Marina was polishing the mirror in the manicure room when the last client of the day stepped into the salon. The woman had booked a haircut with their stylist, Oksana. Marina came out, showed her where she could wait, then returned to finishing up the cleaning.
It was Friday—the end of the workweek. Tomorrow was her day off. Finally, she’d be able to breathe.
Eight years earlier, right after she married Sergey, Marina had opened her own beauty salon. Back then it was nothing more than a small corner on the ground floor of an apartment building—one technician, two chairs, and the most basic equipment. Marina did everything herself: manicures, pedicures, sometimes eyebrow shaping. Sergey helped where he could—driving around to pick up supplies, fixing broken furniture, offering advice about advertising.
And then it started to grow. Clients came back and brought their friends. Marina hired two more specialists, then three more. She rented a larger space and invested in new equipment. Now there were seven employees, not counting Marina. On an average day, twenty to thirty clients passed through. The business provided steady income—good money, enough for a comfortable life. The “Jasmine” salon had been running smoothly in its spacious new location for six years.
The business was registered in Marina’s name. That’s how it had worked out from the beginning when they set up her sole proprietorship. Sergey worked for a construction company and had no time for paperwork. Besides, there didn’t seem to be any point in doing it differently—Marina handled everything anyway. She found suppliers, negotiated prices, hired staff, kept the accounts. Sergey’s support was real, but mostly moral. He was there when she struggled, and he celebrated when she succeeded.
Over the past six months, Sergey had begun staying late at work. He’d come home tired and claim there were too many projects and constant deadlines. Then the business trips started. Every two or three weeks he would leave for a couple of days—Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Yekaterinburg. Marina didn’t think anything of it. Sergey said he was meeting contractors and inspecting sites.
They were also talking about opening a second salon. The idea had been in the air for a long time. “Jasmine” was doing well—clients were loyal, the money was there. Expansion was possible. Sergey even found a promising space in another district. He showed her photos, talked about the size and the location. Marina agreed—why not? A second salon meant higher income and bigger opportunities.
The night before, Sergey came home carrying a thick folder of documents. He set it on the kitchen table while Marina was making tea.
“Contracts for the new salon,” he said, opening the folder. “You need to sign them. There are a lot of pages, but it’s mostly technical details. I checked everything—it’s all fine.”
Marina took the folder and flipped through it. Page after page: small print, legal language. Normally she would read paperwork like that carefully, but she was exhausted. It had been a brutal day and her head was pounding.
“I’ll sign tomorrow,” she said, sliding the folder aside. “I want to look through it properly—not rushing.”
Sergey frowned.
“Why wait? The partners are expecting this. We’re running out of time. If we stall, we could lose the space.”
“Sergey, these are serious papers. I’m not signing anything without reading it.”
His lips tightened. Marina noticed his shoulders tense.
“It’s standard stuff,” he insisted. “Lease agreement, licenses, permits. I’m telling you, I checked it.”
“Then it won’t hurt if I check it too,” Marina said, standing and taking the folder. “Tomorrow I’ll read it calmly and sign.”
Sergey looked like he wanted to argue, but he stopped himself. He only nodded, turned away, and went out onto the balcony to smoke—even though he’d quit six months earlier.
In the morning, Marina took the folder with her to the salon. She planned to go through it during her lunch break. But the day turned into chaos: three technicians called in sick at once, and Marina had to take their appointments herself. By evening her hands ached and her eyelids were heavy. She decided that tomorrow she would definitely have a lawyer review the papers—just to be safe. Elena Pavlovna, their regular attorney, always looked everything over quickly and gave a clear verdict.
The salon closed at eight. Marina let the staff leave early, finished the last tasks herself, turned off the lights, and set the alarm. Outside, she drew in the evening air. Cool, but pleasant. Home was close—about a fifteen-minute walk.
As she approached her building, she heard a familiar voice. Sergey. He was on the small playground near the entrance, talking to someone. Marina almost called out to him, but stopped. Something in his tone made her go silent.
“It’s fine,” Sergey was saying. “She’ll sign it herself—she won’t even realize what she’s losing.”
The other person laughed. Marina recognized the laugh immediately—Viktor, Sergey’s friend. They worked at the same company.
“You’re sure?” Viktor asked. “What if she takes it to a lawyer?”
“She won’t. She trusts me. She thinks it’s the paperwork for the second salon.”
“Brilliant,” Viktor said, slapping Sergey on the shoulder. “You transfer the salon to your name, take out a loan in hers, and that’s it. A fresh new life—no extra baggage.”
Marina froze. The blood drained from her face. Her hands turned icy. What? What did Viktor just say? Transfer the salon? A loan in her name?
“The key is to move fast,” Sergey went on. “She signs today or tomorrow, and I take the papers in immediately. Before she comes to her senses, everything will already be processed.”
“And if she finds out?”
“Too late. The salon will be in my name, the loan will be approved. What’s she going to do—divorce me? Let her. I was planning on it anyway.”
