The air outside was cool and damp, saturated with the smell of approaching rain, but inside the luxurious car a different atmosphere reigned—a mix of heat from the warmed leather seats and the subtle, dense scent of Alexander’s cologne. Elena sat beside him, clutching her purse on her knees, feeling a dread swell in her chest as if foretelling disaster. The drive passed in oppressive silence, and when the car stopped on a deserted embankment shrouded in shadows, Alexander finally turned to her. There was not a trace of warmth in his eyes—only a cold, almost animal sneer.
“Well, Lena, we’re here,” he said evenly, without a hint of emotion. “Our meetings are over. Consider it done.”
Elena was at a loss. She couldn’t believe her ears. It didn’t fit in her head. Just yesterday he had been smiling as he planned the weekend, promised to introduce her to his friends, to invite her on a yacht. How could everything change overnight?
“Sasha… what are you talking about? Is this a joke?” Her voice quivered like a string in the wind.
His smile grew wider, but there was no trace of laughter in his eyes—only contempt.
“A joke? Do you really think I’m that stupid?” He leaned closer, and his look sent goosebumps skittering over her skin. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand why you got pregnant? You decided it would force me to marry you? Naïve, Lena. Very naïve.”
Her world collapsed in an instant—not merely swayed, but shattered into small, sharp fragments. Breathing became difficult. The accusation was monstrous, a lie, but she could not tear an answer out of herself.
“No… that’s not true…” she whispered, and tears streamed down, blurring the distant lights. “It’s a gift… a gift from God, Sasha! How can you think that?”
“Leave God out of this,” he cut her off sharply. “Sort things out with God yourself. I told you clearly: I don’t need this.”
He leaned back against the seat and gave her a look full of disgust, as if he were staring at something filthy and useless.
“Did you seriously believe that I, Alexander Vorontsov, would marry you? A girl from the sticks, with no connections, no standing? I don’t need a child from someone like you. Got it?”
Each word stabbed her heart like a knife. And then, as if pronouncing the final sentence, he casually pulled a white envelope from the glove compartment and tossed it onto her knees.
“There’s money in there. For an abortion and a ticket back to your village. I want you gone. And don’t you dare call.”
The door slammed. The car shot forward, leaving behind only the screech of tires and the heavy roar of the engine fading into the night. On the empty embankment there remained only Elena—broken, humiliated, clutching in her hands the envelope that held the price of her dignity.
Time stopped. She sat on a cold bench, feeling neither the wind nor the chill cutting through her body. The tears had stopped—they had run dry in the car. Inside there was only emptiness, heavy and ringing. Slowly, as if with someone else’s hands, she opened the envelope. Inside lay a neat stack of dollars. He had calculated everything in advance. That thought pierced her soul more sharply than any accusation. He had no doubt. He had simply erased her from his life like a mistake, and even put a price on it.
“Miss, are you all right?”
She flinched and looked up. Before her stood a middle-aged man in a formal overcoat, a briefcase in his hand. His face, with its neat beard and glasses, seemed familiar, but she didn’t recognize him immediately.
“Excuse me, you’re Elena, aren’t you? From the philology department? I’m Nikolai Ivanovich—I taught you foreign literature.”
Slowly she recognized him. His face, so familiar behind the lectern, seemed different here in the dark—softer, warmer. His voice—calm and caring—became the first ray of light in the gloom.
“Nikolai Ivanovich…” she whispered, and her lips began to tremble again.
He sat down quietly beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them.
“I was coming from a meeting and saw one of my students sitting alone at this hour. The metro will close soon, and you live in another district. Come to my place. I live nearby. You’ll have some tea and warm up. Tomorrow you can decide what to do. You mustn’t stay out here alone.”
She had no strength to argue. She was crushed, and his concern was her last chance not to drown. She nodded silently. He understood, gently took her by the elbow, and helped her to her feet. Leaning on his arm as on the only support in a ruined world, Elena obediently followed him down the dark side street, away from pain and betrayal.
Nikolai Ivanovich’s apartment was the complete opposite of Alexander’s icy loft. Here there was quiet, coziness, and order. The walls were lined with bookshelves reaching the ceiling; in the corner stood an old writing desk with a green shade; in the living room, a soft armchair, a floor lamp with warm light, a coffee table with magazines. It smelled of paper, wood, and lemon balm tea.
“Come in, don’t be shy,” he said, helping her off with her coat. “A bachelor’s place, but I try to keep it cozy. Coziness softens loneliness.”
