It seemed Kirill had calculated everything: sham bankruptcy, divorce, secret accounts. But he forgot that Anya was not just a “modest housewife.” Behind the borscht and baby diapers was a woman capable of turning his lies into financial ruin. When the last illusions collapsed, only one question remained: what’s worse—losing your business, or finding out your wife had been playing her own game all along? A story about how quiet revenge can be louder than the crash of a falling empire.
“You’ll never be the CEO of a major corporation, I swear,” Kirill said mockingly, looking at his wife like a seasoned psychologist disappointed in his patient. “You don’t understand a damn thing about business.”
“How would I understand,” Anya shrugged, not even turning away from the stove where she was stirring borscht—her husband’s favorite dish. “I’m not some superhuman from the Planet of Cool Businessmen. Just a modest stay-at-home mom stuck with the house, the baby, and your socks scattered all over the apartment.”
This conversation, which had become routine over the years, played in their kitchen so often that even one-year-old Masha, sitting in her high chair, would automatically wrinkle her nose whenever Dad launched into another lecture about how hard it is to run your own firm—especially when your wife offers absolutely no support.
Kirill, a hereditary entrepreneur (by his own account), and in reality just a lucky guy who won a tender to supply building materials to a head office at a time when all his competitors had gone under, loved to stress his uniqueness. At times Anya felt he wore an invisible crown reading “I’m a Business Genius” and expected everyone to bow accordingly.
“Look,” Kirill went on, tossing his legs up on the neighboring chair without asking if she needed help. “If the company suddenly starts going bankrupt, you have to act fast and decisively. Cut off the excess, minimize risks, preserve assets… You’d be lost.”
Anya stirred the soup in silence, thinking that her husband had never once criticized her cooking. But her financial savvy—constantly, even though it was her apartment, inherited from her grandmother, that had become their family nest. And it was her salary as a piano teacher that was their only stable income when Kirill was “launching the business.”
“Good thing you’ll never have those problems,” she said, handing him a steaming bowl of borscht. “You’re a genius entrepreneur.”
He didn’t even notice the irony—just grunted contentedly and picked up his spoon.
The talk of bankruptcy turned out to be prophetic. A week later Kirill came home pale as a sheet, eyes red, reeking of cheap whiskey. He hurled his briefcase into a corner of the entryway and collapsed into an armchair without even taking off his shoes.
“We’re ruined,” he declared in a dramatic voice worthy of an Oscar. “Completely and irrevocably.”
Anya, who was rocking Masha, froze.
“What happened?”
“Everything happened!” He slammed his fist on the armrest. “A major client backed out of a contract, the tax office slapped us with some insane fines, the bank is demanding early repayment of the loan… We’re totally finished, you understand?”
She understood. And first of all, she understood that despite all his talk about “cutting off the excess,” Kirill was now in a panic.
“Calm down,” Anya put the child in her crib and approached her husband. “Let’s figure this out. What exactly are the company’s debts?”
“Millions!” He threw up his hands. “Suppliers are suing us, there’s no money for payroll, the tax office is threatening to freeze our accounts… Anya, we’re done for.”
She studied him closely. In five years of marriage she had learned to read his moods. When he truly worried, his left eye twitched ever so slightly. Now the eye was calm.
“And what do you propose?” she asked cautiously.
“The only way out is full liquidation of liabilities.” Kirill suddenly calmed and began speaking in a businesslike tone. “We’ll have to sell all the property we have. The apartment first and foremost.”
“This apartment?” Anya clarified. “My grandmother’s apartment, which has absolutely nothing to do with your business?”
“Not yours—ours,” he corrected irritably. “We’re a family. And if we don’t sell it now voluntarily, then bailiffs will come later and put us out on the street. Is that what you want?”
Anya perched on the arm of the neighboring chair.
“And what about the money from the sale? Will the creditors take all of it?”
Kirill bit his lip; his gaze darted aside.
“Not exactly…” he hesitated. “There’s one option. If we file for divorce before the court proceedings start, part of the property will remain with you as someone not connected to the business. It’s standard legal practice.”
“Divorce?” Anya raised her eyebrows. “You’re suggesting we divorce to save the money?”
“It’s a sham divorce, silly,” he smiled and took her hand. “Just a legal procedure. We sell the apartment, give part of the money to the creditors, and hide part in your account. Then, when everything settles down, we’ll get married again. Elementary!”
