The restaurant Maxim chose was on the top floor of one of Stalin’s high-rises. It wasn’t flashy so much as exclusive—statusy, for insiders. Lena stepped into the dim hall where soft music mingled with the clink of glasses. Maxim was already waiting at a table by the window, with a breathtaking view of the night-time capital. He rose to greet her.
“Elena. You look stunning,” he said, and there was genuine admiration in his voice. “Is that dress your battle flag?”
“It’s my declaration of independence,” Lena smiled, taking her seat.
She felt surprisingly calm. As if everything happening was a scene from a film—and she was both director and leading actress.
“Well then—to independence,” Maxim raised his champagne glass. “Everything is ready. Tomorrow at nine in the morning the tax inspectors will storm the office of your—still—husband. At nine-oh-five his accounts, including the Cypriot one, will be frozen by court order. At nine-ten my assistant will call him and officially notify him that divorce proceedings have begun and his assets have been seized. He won’t even have time to breathe.”
“And the mistress?” Lena asked, taking a small sip. The champagne was cold and prickly.
“Oh, we’ve taken care of her too. I did some digging. The girl, Sveta, really likes pretty things and rich men. My person will ‘accidentally’ run into her tomorrow at the fitness club and ‘confidentially’ mention that her patron is bankrupt and under criminal investigation. I think by lunchtime she’ll have changed her phone number.”
Lena nodded. The plan was perfect. Cruel, but fair.
“Are you sure he’ll come here? To our apartment?” she уточнила.
“Absolutely. I tracked his recent actions. He’s just checked out of a country hotel. His phone is moving toward your building. I think his ‘romantic weekend’ ended in a fight. Maybe Sveta demanded more than he was willing to give right now. He’s coming home—to lick his wounds and lecture his ‘obedient’ wife. Classic.”
The waiter brought their order. Two plates. Pasta aglio e olio. Simple, but it demands flawless ingredients and skill: the best olive oil, fresh garlic, hot pepper, expensive Italian pasta. Nothing extra. Elegant minimalism. A symbol of her new life.
“You picked this dish?” Lena asked, looking at Maxim.
“I thought it would be symbolic,” he replied with a knowing smirk. “It’s ‘pasta’ too. But there’s a nuance.”
They ate in silence, savoring the moment. It wasn’t a romantic dinner. It was dinner for two conspirators—two allies—celebrating a victory to come. Tension hung in the air, but it was a pleasant tension, the anticipation of triumph.
When they finished the pasta and drank the wine, Lena glanced at her watch. By her calculations, Andrey should be arriving any minute now.
“Time,” she said.
“I’ll call you a taxi home. The driver will wait around the corner. I’ll leave first; you can go out in ten minutes. Act natural. You just had dinner with your lawyer.”
“I’m not planning to pretend,” Lena replied.
They said goodbye. Maxim left, and Lena stayed seated a few minutes longer, watching the city lights shimmer. She felt like the mistress of this city, the mistress of her own fate.
Then she stood and calmly headed for the exit. She wasn’t in a hurry. She knew the main spectator of her performance was already on his way.
When Lena slid the key into the lock, she already knew he was inside. The light in the entryway was off, but from deeper in the apartment came an irritated male voice—Andrey was speaking to someone on the phone. She stepped in and flicked on the switch.
Andrey stood in the middle of the living room, disheveled and furious. Seeing her, he cut the call off sharply: “Fine, later!” He gave her an icy once-over from head to toe. His face twisted.
“What’s this masquerade?” he hissed. “Where have you been?”
“Having dinner,” Lena answered calmly, taking off her heels and placing them on the shelf.
“Having dinner?” He stepped toward her. He smelled of expensive alcohol and someone else’s perfume. “I’m calling you—your phone is off! I come home—you’re gone! And you’re out there in this… whore outfit, wandering around while I’m here trying to save the business?”
“First of all, don’t raise your voice at me. We’re in my apartment,” Lena’s voice was quiet, but there was such steel certainty in it that Andrey faltered for a moment. “Second, I had dinner with my lawyer. We discussed the details of our divorce.”
The word “divorce” hung in the air. Andrey froze, then burst out laughing—loud, nasty laughter.
“Divorce? Lenochka, did you overheat? Or binge too many TV shows? What divorce? Without me you’re nothing. An empty spot. You won’t earn your ‘little macaroni’ without my money.”
“You’re wrong about the pasta,” Lena said, walking into the kitchen and turning on the light.
And then he saw it. On the perfectly set table stood two plates with the remnants of exquisite pasta. Two candles, nearly burned down. And an open bottle of expensive wine. But the worst part wasn’t that. Across from her place stood a second chair, and draped over it—forgotten by someone—was a silk tie. Maxim Vorontsov’s tie, left as the final stroke in the picture.
“What is this?” Andrey’s voice went hoarse. “Was there a man here?”
“I told you. My lawyer. Maxim Vorontsov. Ever heard of him?” Lena took the wine bottle and poured herself a glass.
The lawyer’s surname hit Andrey like a punch to the gut. Vorontsov was a legend. And legends didn’t handle petty family quarrels. If he’d taken the case, it meant the air reeked of very big money—or very big trouble.
“What does all this mean, Lena?” he asked in a completely different tone now. Fear crept into it.
“It means, darling, our marriage is over,” she took a sip of wine, looking him straight in the eyes. “Tomorrow at nine in the morning you’ll find out all your accounts—including the offshore one—have been seized. Your company, Horizon-Invest, will become an object of close attention from the tax authorities. I have proof of your schemes. Recorded conversations, documents. Everything you so carelessly left lying around, convinced of my stupidity.”