These simple words struck her deeply. Tears she had thought exhausted welled up again. He pretended not to notice and quietly went to the kitchen. He returned with two cups of hot tea.
Over that tea, in an atmosphere of silence and delicate attention, Elena spoke for the first time that evening. She told of her love, of the pregnancy, of Alexander’s cruel words, of the envelope still lying in her purse like a burn on her skin. Nikolai Ivanovich listened without interrupting; in his eyes there was neither judgment nor pity—only a quiet, profound understanding.
When she fell silent, he said gently:
“You need to rest. And not just you.” He nodded lightly at her stomach, acknowledging directly what he had long understood. “Go to my bedroom. The linens are fresh. I’ll sleep in the living room. Don’t argue—you need peace more than anything right now.”
In the morning she woke to the smell of fresh coffee and an omelet. Somewhat rested, yet still lost, Elena didn’t know where to go next. Then Nikolai Ivanovich, stirring sugar in his cup, said:
“I thought a lot last night. I have a proposal. It may sound strange. I’ve been invited to head the Slavic Studies department at a university abroad. It’s the dream of my career. But there’s a condition—they prefer faculty who are married. They see it as a sign of stability. And I, as you know, am alone.”
He paused to let her absorb it.
“I propose a marriage of convenience. I’ll give the child my name, provide for you; you’ll be able to study in peace, give birth, and raise the baby. In a few years, if you wish, we’ll divorce. Think about it. I don’t need an answer now.”
They spent a week together. He didn’t pressure her or rush her, he simply was there—quiet, caring, reliable. They walked, talked about books and life. Elena saw in him an intelligent, honest, kind man. And she agreed.
The wedding was modest, almost unnoticed. Then a new life began. The sham marriage gradually turned into something real. Respect grew into attachment, and attachment into a quiet, steady love. Five years later, their daughter Zhenya was born. And their son Kirill, whom Elena had borne before the marriage, grew up in love and care, considering Nikolai Ivanovich the only and very best father.
Twenty-five years passed.
In a luxurious office on the top floor of Vorontsov Tower sat Alexander Igorevich Vorontsov—master of an empire, a billionaire, a man who had achieved everything money could buy. He had long since ceased to be the young Sasha and now preferred a resonant, solid name. But behind the luxury, power, and success—utter emptiness. And at that moment a sharp, unbearable pain twisted his stomach. He grabbed the edge of the desk, nearly falling from the expensive chair, blinded by agony—physical and, perhaps, long-accumulated spiritual pain.
Life had turned out exactly as he had planned: wealth, influence, impeccable status. There had been a marriage—one of convenience—to a partner’s daughter. The union, which lasted several years, ended in a loud divorce and left behind only cynicism and a dull aversion to all women. There were no children in that marriage—there was no time for that. The parents he had once respected and whose opinion he had feared had died in a car accident a few years earlier. Since then he had harbored a hatred of doctors, convinced they were “powerless against death.”
He had known about his ulcer for a long time. His personal physician—a renowned Swiss specialist—had been insisting on urgent surgery for six months. But Alexander only waved him off with contempt. Surgery meant weakness—an admission that the body had failed. And he, Alexander Vorontsov, had no right to acknowledge weakness. He dulled the pain with pricey drugs, continuing to work at an exhausting pace, closing million-dollar deals as if the rhythm of business could stop time.
But now the pain was different. Not the kind one could grit one’s teeth through or ignore. It was torture—searing, all-consuming. He groped for the button to call his secretary, but his fingers refused to obey. Everything began to spin and blur. Through the murky haze he saw his doctor burst into the office, summoned, it seemed, by his alarmed assistant.
“Alexander Igorevich! I warned you!” The doctor’s voice sounded as if from far away. “You have a perforated ulcer! To the hospital at once! The ambulance is on its way. I’ve arranged it—they’ll admit you to the best clinic. Just hold on!”
The last things he remembered were the frightened faces of doctors, a gurney, the ceiling lights flashing past, and an animal terror gripping every cell of his body. Fear that he, who had always controlled everything, could no longer control anything.
White hospital walls, cold light, the rattle of wheels on the floor—all blurred into one endless nightmare. They wheeled him into the operating room, half-conscious and trembling. He, who had never believed in God or the afterlife, now desperately tried to recall the childhood words of a prayer: “Lord, save and protect…” beat in his head like a last chance.