Anya looked at his hand squeezing her fingers. Too firmly, too confidently for a man whose business was allegedly collapsing.
“Fine,” she said at last. “Tomorrow we’ll talk to a lawyer. I want to understand all the details.”
“What details?” he frowned. “There’s no time for lawyers. We need to act fast.”
“I’m not acting fast when it’s about the roof over our daughter’s head,” Anya cut him off, pulling her hand free. “Either we do everything legally and consult a specialist, or we don’t do it at all.”
Kirill grimaced but didn’t argue. He knew that on some issues his quiet, obedient wife could be more stubborn than a mule.
The lawyer, an older woman, listened carefully to Kirill’s tale of the company’s ruin.
“Strange,” she said, reviewing the statements he had brought. “On paper you’re in a quite stable position. There are debts, but they’re not critical for a business of your size.”
“That’s outdated data,” Kirill interrupted. “It’s much worse now. You’d better tell us about the divorce procedure.”
The lawyer turned to Anya.
“Are you sure you want a divorce? Especially with a small child?”
“No,” she answered honestly. “But if it’s the only way to protect my daughter from the consequences of bankruptcy…”
“There are different ways to protect her,” the lawyer tapped her pen on the table. “For example, your apartment, as premarital property, is not subject to collection for your husband’s debts. Provided, of course, you didn’t act as a guarantor on the loans.”
Anya shook her head.
“No, I didn’t sign anything like that.”
“Then why sell the apartment?” the lawyer looked at Kirill questioningly.
“Because by law creditors can claim half of the joint marital property,” he replied quickly. “And a divorce would protect at least part of it.”
“True, but only for property acquired during the marriage. Premarital property is protected as it is.” The lawyer turned to Anya. “If the apartment is yours, obtained before marriage, then it’s entirely yours. They won’t take it.”
Kirill squirmed in his chair.
“That’s in theory. In practice our courts do whatever they want. Better to play it safe.”
The lawyer shrugged.
“It’s your call. But I don’t see grounds for a rush sale of the apartment.”
When they left the office, Kirill was black as a thundercloud.
“That fool doesn’t understand real business,” he hissed. “Listen, let’s just do as I say. I’ve thought it all through.”
Anya didn’t answer. Too many questions were spinning in her head. If the apartment was protected by law, why sell it? If the company wasn’t in critical condition, where did this panic come from? And why was Kirill so insistent on a quick divorce?
“I need to think,” she said at last. “And talk to Mom.”
“What does your mother have to do with this?” Kirill exploded. “This is our family business!”
“She’s a finance specialist with thirty years’ experience,” Anya reminded him. “And she loves you like a son. Maybe she’ll suggest something.”
That was a lie. Her mother, Yelena Viktorovna, couldn’t stand Kirill, considering him a puffed-up turkey with no real abilities. But Anya knew her husband was wary of his mother-in-law and tried not to cross her.
“Fine,” he agreed reluctantly. “Just don’t drag this out. Time is working against us.”
After hearing her daughter out, Yelena Viktorovna didn’t even try to hide her skepticism.
“Bankruptcy?” she snorted. “Have you seen any documents confirming that? Notices from the tax office? Lawsuits? Or just his dramatic stories?”
Anya thought. Indeed, she hadn’t seen any proof of the company’s collapse. Only Kirill’s words.
“And why sell your apartment if it’s not subject to collection by law?” her mother continued. “Even if his business really is going under, your property remains yours. You received it before marriage.”
“Kirill says that in practice the courts might decide otherwise…”
“Utter nonsense!” Yelena Viktorovna cut her off. “I’ve worked with bankruptcies for forty years. Premarital property is sacrosanct. No court will touch your apartment.”
She paused, then added more gently:
“Anya dear, think about it yourself: if a person truly cares about his family, would he insist on selling the only home where his small child lives?”
Anya recalled how Kirill had been nervous in the lawyer’s office. How he had pushed for a speedy divorce. How he had avoided concrete answers.
“What do you suggest?” she asked quietly.
“Test him,” her mother replied simply. “Say you agree to the divorce, but you’ll sell the apartment yourself. And the money will stay in your account until everything is fully clarified.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Then you’ll have answers to all your questions,” Yelena Viktorovna stroked her daughter’s hair. “And remember: you can always come back to me with Masha. My apartment is big enough for all of us.”
