“Here, take it.”
A crumpled thousand-ruble bill flies onto the kitchen table and freezes at the very edge, as if hesitating whether to fall onto the floor.
I look at it, then at Stas. He is already fastening his impeccable cufflinks, reflected in the glossy cabinet surface.
“I think this will be enough for a couple of days. Don’t splurge too much.”
He doesn’t look at me. His attention is fixed on his own reflection. He admires himself — successful, generous, condescending. The husband who supports his good-for-nothing wife.
I silently take the bill. The paper is thin, almost weightless. In his world, it’s dust. In mine, the one he has defined for me, it’s the measure of my existence for the next forty-eight hours.
“Thank you,” my voice is even, almost inaudible.
Stas smirks, finally tearing himself away from the cufflinks.
“You could say something different at least once. Surprise me. Although, what am I talking about.”
He approaches, kisses me on the temple. A patronizing, cold kiss. It smells of expensive perfume and power.
The power he wields over his company, over his subordinates, over me.
“I’ll be late,” he throws over his shoulder at the door. “Don’t bother making dinner, we’ll eat with partners.”
The door slams shut.
I stand in the middle of the huge kitchen, which smells only of lemon cleaning spray. A thousand rubles lie in my palm.
I walk to the window. Down below in the parking lot, his black Mercedes smoothly drives out through the gate. Gone.
My shoulders straighten. The expression of submission slowly slides off my face like a theatrical mask. I throw the bill back on the table. Let it lie there.
I go to the office — the only room Stas almost never enters, considering it “my girly hobby.” I open the laptop. The screen doesn’t show recipe sites. It shows charts.
Pulsing green and red lines, columns of numbers, a running ticker of quotes. This is not chaos.
This is poetry. Mathematical poetry, which I understand better than the words of love I have never heard.
Shares of his “Stroy-Imperial” company fell by 0.7% today. Insignificant for him. He won’t even notice. Most likely, he’ll blame market volatility and forget by lunchtime.
But I know the reason. I calculated it a week ago, analyzing the reports of their new contractor. A hole in the balance sheet that no one saw. Until now.
My fingers fly over the keyboard. I open my brokerage account. The numbers would make Stas choke on his morning espresso.
I place a buy order. A large one. Big enough that my share in his company crosses another significant percentage.
“Buy.”
Button pressed. Deal executed.
I lean back in my chair. On the other side of town, my husband is about to discuss multi-million contracts, unaware that his largest asset — his own empire — is slowly but surely changing ownership.
Stas came home earlier than usual. I heard him throw his keys onto the glass shelf in the hallway with force — a sure sign of a bad mood.
I left the office, taking on the usual guise of a quiet mouse. He was standing by the panoramic window in the living room, loosening his tie knot.
“Did something happen?”
He turned sharply. His gaze was heavy, angry.
“Something happened. The partners gave me hell today over some minor thing. Our shares dropped a little. Everyone’s nervous.”
He said this to me but looked through me. I was just a convenient surface to hit with his fist of emotions.
“Maybe it’s just market fluctuations?” I suggested softly.
“What do you understand about that?” he cut me off. “You sit in your charts all day like a spider. If only there was some use.”
I remained silent. It was part of the game. Let him blow off steam.
“By the way,” he walked around the room. “Times are tough. We’ll have to cut expenses. Yours first. Starting tomorrow, your household budget is halved.”
He stopped, waiting for my reaction. Rebellion, tears, pleas. Anything to confirm his authority.
I paused, choosing my words carefully.
“Stas, that’s not what I mean. I just thought… maybe it’s not the market? I happened to see reports on the new contractor, ‘Vertical.’
I think they might have liquidity problems. That could create risks for the whole project.”
He froze mid-sentence. Then laughed. Loudly, mockingly.
“You? Saw reports? And what did you understand there, financial genius? Pretty numbers? Don’t meddle in things you don’t understand, Anya. Never.
Your job is the home, and to not bother me when I come home. You can’t even handle that.”
He stepped close to me.
“If I hear one more word from you about ‘liquidity’ or other nonsense you read in your stupid articles, I’ll take your laptop away. You’ll study cookbooks. That’s your level. Got it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Turned and went to the bedroom, slamming the door so hard the glass in the cabinet shook.
I was left alone in the huge living room. The humiliation wasn’t fiery, it was icy. It didn’t burn, it froze, turning emotions into a pure, sharp crystal of cold calculation.
He just gave me carte blanche. He not only ignores me. He doesn’t see me. I’m furniture to him. And furniture can’t run corporations.
I returned to my office. This time I opened not only the brokerage terminal. I opened closed investor forums, started searching for contacts of the minority shareholders of “Stroy-Imperial,” digging under his board of directors.
Just buying shares is slow. It’s a defensive game. He gave me a reason to go on the offensive.
After two hours of searching, I found what I was looking for. The surname of one of the old partners of his father, whom Stas had roughly squeezed out of the business years ago, taking his shares for a pittance.
This man held a grudge. And apparently, he still had a small but very important share package. A package that could become “golden.”
I found his number. My fingers hovered over the call button. This was a new level. Risky. But Stas’s laughter still echoed in my ears.
I pressed call.
