— “Come on, Anya, you’re like a child. My money is mine. Yours is yours. It’s fair,” Dima leaned back on the sofa and burst out laughing—loudly, wholeheartedly.
That laugh, which just a year ago had sounded sincere and contagious, now grated on my ears like cheap metal.
He looked down at me from above, and his gaze was slick with smug self-satisfaction. A year ago, there had been adoration there.
Now—condescending pity for the “poor little girl” he’d done a favor by letting live beside him.
“I just thought that if the fridge is shared, it makes sense to buy it together,” I said quietly, studying the pattern on the carpet.
Don’t look up. The main thing is not to look up and not let him see the cold fury slowly rising from the bottom of my soul.
“Logical is when everyone counts on themselves. Am I supporting you? No. Am I covering the rent and utilities? Yes. And you should thank me for that. But a fridge—sorry, that’s already a luxury. The old one still works.”
He said it like he was tossing me a gnawed bone.
The old fridge we’d gotten from his grandmother roared at night like a wounded animal and turned fresh vegetables into icy mush.
I nodded in silence.
“One year, sweetheart. Just one year,” my father’s voice echoed in my memory. “I’m not against your Dima. I’m against your blindness. You’ve known each other three months. Let him prove he loves you and not my resources. Live on your own money. Not a kopeck from me. We’ll see what he’s made of.”
Dad was angry about our rushed wedding. He believed Dima was hunting for a dowry. To prove him wrong, I agreed to the experiment.
I even took my mother’s last name back so there would be no associations at work. For Dima, it became a story about how a rich father had “disinherited” a rebellious daughter.
What he was made of turned out to be rotten. The first six months Dima played the nobleman. He was sure that if he just held out, his stern father-in-law would turn anger into mercy. Then he realized there would be no money.
And the mask started sliding off. First the flowers disappeared. Then he “forgot” his wallet in restaurants. And now we’d arrived at separate budgets—where his budget was only his, and mine was “shared.”
“Alright, don’t sulk,” he came over and casually ruffled my hair like I was a dog. “You’ll earn it—you’ll buy it. You’re a smart girl. You’re trying.”
I slowly lifted my eyes to him. In his eyes there wasn’t even a shadow of doubt that he was right.
Only the confidence of a man in control—one who earns well and who “got lucky” marrying a beautiful but financially useless woman.
He didn’t know that the “trying” I was doing was at a company owned by my father.
He didn’t know that the key project—the one he was about to get a massive bonus for—had been designed and executed by me from first step to last.
And he most definitely didn’t know that tomorrow at ten in the morning he’d be called in—not for a promotion.
“Yes, honey,” I forced myself to smile my most obedient smile. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”
That evening he came home with shining eyes. He tossed a folder with a car dealership logo onto the table.
“Look what a beauty I found!” he said, delighted, spreading a glossy brochure in front of me. A predatory profile of an expensive SUV stared out from the picture.
“I’m taking it on credit, of course. But with my salary it’s nothing. I’ll make the down payment with the bonus from the Horizon project. They’ll issue it any day now.”
He spoke fast, excited, not noticing my frozen face.
“Horizon.” My project. My sleepless nights, my calculations, my negotiations. Dima had been nothing more than the nominal lead who signed my reports and presented them nicely at meetings.
“You’re buying a car?” My voice sounded dull, like from underwater. “But… you said we needed to save. That our ‘financial cushion’ was still too thin.”
He looked up from the brochure with genuine confusion, as if I’d said something stupid.
“Anya, you’re mixing it up again. ‘We’ is when it’s about your spending. I’m not asking you for money, am I? I earn it—I spend it. It’s motivation, you understand?”
Motivation. A man has to grow, strive. And you’re holding me back with your petty household problems.
He used that line—“you’re holding me back”—more and more. Any request or attempt to discuss shared plans slammed into that wall. Me, with my “problems,” was interfering with his great achievements.
“I’m just trying to be practical,” I made one more, final attempt. “Maybe we should solve the housing issue first? Start saving for a mortgage? Together.”
Dima laughed. The same laugh as earlier. Loud, confident, humiliating.
“A mortgage? On your salary? Anya, don’t be ridiculous. To save for a mortgage you need to earn money, not get pennies for shuffling papers.”
When I become commercial director, then we’ll talk. Until then—be happy for your husband. Your husband will soon be driving a cool car. You should be pleased.
He came over and put an arm around my shoulders, pulling me to him. He smelled of expensive cologne and success. Fake, stolen success.
“By the way, about director,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Tomorrow I have a meeting with the CEO. Looks like the ice has broken. The old man finally appreciated my talents.”
My heart skipped. The CEO. My father.
I pulled away so he wouldn’t feel my whole body tense.
“That’s… that’s wonderful, honey!” I squeezed out an enthusiastic smile.
“Damn right!” he beamed. “So tomorrow decides everything. Wish me luck.”
He went to bed almost immediately—completely happy and certain about his future. And I sat in the kitchen for a long time, staring out the dark window.
The hum of the old fridge sounded like a countdown. A countdown to his fall. And I wasn’t going to wish him luck. I was going to enjoy the show.
The morning was soaked in his smugness. He whistled as he chose the most expensive tie. I silently handed him coffee, playing the devoted wife.