“I agree to the divorce,” Anya announced that evening when Kirill came home. “But I have conditions.”
He beamed.
“Any conditions you want, darling! I knew you’d understand!”
“I’ll sell the apartment myself,” she said firmly, looking him straight in the eye. “Through an agency my mother recommends. And the money will stay in my account until the divorce is official, and afterward we’ll decide when I’ll transfer it to you.”
Kirill noticeably tensed; his self-assured smile faded.
“But we need to act quickly. If we wait on your slow agencies…”
“Either that, or nothing,” Anya cut him off. “It’s my apartment, and I won’t let you rush its sale.”
That evening Kirill was unusually considerate—he put Masha to bed himself, washed the dishes, and even suggested watching a movie together. Anya agreed, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She was already beginning to suspect that the bankruptcy story wasn’t quite what Kirill made it out to be.
Suspicion turned into certainty a week later. Masha fell ill, and Anya decided to look for a thermometer in her husband’s desk. Instead of a thermometer she found bank statements—several transfers of fairly large sums marked “To Mom.”
“Why is he secretly sending money to his mother if the company is on the verge of collapse?”
The next day, taking advantage of a moment when Kirill was in the shower, Anya checked his phone. The messages with his mother confirmed her fears: there was no bankruptcy. The company was operating steadily, and Kirill was methodically transferring money to his mother’s account—“for safekeeping,” as he wrote.
“So that’s where the sham divorce and apartment sale came from,” Anya thought. Kirill was clearly preparing an escape route, securing himself a “backup airfield.”
It took all her self-control to keep playing the obedient wife. Inside, anger was flaring—not only at the betrayal, but at how easily Kirill had decided to deprive his own daughter of a roof over her head.
A month after the “bankruptcy announcement,” her mother-in-law showed up at their apartment unexpectedly, full of complaints.
“Kirill doesn’t help me anymore,” Nina Petrovna declared, keeping her coat on in the hallway. “And I know whose fault that is.”
Anya, rocking a drowsy Masha, raised her eyebrows.
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb!” the mother-in-law snorted. “If you helped my son with the business instead of sitting at home with the child, his company wouldn’t have fallen apart!”
Anya barely suppressed a laugh.
“Are you serious, Nina Petrovna? Kirill himself insisted I quit my job and focus only on the home and the baby.”
“Everyone says that! But a proper wife should understand that her husband needs help. Instead, you let his business go under! And now he can’t even help his mother!”
Anya gently laid the sleeping Masha in her crib and straightened up.
“Let’s go to the kitchen; we shouldn’t wake the baby.”
When they sat down at the table, Anya asked bluntly:
“Nina Petrovna, are you aware that there is no bankruptcy? Kirill’s firm is operating as usual.”
Her mother-in-law blinked, clearly thrown off.
“What nonsense is this? Kirill said—”
“Kirill says a lot of things,” Anya interrupted softly. “But the documents say otherwise. And your regular transfers from your son say otherwise, too.”
The older woman flushed and stared into her cup. It was obvious she had slipped.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered. “Kirill helps me like any good son. That doesn’t mean he has no problems.”
“Nina Petrovna,” Anya leaned forward, “Kirill is planning to divorce me, sell my apartment, and disappear with the money. Are you involved in this?”
“What a horror! How can you say that about my son?” the mother-in-law was clearly shocked by the question.
But something like guilt flickered in her eyes. She knew. Maybe not all the details, but the general plan—definitely.
The solution came surprisingly easily. Anya agreed to the fast-track divorce procedure Kirill so craved. He didn’t even demand division of property, fearing the case would drag on.
“I’ll sell the apartment right after the divorce,” she promised. “And the car, too.”
The car—an expensive wedding gift from her father—was worth almost as much as a one-bedroom flat. Kirill couldn’t hide a satisfied smile.
The divorce was finalized quickly, almost without scandal. Kirill seemed unusually compliant and even agreed to substantial child support—which he had no intention of paying after his planned disappearance.
A week after receiving the divorce certificate, Anya invited her ex-mother-in-law over for tea. And Kirill as well.
“I want to discuss selling the apartment and dividing the money,” she explained. “You’re interested too, aren’t you, Nina Petrovna?”
Her mother-in-law agreed to come, though she looked wary. Anya knew Kirill wouldn’t resist—he was used to viewing her as weak and obedient, incapable of taking serious steps without his guidance.
