The door to the auto repair shop squeaked unpleasantly. The smell of gasoline and engine oil hit my nose— the scent of my past, from which I had been running for so long.
In the center of the room, under the “Ford” hanging from chains, stood he. Sergey. My ex-husband.
The same as before— in a greasy overalls, with a dirty rag sticking out of his back pocket. He was yelling at a young guy, almost a boy, and the sound of his voice made my jaw tighten.
“…Your hands grow from God knows where, not from your shoulders! I told you in plain Russian how to do it!”
I walked deeper into the room, towards the small glass-walled closet where the shop owner— a tired, elderly man with dull eyes— was sitting. He lifted his head at me.
“How can I help? If you’re here about the dent, that’s for the mechanics.”
“I’m not here about the dent,” I said, sitting down in front of him. “I’m here about your ad for the sale.”
The man perked up, leaning forward.
“Oh, so you’re the buyer? Are you serious?”
“More than serious,” my gaze flicked to Sergey. He had just slapped the boy across the head. Light, but humiliating.
The owner followed my gaze and sighed heavily.
“Yeah, my workers aren’t sugar, especially this one,” he nodded toward my ex. “He yells at everyone, scares off the clients. But he’s good at what he does, I’ll give him that. He can twist nuts like a god.”
I smirked to myself. Oh yes, he could twist nuts. And he also knew how to tell me my place was in the kitchen, and that my “silly little programs” were a waste of time. That I was nothing without him.
“How much are you asking for all of this?” I asked, scanning the dirty walls, old lifts, and scattered tools.
He quoted a price. For him, it was a fortune— one that would let him go to his dacha and peacefully greet old age.
For me, it was just a small portion of what I got for my “silly little program” for engine diagnostics.
At that moment, Sergey noticed me. He wiped his hands on his overalls and approached the glass door, peeking inside.
A flash of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by the familiar sneering smirk.
“Oh, look who’s here! What brings you here, Anya? Is your car broken down? I told you you’d wreck it in a month.”
He didn’t even consider that I might be here for another reason. In his world, I was still that confused woman he threw out with nothing but a suitcase.
I looked at the owner, ignoring Sergey.
“I’m in. Prepare the documents.”
The man blinked in shock, clearly expecting a long negotiation.
“R-really?”
“Really.”
I stood up. A thought flashed through my mind, clear and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. The best revenge after a divorce— is to silently buy the auto repair shop where your rude ex-husband works as a mechanic.
I turned and walked to the exit, feeling his stunned gaze on my back. He shouted something after me, but I didn’t listen. I walked on the asphalt, each step firm and confident. The game had only just begun.
A week later, I entered the workshop, no longer as a visitor. I was wearing a strict business suit, holding a folder with documents.
The former owner, Pyotr Sergeevich, had gathered all the workers— four mechanics, including Sergey, and the young apprentice named Vitya.
“Dear colleagues,” Pyotr Sergeevich began, noticeably nervous. “Starting today, our shop has a new owner. Please welcome Anna Viktorovna.”
He pointed at me. There was a pause in the room, thick enough to touch. Sergey, who had been standing there with a cocky grin, slowly straightened up. His face went pale.
“What’s this, some joke?” he bellowed, looking between me and Pyotr Sergeevich.
“No joke, Sergey,” I replied in a calm, cold voice. “Pyotr Sergeevich sold me the business. Now I’m your boss.”
“You? Boss?” He laughed loudly, defiantly, but there was a hint of hysteria in his laughter. “You can’t even tell a wrench from a screwdriver! What are you gonna do here, Anya? File your nails?”
Two other mechanics exchanged uncertain glances. Only Vitya, the young guy, looked at me with some shy curiosity.
“First of all,” I took a step forward, and my voice suddenly sounded firm, making Sergey fall silent.
“For you, I’m Anna Viktorovna. Second, my job is to manage, and yours is to work. And judging by the state of this workshop, there’s plenty of work to do.”
I surveyed the room.
“Starting tomorrow, we begin repairs. Complete reorganization. I’ve already ordered new equipment. And today— general cleaning. Everything needs to shine. This applies to everyone.”
“I’m not participating in this circus,” Sergey spat, crossing his arms. “I’m a mechanic, not a janitor.”
“You’re wrong,” my gaze locked onto him. “You’re an employee. And you’ll do what your employer tells you. Or you can write a resignation letter right now.”
I knew he wouldn’t leave. Where would he go? With his personality, no one would put up with him for long. This workshop was his last refuge.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles working. He realized I wasn’t joking. This wasn’t a prank. It was a trap, and he had walked right into it.
“So, I expect everyone in workwear in fifteen minutes. The cleaning supplies are in the back room,” I turned and walked into what had been Pyotr Sergeevich’s office— which was now mine.
I sat at the desk, feeling my hands tremble. Not from fear. But from excitement. I heard some grumbling outside the door, but then Vitya’s voice rang out:
“Where are the buckets?”
One of the mechanics answered him roughly. But the ice had broken. They obeyed. All except one.
The door to my office swung open with such force it hit the wall. Sergey stood in the doorway. His face was red, his eyes throwing daggers.
“You think I’ll let you treat me like this?” he growled. “You’ll regret messing with me. I’ll make your life hell here…”
“Go ahead,” I calmly interrupted him, raising my eyes to meet his. “Just remember, Sergey. Every mistake you make will be documented. Tardiness, rudeness to clients, failure to follow orders.”
“And then— termination for cause. And believe me, I’ll make sure you never find a job in this city, even as a janitor. Now, leave my office. And close the door. From the outside.”
Sergey fell silent. But it was the calm before the storm. He worked quietly, his face grim, but I could feel him waiting for the right moment to strike.