She spoke calmly, almost matter-of-factly, and that made her words even more terrifying.
“The apartment, as you remember, is mine. So you have one hour to pack your things. I already prepared boxes—they’re in the hallway. Your mistress Sveta, by the way, will also find out tomorrow that her handsome prince is a broke bankrupt on the brink of prison. I wonder how long her love will last.”
Andrey stood there with his mouth open. He stared at her—this cold, beautiful, unfamiliar woman—and couldn’t believe it. This couldn’t be his Lena. His quiet, domestic, obedient Lena.
“Pasta, darling?” she asked with an icy smile, lifting her glass in a mocking toast. “As you can see, I can afford it. Whether you’ll be able to soon is a big question.”
Andrey’s first reaction was rage. Animal, helpless rage.
“You… you’ll regret this!” he shouted. “I’ll destroy you!”
He lunged toward her, but Lena didn’t even flinch. She calmly took out her phone and pressed one button.
“Maxim? Yes, he’s here. Threatening me. Can you call a police unit? You know the address.”
Andrey froze. The word “police” sobered him up better than an ice-cold shower. A scandal with the police was the last thing he needed right now. He realized she’d thought of everything. Every step. He was trapped.
He grabbed his phone and, with shaking fingers, dialed his banker. “The subscriber is temporarily unavailable.” He dialed his CFO. Same result. They already knew. Or they’d been warned. Maxim Vorontsov knew how to stay ahead of the curve.
Then he called Sveta. She didn’t pick up right away.
“Babe, where are you?” he began in a wheedling tone. “I’ve got some minor problems…”
“You don’t have minor problems, Andrey. You have a catastrophe,” Sveta’s voice was cold and alien. “Some ‘kind people’ already called me. They said you’re bankrupt and they’re opening a case on you. Are you out of your mind? You wanted to drag me into this?”
“Sveta, it’s all lies! It’s my crazy wife…”
“Not interested,” she cut him off. “You can return the Maldives tickets. Though—wait, you won’t be able to, your accounts are blocked. Goodbye, Andrey. And don’t call me again. My lawyer will contact you if you try to stalk me.”
Short beeps.
He collapsed into an armchair, clutching his head in his hands. That was it. The end. In one evening he’d lost everything: money, business, the woman he betrayed his wife for, and his home. He lifted his eyes to Lena. She stood by the window, her back to him, silently looking out at the night city. She wasn’t even gloating. She had simply crossed him out of her life. To her, he no longer existed.
And then the full horror of the irony hit him. “Your little wifey is chewing on plain macaroni.” That phrase, thrown out by Sveta with such contempt, now sounded like a sentence. It was he who was left with “empty macaroni.” No—worse. He was left with nothing at all.
He stood up in silence, went to the boxes in the hallway, took one, and walked to the door. He didn’t say a word. No strength. No point. He opened the door and stepped onto the landing. The door slammed behind him, and the click of the expensive lock cut him off from his past life forever.
He stood there on the landing with a box in his hands, full of his expensive shirts and cufflinks. He looked like someone whose house had burned down. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. In his pocket were a few thousand in cash. That was all that remained of his “empire.” He slowly headed down the stairs, and the bitter phrase about empty macaroni echoed in his temples.
Half a year passed.
Moscow autumn painted the parks gold and crimson. Lena sat in a small cozy café by Patriarch’s Ponds. In front of her stood a cup of aromatic cappuccino and an almond croissant. She read a book at an unhurried pace, sometimes looking up at passersby. She was calm and at peace.
In those six months her life had changed beyond recognition. The divorce was quick and almost painless—for her. For Andrey it was a catastrophe. Everything Maxim predicted came true with frightening precision. The business collapsed, and the exposed schemes led to a criminal case. To avoid prison, Andrey had to sell everything he still had—through front men—and pay enormous compensation to defrauded investors. He disappeared off the radar. Rumor had it he left for a small town somewhere outside Moscow, living with distant relatives.
Lena wasn’t interested in his fate. He became a ghost from the past, a lesson she had learned well. She finally began living for herself. With the portion of money she managed to keep—money that was legally hers—she opened a small flower studio. The business she’d dreamed of since youth. She arranged bouquets herself, spoke with clients, ran social media. Her studio quickly became popular thanks to her impeccable taste and love for what she did.
She lost weight, changed her hairstyle, updated her wardrobe. But most importantly—her gaze changed. The sadness and fatigue were gone. Now her eyes shone with energy, curiosity about life, and confidence. She began seeing friends again, going to theaters and exhibitions. She was rediscovering the world—and herself.
Sometimes she met with Maxim. Their relationship remained friendly and businesslike. To her he wasn’t “a man,” but a symbol of her freedom, her loyal ally in her main battle. They could have coffee, discuss news, and Lena was sincerely grateful to him. He helped her not only reclaim what was hers—he helped her reclaim herself.
Finishing her coffee, Lena paid and stepped outside. Sunlight broke through the clouds, its rays playing in her hair. She drew in a deep breath of fresh autumn air. She was free. Ahead lay a whole life—new, bright, belonging only to her. She smiled at her thoughts and walked down the street with an unhurried, confident stride, toward her future. She never thought about “empty macaroni” again. Now her menu held only exquisite dishes—the greatest of which was life itself.