When the three of them sat at the table, Anya pulled out a folder of documents.
“I’ve prepared all the paperwork for the sale. But before that, I want to clarify something.”
She laid out printouts of messages, bank statements, and photographs.
“Kirill, I know there is no bankruptcy. I know you transferred money to your mother’s account. And I know about Sofia, the one you’re planning to run away with.”
At the last words, Nina Petrovna flinched.
“What Sofia?”
“My assistant, Mom,” Kirill waved it off wearily. “Anya’s gone mad with jealousy.”
“The assistant you’re renting an apartment with on Severny?” Anya placed a few more photos on the table. “The one you’re picking out furniture with for the new house in Sochi?”
Nina Petrovna turned pale.
“Kirill, is this true?”
“Nonsense!” he jumped up. “Anya, what kind of circus is this?”
“Not a circus—just the truth,” she replied calmly. “You wanted a divorce—you got it. You wanted my apartment—but you won’t get it. I’m not going anywhere with Masha.”
“And what about our agreements?” Kirill hissed.
“What agreements, son?” his mother cut in. “You promised to sell your wife’s apartment?”
Kirill faltered, realizing he’d painted himself into a corner.
“It was a temporary measure, Mom. To protect assets from creditors…”
“What creditors?” his mother raised her voice. “You said the company was fine, you just wanted to safeguard capital! And now it turns out you planned to rob your own wife and abandon your daughter?”
Anya silently watched Kirill’s house of cards collapse. Everything was going even better than she’d hoped.
Over the next two weeks Kirill’s life fell apart completely. His mother, who adored her granddaughter, threw him out of her apartment where he had been staying temporarily after the divorce.
“I don’t want to see a man who’s ready to deprive his own child of a home,” she said, barring him from the threshold. “And I’ll return every ruble to you. It’s shameful that my son turned out like this…”
Anya didn’t repeat the word she ended with—even in her thoughts.
Then a real crisis hit Kirill’s company—one by one, major contracts fell through, the best employees began to quit, and competitors suddenly undercut prices below cost.
Anya didn’t play the noble soul. After the divorce she went to court to divide her husband’s business assets, proving his attempt to hide property before the divorce. She immediately sold the share she received to Kirill’s main competitors—the very ones now pushing him out of the market.
Sofia—the embodiment of a “real woman who knows how to be supportive”—vanished from Kirill’s life when his bank account hit zero. In the rented apartment she left a note: “Losers aren’t lucky even in love.”
Six months later, Nina Petrovna stood on the threshold of her former daughter-in-law’s apartment with a bag of groceries and a toy for her granddaughter.
“May I come in?” she asked uncertainly.
Anya stepped aside in silence, letting her in. They hadn’t spoken in months, ever since Kirill finally went bust.
“I know you have every right to hate me,” the older woman began. “What Kirill did… what we both did… is unforgivable.”
“He’s your son,” Anya shrugged. “You wanted to help him.”
“I didn’t know the whole truth,” Nina Petrovna shook her head. “I didn’t know about the mistress, about the plan to take your apartment. Kirill said he just wanted to protect the money from the tax office.”
Anya put the kettle on.
“You don’t have to justify yourself.”
“I do,” the mother-in-law said firmly. “Because I raised my son wrong. I always indulged his selfishness, his sense that the world owed him. And here’s the result—he lost everything he had.”
They fell silent. From the nursery came the soft breathing of sleeping Masha.
“You know,” the older woman continued, “when I found out my son was ready to take the roof from over his own child’s head, I realized I couldn’t forgive him. Betraying your family is a line you can’t cross.”
Awkwardly, she handed Anya a small box.
“These are my earrings—my grandmother’s. I want Masha to have them. So that at least something… at least some part of our family remains with her.”
Anya took the box carefully. Inside lay antique silver earrings with garnets—she had seen them in photographs of Kirill’s great-grandmother.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Masha will be happy to see you. She misses you.”
“Really?” Tears sparkled in Nina Petrovna’s eyes. “May I… may I visit her sometimes?”
“Of course,” Anya nodded. “After all, she’s your granddaughter.”
Her former mother-in-law nodded gratefully, realizing she’d received more than she deserved—a second chance to be part of her granddaughter’s life.
“A coward hides fear behind loud words, and a scoundrel—behind other people’s money.” — Erich Maria Remarque.