“Need to look like a million,” he muttered, scrutinizing himself in the mirror.
My gaze fell on the new dress hanging on the closet door. Simple linen, but I’d been saving for it three months on my “pennies of a salary.”
It was my small victory, a symbol that I still existed separately from him.
Dima noticed it too. He came over, pinched the fabric between two fingers with disgust.
“What is this—country chic?”
“It’s my new dress,” I said quietly.
“Obviously it’s yours. You bought what you could afford. Anya, listen,” he turned to me, and his face became serious, almost fatherly.
“When I get the position, you’ll have to match it. None of these… cheap rags. You’ll be the wife of an important man. It’s embarrassing.”
He talked, and I stared at the dress—my small, hard-won joy he’d just stomped into the dirt.
And then the final straw happened. Smoothing a crease on his perfectly white shirt, he casually hung it on the same door.
And the hot iron he’d left on the ironing board for a second slid straight onto my dress.
There was a hiss. An ugly brown mark crawled across, burning through the fabric.
Dima looked at the hole, then at me. There was no regret, no guilt—only annoyance.
“See? It got rid of that eyesore by itself,” he smirked. “Alright, don’t cry. You’ll buy yourself a new one. When I allow it and give you the money.”
That was it.
Something inside me snapped. Not with a clang, not with a crash. Just a quiet, final break. A year of humiliation, pretending, hoping. It all burned up вместе with the dress.
“You’re right,” my voice came out unfamiliar—level and firm. “Time to get rid of an eyesore.”
He didn’t understand. He heard only obedience in the words, not the meaning. He nodded condescendingly, grabbed his briefcase, kissed my cheek, and left. Left for the meeting he thought would lift him to the top.
I watched him go. Then I opened the closet and took out my best business suit—the one my father gave me for graduating university. The one Dima had never seen.
I came to work an hour early. I walked past my desk in the open office, past my colleagues’ surprised looks, and headed straight down the corridor—to the corner office with the plaque: “Head of Sales Department. Sokolov D.A.”
The secretary looked up.
“Anna, where are you going? Dmitry Alexeyevich isn’t here yet.”
I smiled.
“I know. I’m going to my new office. Could you bring me coffee? And yes—please change the nameplate. My last name is Orlova.”
At exactly ten o’clock the office door swung open. Dima walked in—radiant, confident, folder under his arm. He froze in the doorway when he saw me in his chair. His smile slowly slid off his face.
“Anya? What are you doing here?” Confusion, but not fear yet. “Go play somewhere else. I’ve got a meeting with the CEO in a minute.”
“I know,” I said calmly, taking a sip of coffee. “So do I.”
At that moment my father walked in. Dima turned, and his face stretched out. He recognized the CEO, but couldn’t understand what he was doing here—together with me.
“Pavel Andreevich! Good morning! We were just…” he started to fawn.
“Morning, Dmitry,” my father said, walking past him, coming to me and placing a hand on my shoulder. “I see you’ve already met your new boss—Orlova Anna Pavlovna.”
Dima’s face turned into a mask. Disbelief, shock, panic—all mixed in his eyes. He flicked his gaze from me to my father and back.
“Orlova?.. Pavlovna?..” he whispered. “What Orlova? Anya, what kind of circus is this?”
“It’s not a circus, Dima. It’s my real last name,” I stood up, feeling cold calm spread through my body. “And Pavel Andreevich is my father.”
Dima’s pupils widened. He swayed, as if he’d been hit.
“Your father?.. But you… you said…”
“I said my father didn’t want anything to do with me. And that was true. He didn’t want anything to do with a woman who lets herself be humiliated. He was waiting for me to understand it myself. Well—I did.”
He stared at me, and it finally began to sink in. The car loan. The bonus he’d claimed. His words about “pennies” and “cheap rags.”
“Anya… kitten… it’s a misunderstanding!” He stepped toward me, hands out. His voice turned pathetic, ingratiating. “I love you! I do everything for you!”
“You do everything for yourself, Dima,” I cut him off. “You set the rules. Your money is yours. Mine is mine.”
So. My company. My office. And my decision. You’re fired. For cause. For systematic appropriation of other people’s achievements and intellectual work. I have all the Horizon project materials.
He went rigid.
“Fired?.. You can’t…”
“I can. And don’t worry about the car. The bonus—obviously—you won’t be getting. So the loan won’t be approved.”
My father watched silently. In his eyes I saw approval.
“And one more thing,” I added, looking him straight in the eye. “You can pick up your things from the apartment by tonight. Leave the keys with the concierge. My lawyer will contact you about the divorce papers.”
He looked at me like I was a monster. All his forced confidence fell away, leaving only a small, greedy, terrified man.
“But… how… we’re a family!”
“We never had a family, Dima. You had a convenient project. But it’s closed. For failing all performance indicators.”
I sat back down in my new chair and picked up a pen.
“Now, if that’s all—leave. I have a lot of work to do.”
…That evening, after the apartment finally fell silent from the sounds of his hurried packing, I opened my laptop.
I went to an appliance store website. Found the biggest, most expensive stainless-steel refrigerator with an ice maker and a touch display.
And I clicked “Buy.”
The payment went through instantly. From my personal card