A day blazing like the sun at its zenith had dawned for Mitrofan Petrovich—a day of his triumph, the day when he, powerful, rich, a man of status and influence, was becoming a husband once again. But not just a husband—he was becoming the master of the fate of a young, fragile, yet stunningly beautiful woman.
The wedding was lavish, worthy of a royal ceremony: the hall was drowned in snow-white lilies and scarlet roses, crystal glasses chimed to the sound of a live orchestra, and the tables groaned under delicacies brought from all over the world. Every guest invited to this grand event felt not just like a guest—they were participants in a historic act. And all of it was for one purpose: to cement his power, to conquer, to break.
Mitrofan Petrovich did not spare any expense. He spent fabulous sums so that every moment of this evening would be etched in memory like a masterpiece, like a monument. But behind all this magnificence was a cruel truth: this was not his first marriage. And what was even more important—his chosen bride, Lenochka, a long-legged, radiant blonde with eyes full of sorrow, did not feel a single drop of joy. Her smile was painted on like a mask, her dances mechanical, like a puppet on strings. And in the depths of her gaze you could read doom, as if she were not going to a ball, but to an execution.
So why would a bright, young, full-of-life girl, adored by men, suddenly agree to marry a man forty-two years older than her? The guests whispered behind their hands, tossing guesses around like poker chips: “It’s obviously for the money!” some said. “She must want the status!” others chimed in. But no one knew the real reason. No one except Lena herself and, of course, Mitrofan Petrovich. What bound them was not love, not passion, not even a craving for comfort—it was their past. Dark, heavy, steeped in betrayal and pain.
When the last toasts finally died down, when the toastmaster’s voice fell silent, when the last guests, dazzled by champagne and spectacle, drove off to their homes, silence descended. A silence in which you could hear the breathing of revenge. The newlyweds headed to the estate—not just a house, but a mansion perched on a hill like a castle from a vampire tale. Inside—luxury, antique furniture, paintings, mirrors in gilded frames. And the bedroom… oh, the bedroom! A wide canopy bed, silk sheets, candles flickering like the eyes of demons.
Lena followed her husband like a prisoner. Her veil, long as a river, trailed over the marble floor, brushing stains of wine and dirt left from the wedding. She did not notice. Her mind was paralyzed by fear. And he—Mitrofan Petrovich—walked with his head held high, wearing the smile of a victor. In his eyes you could read power, satisfaction, an almost animalistic joy.
“You’re not going anywhere from me,” he repeated to himself. “You’re mine now. Forever.”
When they found themselves in the bedroom, he turned to her, and his gaze turned icy.
“Why have you smeared yourself up like a little pig in the mud?” he hissed, drilling her with his eyes. “You are now the wife of Mitrofan Lavrentyev! Did you forget? You must be proper! Cleanliness, order, modesty—that’s your lot! Just like before! Like back when you were honest!”
She said nothing. Her trembling hands barely managed the fastenings of her dress. She was sent to the bathroom—to cleanse herself, as if sins could be washed away with water. When she came out, in a robe, her hair wet, her heart stopped.
There were two items lying on the bed.
The first—a worn envelope with yellowed edges.
The second—a faded childhood photo: two teenagers sitting by a river, laughing, happy. On the back, the inscription: “Slavik and Lena. Forever.”
“Darling,” came the mocking voice of Mitrofan Petrovich, “didn’t expect this, did you? Remember I told you you’d regret it? That everything comes back? That nothing goes unpunished?”
Lena swayed. Her face went white as snow. Her eyes rolled back. And she collapsed to the floor in a faint. But he didn’t even move. He watched her like a predator gazing at its fallen prey. And in his eyes there was no pity, no compassion. Only cold, calculated vengeance.
But to understand what was happening, we need to look into the past. Twenty years earlier.
Back then there were no mansions, no millions, no masks. There was a river, the moon reflected in the water like a silver mirror, and two teenagers hopelessly in love.
Slavik and Lena. Two hearts beating in unison. He—a simple boy living in a little house by the water, the son of an engineer who had lost his wife in a car accident. She—an orphan raised in an orphanage, but with fire in her eyes and dreams of a better life.
“It was hard to sneak out,” she whispered, laughing. “That crocodile of a caretaker was on night duty again. She’s got insomnia like an owl! But I’m trickier than she is! I left a dummy made of rags on my pillow and climbed out the window to get to you!”
“You’re a genius!” Slavik said in admiration. “Now nothing will ever separate us, right?”
“Of course, Slava,” she answered, snuggling against him. “We’ll get married when we both turn eighteen. And we’ll be happy.”
They sat by the river all night, talking about dreams, about children, about a little house by the water. Time flew like the wind, and they barely noticed morning coming.
Years passed. Slavik finished school and started working with his father in their modest auto repair shop. Lena became an accountant, but was in no hurry to really work. Why would she, when there was a real provider next to her? But over time, something changed. Her youthful love cooled. She began to dream of fancy dresses, expensive cars, parties in elite clubs. And Slavik… Slavik was just too simple.
And on the day of their wedding, she disappeared. She left only a note: “I’m sorry. I love someone else.”
Slavik found her in the house of her new chosen one—a fat, self-satisfied businessman twice her age. He rushed to the door, demanding an explanation. They threw him out like a dog. Lena stood at the window and laughed.
“You’ll regret this!” he shouted, broken, shattered. “But it’ll be too late!”
More than ten years passed. Slavik and his father turned the little repair shop into a large manufacturing plant. The abandoned groom became a successful entrepreneur. And Lena? Her “prince” quickly grew cold and kicked her out like something no longer needed. She had to go back to accounting. She worked, clawed her way up, but her soul still sobbed from shame and remorse.
And then one day, at an interview in a large company, she met Mitrofan Petrovich. The CEO. Dominant, cold, with an icy gaze. She did not recognize in him Slavik’s father. She didn’t recognize him—and that became her fatal mistake.
A few months later she found a gap in the accounting system. For just five minutes she was alone in the office. And she made a decision—vile, but tempting. She stole. A lot. A great deal.
But Mitrofan Petrovich was not just a businessman. He was a hunter. He knew everything. And instead of going to the police, he offered her a deal:
“I won’t turn you in. But you will become my wife. And in my house you’ll live like a servant. And this little document…”—he patted the folder with the evidence—“will stay with me. Just in case. So you don’t get any ideas about running away.”
She agreed. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she had no choice.
And now we return to the bedroom. To those two items on the bed.
When Lena came to, she did not see an old man. She saw Slavik.
He took off the wig, the beard, the fake wrinkles. Standing before her was that same boy from the river. Only now his eyes were filled with pain and anger.
“Well, shall we talk?” he asked, just like back then by the water. “Like in the good old days?”
“Forgive me!” she screamed, falling to her knees. “Forgive me, Slavik! I was weak, foolish, greedy!”
“No,” he replied coldly. “You don’t deserve forgiveness. You will be a warning. For everyone who thinks they can betray love for money. My father didn’t want revenge. He wanted you to understand. He doesn’t need you. He still loves my mother. And your papers—I kept them. Let the whole world know you married an old man for money. Let them know you betrayed love.”
She left. With no tears. With no strength. With no future.
She returned to a dormitory. The only job available there was as a cleaner. She grabbed it like a drowning person grabs a straw.
And now, when she mops the floors, she remembers the river, the moon, the laughter, the love… and understands: some mistakes cannot be fixed. Some tears cannot be washed away. And some hearts cannot be won back.
And up on the hill, in the mansion, Mitrofan Petrovich sits by the fireplace, holding that same photograph in his hands and whispering:
“Son… you did it. You didn’t take revenge. You just showed the truth.”