That moment came two weeks later, when a nearly new SUV belonging to a well-known businessman in the city was brought into the workshop.
The problem was with the electronics. Exactly my area.
I personally connected my diagnostic system— the very one that made me rich. The new equipment I bought allowed me to not only detect but also document every action the mechanic took.
Sergey didn’t know about it.
“There’s an issue with the wiring,” I told him, pointing at the laptop screen. “This block needs to be replaced. Do it carefully. The car’s expensive, and the client’s nervous.”
“Trying to teach me?” he smirked, but he started working.
An hour later, he pulled the car out of the bay.
“All done, boss. Take a look.”
That evening, an enraged businessman called.
“What have you done?! The gearbox is shot! The car won’t move! I’m suing you!”
My heart sank. I rushed to the shop. Sergey was already there, standing with an expression of wounded innocence.
“I told you that your equipment is Chinese junk!” he was telling the other mechanics. “It fried the gearbox. And now she’s trying to pin it all on me!”
“Where are the camera recordings?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
“The cameras were being serviced today,” Sergey replied with a smug grin. “What a coincidence, right, Anna Viktorovna?”
He was sure he had won. He had planned everything. But he hadn’t accounted for one thing.
“We don’t need the cameras,” I calmly replied. I opened my laptop and pulled up the diagnostic log.
“My program not only tracks errors but also records all system parameters in real time.”
And it had recorded a sharp voltage spike in the gearbox solenoid. A spike that could only have happened in one case.
I turned the laptop to him. The graph lit up on the screen.
“If you connect the block directly to the battery, bypassing the controller… It’s not something you could do by accident. It can only be done intentionally.”
Sergey’s face slowly began to change color. The smirk faded like a mask.
“This… this is a setup! You planned this!”
“Really?” I pressed another key. “And here’s the log file from the control block. It recorded everything too.”
“Would you like us to send it for an independent expert review? Along with your fingerprints on the battery? I think the police will quickly figure out what intentional property damage looks like.”
I stared him down. There was no more hatred in his eyes. Only primal fear. He knew he had lost. Completely.
“Your resignation letter. On my desk. And I don’t want to see you here in ten minutes.”
He didn’t say a word. He simply turned and went to his locker for his things. The others stood silent, stunned.
When the door closed behind him, I felt… nothing. No joy, no triumph. Only emptiness. Revenge had turned out to be a dish with no taste.
Vitya, the young guy, approached me.
“Anna Viktorovna… that was impressive.”
“I’m not ‘impressive,’ Vitya. I was just protecting what’s mine,” I looked at the clean, renovated shop.
“You know what the hardest part is? It’s not punishing the guilty. It’s building something that will work after they’re gone. Want to learn how to work with diagnostics? For real?”
His eyes lit up.
“Of course I do!”
I nodded.
“Then be here tomorrow at nine. No tardiness.”
In that moment, I understood. My real victory wasn’t firing Sergey.
It was in this kid, in the new equipment, in the future of this place. Revenge is just the period at the end of one sentence. And I was about to write a new book.
Six months passed. My auto repair shop, now called “Techno-Formula,” was thriving. Vitya turned out to be an incredibly talented student and was already handling complex diagnostics on his own.
The other mechanics, freed from Sergey’s toxic influence, worked calmly and harmoniously. We became the best auto-electronics service in the city.
I had almost forgotten about my ex-husband. He had simply disappeared from my life, dissolved. The emptiness I had felt after firing him had long been filled with new plans, successes, and pride in my business.
Then I came across a post in one of the city’s social media groups. An anonymous story about the “unfortunate mechanic, thrown out by his bitch of a wife, who took his business away.”
The story was tearfully written, full of lies: how he built the shop from scratch, how I tricked him, and how now he, sick and unwanted, was scraping by with odd jobs.
There were hundreds of sympathetic comments underneath. People cursed the “spoiled businesswoman” and pitied the “poor guy.” I recognized Sergey’s style. His way of portraying himself as the victim, manipulating sympathy.
It would have killed me before. I would have rushed to write rebuttals, to prove something. But now, I just tiredly rubbed my nose. It was so petty. So pathetic.
I didn’t write anything in response. I simply called one of my regular clients, the owner of the largest news portal in the city. And asked him for a favor.
Two days later, a big article appeared on that portal with the headline: “From Rags to Riches: How a Former Housewife Created the Best Auto Service in the City.” It was my story.
No embellishments. About how I built the program from scratch, how my husband laughed at my “hobbies,” how I sold the project and invested the money into a dying workshop.
The article included interviews with satisfied clients and employees. And not a word about Sergey. He wasn’t even worth mentioning.
I found him a few days later. He was sitting in a cheap pub on the edge of the city. Gaunt, unshaven, in an old jacket. He stared into his beer mug as though he could see his future there.
I sat across from him. He looked up at me with dull eyes.
“Here to finish me off? To laugh?”
“No,” I placed the printout of the article on the table. “I came to show you that you didn’t lose when I fired you. You lost when you thought you could destroy me.”
He looked at the headline, and his lips twisted.
“You took everything from me.”
“I didn’t take anything from you, Sergey. You gave it all away. Your malice, your envy, your belief that everyone owes you something.”
“I just built my life. Without you. And you know what? It turned out much better.”
I stood to leave.
“Anya, wait…” There was something new in his voice. Desperation. “What am I supposed to do now?”
I turned around. And for the first time throughout all of this, I didn’t feel anger or pity. Nothing at all. He had become an empty space for me.
“Start working,” I said. “Stop whining, stop blaming others, and just work. Like all normal people do. Goodbye, Sergey.”