“Viktor Ivanovich?” My voice sounded unusually firm. “My name is Anna. I’m calling regarding the assets of the ‘Stroy-Imperial’ company. I’m sure we have common interests.”
Silence on the other end. I only heard the breath of an elderly, cautious man.
“I’m listening,” he finally said.
We arranged a meeting for the next day. In a nondescript coffee shop downtown, where no one would pay attention to us.
I spent the whole evening and half the night preparing. I transferred key data to an encrypted flash drive, made backups in the cloud.
I was preparing not just a conversation, but a presentation of a takeover. With numbers, forecasts, and a clear plan of action.
Stas came home furious. The problems with “Vertical” I predicted surfaced. The contract was at risk of collapse, investors panicked. Shares had already fallen five percent.
He didn’t shout. He entered the apartment with frightening calm.
“Where were you?” he asked, though I hadn’t left.
“At home, as usual.”
“Don’t lie to me!” His voice broke into a screech. “You smell like coffee. You’ve been wandering somewhere!”
He wasn’t looking for logic. He was looking for someone to blame. His gaze darted around the room and stopped at the door to my office. He grabbed it and pulled it open.
I froze. I was seeing him like this for the first time — on the verge of total breakdown.
He came to my desk and saw the open laptop. A chart of his company’s shares falling was frozen on the screen. He didn’t understand the details, didn’t see the numbers in my account. He saw only the fact — I’m watching. I’m aware.
“Ah, you…” he hissed. “Spider woman. Sitting here, rejoicing in my problems? Thought you were the smartest?”
He grabbed the laptop.
“Stas, don’t,” I said coldly. Inside, everything clenched, but not from fear. From the understanding that this was the end. The point of no return.
“I’ll teach you what a wife should do!” he roared and slammed the laptop against the edge of the desk.
Plastic cracked. The screen went dark. He threw what was left of my work tool to the floor and stepped on it hard. Another crunch.
“That’s your level!” he spat, breathing heavily. “Got it?”
He stood over me, huge, enraged, expecting to see tears, hysteria. But he didn’t see them.
I slowly lowered my gaze to the shards on the floor. Then raised it and looked him straight in the eyes. There was nothing in my eyes. No fear, no resentment. Only ice.
“Yes,” I said very quietly and clearly. “Now I understand.”
He recoiled from my gaze as if hit. Something in my calm scared him more than any scream. He turned and ran out of the apartment.
I stood for another minute. Then carefully stepped over the shards, took my coat and purse from the hanger — inside was the small flash drive.
That’s it. Enough.
The game of hide and seek is over. The war begins.
An extraordinary board meeting was held in the main conference hall of “Stroy-Imperial.”
Stas sat at the head of the table. He had recovered somewhat after yesterday’s breakdown and now radiated his usual confidence. He believed he could smooth over the scandal with the contractor, calm the board, and take everything back under control.
The door opened. Viktor Ivanovich entered. Stas tensed slightly, seeing the old adversary.
“What brings you here, Viktor?” he hissed. “Decided to reminisce about youth?”
“Decided to take care of the future of my assets, Stanislav,” the old man answered calmly.
Then I entered the room.
I was wearing a strict pantsuit. Hair gathered in a tight bun. No gray mouse. Only cold, businesslike confidence.
Stas froze. He looked at me as if he’d seen a ghost. His face slowly flushed — a mixture of rage and complete bewilderment.
“Anya? What are you doing here? Get out! Security!”
No one moved. The board members looked from me to him, not understanding what was happening.
I silently approached the table and placed a thin folder in front of him.
“Here are documents confirming my rights as a shareholder. Also, powers of attorney from Viktor Ivanovich and three other minority shareholders. Together, we control 52% of the shares of ‘Stroy-Imperial.’”
I spoke in a calm, steady voice that echoed through the room.
“What?..” Stas whispered. He opened the folder, and his hands trembled. He looked at the numbers, the signatures, and his face turned ashen. “How?.. Where from?..”
“You said it yourself yesterday,” I replied, looking him straight in the eyes. “You taught me what a wife should do. So I did. Protecting my assets.”
I turned to the stunned board.
“Gentlemen, due to incompetent management that led the company to multimillion losses and reputational damage, we, as majority shareholders, bring to vote the immediate removal of Stanislav Igorevich from the position of CEO.”
“You can’t!” he shrieked, jumping up. “This is my company! Mine!”
“It never was yours,” I cut him off. “It was your father’s company. Now it’s just a business. And you can’t handle it.”
The vote was a formality. Hands raised one by one. The betrayal, as he saw it, was total.
When it was over, he sat slumped in his chair. Broken. Destroyed.
I approached him.
“You have two hours to gather your personal things. Security will escort you.”
He raised an empty look at me.
“For what?.. I gave you everything…”
“You gave me a thousand rubles for groceries,” I said without expression. “And behind your back, I was buying shares of your company.”
I turned and walked out without looking back.
I felt no triumph. No joy in revenge. Only a sense of properly placed pieces on the board.
Cold satisfaction of a mathematician who solved a difficult equation.
I stepped outside and inhaled the cool evening air. My war was over.
But not to gain freedom. Freedom is too abstract a concept.
I gained control. Over my life, my future, my empire. And that was much more real and valuable.