood by a trash can, lit a cigarette. First time in three years.
Lidka came up behind.
— How are you?
— Like after a war.
— He said you’re hysterical, — Lidka smirked. — Ha. If he only knew what real hysteria looks like.
— Let him be glad I didn’t have a scene. Yet.
They stood silently. Somewhere behind the courthouse a sparrow sang.
— You know they won’t leave you alone, — Lidka whispered. — This isn’t over.
— I know, — Victoria answered. — That’s why I will destroy them. To the ground. No chances.
And she smiled.
A smile that gave goosebumps.
— He won’t succeed, — Victoria whispered, scrolling the case files for the hundredth time. — Everything’s legal. Everything’s clean. Everything…
But when she got a call from the bank, her voice shook for the first time in months:
— You have a motion today to freeze the account. Until further notice. Filed by the second co-owner, Dmitry L.
— What second owner?! — she yelled so loud even the dog under the couch howled.
But the call ended.
She pulled the internet cable, rushed to the car, and twenty minutes later stormed into the bank office like a starving tigress. No makeup, jeans, old puffer jacket. No pretenses. Just wild eyes.
— What the hell?! — she slammed the counter.
— Victoria Lvovna, please calm down. We received a packet of documents. Including marriage certificate, claim to recognize the business share as joint property, and a request for temporary suspension of operations. We must respond.
— He has nothing to do with the account! This is a sole proprietor registered BEFORE marriage!
— That will have to be disputed in court. For now, technical block. Until decision.
Victoria exhaled. Then sobbed. Then silently sat down on the tiled floor, leaning against the wall.
They were strangling her. Methodically. Through bureaucracy. Lawyers. Contacts in tax. Banks.
— Want coffee? — the cashier timidly asked.
— I want him to die, — Victoria whispered. — Along with mommy and that dumb brother.
She came home late. Someone had searched the apartment. Not completely turned upside down, but drawers open, things moved, a drawer of flash drives empty. Apparently they were looking for something important. Or wanted her to notice.
— Good, — she said in the dark, turning on the light. — Very good. Now it’s adult business.
She opened the safe, took out an old trusty recorder, and started recording everything she remembered. Where, when, who, how much. Who visited whom. What was said. Where there might be collusion. Where that strange payment through Anton went. Which old employees hinted at the “new order.”
Next morning she was at the prosecutor’s office. Then the tax inspector’s. Then a private detective.
— I want to know where Anton goes. Who visits him. I need a full list of meetings for two weeks. Here’s a photo—his car. Surveillance, phone taps, record everything. Start work immediately.
— Got it. What’s the situation?
— The situation is that I foolishly married a career scumbag with a raider mom.
— Aha… got it. I’ll take it.
The detective sent a report on the fourth day.
Anton met with some lawyer at an office on the outskirts. Dmitry visited there twice. And—attention—they were met by a man from a large car dealership network.
— They want to eat up the business, — Yulia explained. — And make you look like an ineffective manager. Through courts, falsification. Got it? They’re preparing a merger. And you’re extra. They don’t want an owner. They want a puppet on the couch. Or a corpse in the tax registry.
— What to do?
— Intercept. Block. Blow it up before they do. If you want—we can.
Victoria didn’t answer. Just sat thinking. For a long time.
A week later she held a press conference. Made a public appearance on TV—a young businesswoman filing suit against her ex-husband for a raider takeover attempt using a fake marriage and forged documents. Presented facts, showed documents, named names.
— Here they are. Dmitry L., his mother Elena Pavlovna, and brother Anton L.—a group attempting a hostile takeover under the guise of a family dispute. Here’s proof. Here are witnesses.
The internet exploded. Opinions split: some pitied “poor guy so humiliated,” others wrote: “Bravo, girl! Give it to them!”
She started getting interview requests. Clients called. Suppliers. Even tax with an audit, but with a smile.
Two days later Dmitry waited at her entrance.
— What are you doing?! You’re ruining my reputation! You…
— Silence, — she said, silencing him. — You came to destroy me. But you miscalculated—I’m fighting back. Now pay up.
— You have no right!
— Did you have the right? When you forged documents? When you opened accounts in your brother’s name?
He went pale.
— You won’t prove it.
— I already did. Next—court. Hope you like jail clothes. Say hi to your mom if she lives to the investigation.
She turned and walked away. In heels. Calmly. Inside, everything shook. Outside—a cold armor.
A month later she opened a second dealership. Under a franchise agreement. Her face on billboards. Her story in magazines. And Dmitry?
— He’s with mom now. Unemployed. With Anton. They tried to sue for the apartment but the court refused. All they have is resentment and a loan on an unpaid car, — Lidka said.
— You know, — Victoria said, — when I started all this, I thought I was just saving a business. Turns out—I was saving myself. My life. My sanity.
— You’re iron, Vika.
— No. I just realized one thing: if you don’t burn bridges—someone will come back over them with dirty feet.