In the pre-op room—brisk bustle, masks, gowns, the sterile gleam of instruments. They transferred him to the cold table. A mask was placed over his face. And then he saw her. A woman in blue surgical scrubs approached the table. She adjusted the light, and the beam struck his eyes. In the split second when their eyes met, he did not see her face but recognized the eyes. Gray, calm, painfully familiar. And in the last moment before the anesthesia swallowed his consciousness, a thought flared in his mind: “Elena? No… impossible…”
The operation lasted three hours. A young assistant watched the surgeon’s work with awe. Elena Arkadyevna moved with cold-blooded precision, like a machine devoid of emotion. Every movement was considered; every action, faultless.
“Clamp,” she said evenly, even in the height of tension. “Swab. Suction. Pressure’s dropping—anesthesiologist, increase!”
She didn’t lose control for a second. When the last stitch was placed, she set the instruments aside.
“Close up,” she said curtly, and took off her gloves.
In the doctors’ lounge, with her mask and cap removed, Elena looked exhausted. Damp strands clung to her forehead; her hands trembled slightly.
“That was incredible, Elena Arkadyevna!” the assistant exclaimed in admiration. “You literally brought him back from the brink. Such a severe case!”
She walked to the window in silence and looked out at the city lights. Then she turned to him.
“Andrei, do you have a cigarette?”
He froze in surprise. Everyone knew Professor Romanova didn’t smoke; she considered it a weakness. Wordlessly he pulled out a pack and a lighter. She hesitantly drew out a cigarette, raised it to her lips, but didn’t light it. She simply held it in her trembling fingers.
“Did something happen, Elena Arkadyevna?”
She smiled bitterly.
“I hated that man for almost my entire life,” she said quietly. “And by medical ethics I shouldn’t have operated on him. But I did. Not for him. For my son. So that he would never learn that his father died because his mother refused to save him.”
When he came to after anesthesia, Alexander felt the familiar sense of control. He had survived. Which meant he was on top again. The first thing he did was hoarsely order the nurse to call the attending physician—he had to make sure he hadn’t hallucinated. That those eyes, that gaze, had been real.
When Elena entered the room, he recognized her immediately. The crisp coat, the tight bun, the cool professional mask. But there was something new in her—strength, dignity, confidence that hadn’t been there before.
“Good afternoon, Alexander Igorevich. How are you feeling?”
He ignored the question.
“Lena,” he smirked, switching to the familiar “you.” “I knew it was you. I’m glad to see you. After all these years…”
“My name is Elena Arkadyevna,” she corrected coldly. “I’m your attending physician. Please observe professional boundaries.”
That only piqued him. He was sure it was a mask, a defense he could easily tear away.
“Are you married?” he asked bluntly, with the brazen confidence of a man used to getting his way. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll win you back anyway. I was wrong back then. I want to fix everything.”
Elena silently made a note in his chart.
“I’ll stop by on evening rounds. I recommend rest.”
From that day a siege began. Every morning, lavish flowers with a note—“From your Sasha”—were delivered to her office. Every day she quietly carried them out and set them at the nurses’ station.
“Girls, a bit of joy for you.”
For Alexander, it was a blow. But he didn’t give up. He decided a hospital was the wrong place. He would wait for her after discharge. Alone, without witnesses, he would certainly get his way.
On the day of his discharge he waited by the service entrance. When she appeared in an elegant coat, he stepped toward her and grabbed her hand.
“Lena, wait!” His voice trembled with surging emotion. “I was young, foolish. I understand everything now! Give me a chance to make it right. Our feelings… they can come back!”
He spoke with passion, pouring into his words all his experience and charisma. But she looked at him as at a ghost from the past.
At that moment a white SUV pulled up to the steps. A young man got out—tall, self-possessed, with the same features Alexander had had twenty-five years earlier. He walked up to them, calmly but firmly removed Alexander’s hand.
“Mom, is everything okay?” His voice was warm but authoritative. “Dad and Zhenya are waiting for us. We’re late.”
“Mom… Dad… Zhenya…” The words stabbed Alexander like a knife. He let go of her hand and froze, unable to move.
The young man helped his mother into the car, then turned to Alexander.
“I’ve known who you are for a long time,” he said quietly but distinctly. “And I’m asking you—don’t come near my family. Ever. If necessary, I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you.”
The door closed. The car glided off and disappeared into the flow of evening lights.
Alexander slowly sank onto the steps. The cold stone seeped through his trousers. He stared after the departing car. He had just seen his lost future: the son he had rejected—strong, worthy, loved. The woman he had lost—happy, respected, surrounded by family. He had billions, power, luxury. But in that moment he was empty. Completely empty. And for the first time in his life he understood: there is no sum you can pay to reclaim what you yourself destroyed.