Viktor laughed again. Sergey pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Marina stood around the corner of the building, pressed to the wall, breathing in short, shallow bursts. Inside her, everything tightened into a hard knot.
Sergey was planning to steal her salon. The business Marina had built over six years. The place she had poured her energy, time, and money into. He intended to deceive her, transfer everything to himself, and saddle her with a loan. And then walk away. Simply walk away—leaving his wife with debt and nothing else.
With trembling fingers, Marina took out her phone and called Elena Pavlovna. The lawyer didn’t answer immediately.
“Marina? Is something wrong?”
“Elena Pavlovna, I need an urgent consultation,” Marina said—quiet, but firm. “Today. Right now, if possible.”
“All right. Come to my office in half an hour.”
Marina turned and walked away from the building quickly, without looking back. Sergey and Viktor kept talking, unaware she’d been there. Marina ordered a taxi and went straight to the lawyer.
Elena Pavlovna met her at the office and poured her a glass of water. Marina sat down and took the folder out of her bag. Her hands were still shaking.
“What happened?” the lawyer asked, opening it.
Marina told her everything she’d heard—Sergey’s conversation with Viktor, his plan to trick her, to transfer the salon into his name. Elena Pavlovna listened, nodding, then began reading.
She turned page after page, frowning, shaking her head. Marina sat across from her, fingers laced tightly together, waiting—afraid to hear her worst fears confirmed.
“These aren’t contracts for a new salon,” Elena Pavlovna said at last. “This is an agreement to transfer your existing business entirely to Sergey.”
Marina closed her eyes. So it was true. All of it.
“It states that you voluntarily hand over the sole proprietorship and all assets of the salon to your husband,” the lawyer said, pointing to specific lines. “Without any compensation. And there’s more—you’re also taking out a loan in your name for three million rubles. The funds go to Sergey’s account ‘for business development.’”
“Three million?” Marina’s eyes flew open. “Why would he need three million?”
“I don’t know. But if you sign this, the salon becomes his—and you’re left with the three-million debt. You’ll be the one paying it back.”
Nausea rose in Marina’s throat. Sergey. Her husband. The man she’d lived with for eight years. He had been ready to ruin her—take everything she built and leave her buried under a massive loan.
“Do not sign anything,” Elena Pavlovna said, closing the folder. “And you need to deal with your husband as soon as possible. This is fraud—plain and simple.”
Marina nodded, took the folder, thanked her, and walked out. In the taxi ride home, she said nothing. She stared out the window and tried to imagine what she would say to Sergey—how she would even begin.
At home, Sergey was sitting in the living room in front of the television. When he saw Marina, he stood up immediately.
“So? Did you sign it?” he asked with a smile.
Marina didn’t answer. She pulled the lawyer’s written conclusion from her bag and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. Sergey picked it up, skimmed it—and his face went pale.
“When did you decide to steal my business?” Marina’s voice was calm. Ice-cold. “Everything I built?”
“Marina, it’s a misunderstanding,” Sergey said quickly, putting his hands up. “The lawyer interpreted it wrong. It’s just a technical formality to get better loan terms.”
“A technical formality?” Marina stepped closer. “Transferring all rights to my salon is a formality?”
“You don’t understand how business works,” Sergey said fast, anxious. “Sometimes paperwork has to be done a certain way to get the best conditions. I was trying to do what’s best.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!”
“I heard you tonight,” Marina said, meeting his eyes without blinking. “Outside the building. On the playground. You talked about how I’d ‘sign and not even realize what I’m losing.’ About putting the salon in your name. About a new life without obligations.”
Sergey went still. He opened his mouth, closed it again. Tried to speak—but nothing came out.
“All right,” Marina said, folding her arms. “I’m giving you one chance. Explain. Right now. Why do you need a three-million loan? And why were you planning to take my salon?”
Sergey stared at the floor in silence. Then suddenly he exploded.
“It’s mine too!” he shouted, waving his arms. “It’s my salon too! I put in just as much effort as you! I helped, supported you, gave advice! And it’s only registered in your name! I’m entitled to my share!”
“You supported me emotionally,” Marina replied, her tone low, each word landing like a blow. “Not financially. Not physically. You didn’t hire staff. You didn’t negotiate with suppliers. You didn’t sit up late doing bookkeeping. You didn’t risk your savings to start a business. This was my project. My idea. My money.”
“We’re husband and wife! Everything should be shared!”
“Shared means you talk and agree,” Marina said. “Not deceive your spouse and steal with paperwork.”
Sergey paced the room, clutching his head.
“I have debts,” he blurted at last. “Big debts. I owe three million. The people I owe want their money back. Now. Or there’ll be trouble—serious trouble.”
Marina stopped, as if the words had struck her.
“What debts? From where?”
“I… I took out loans,” Sergey admitted. “A year and a half ago. I invested in projects. I thought it would work, I’d pay everything back and make a profit. But it didn’t. The projects failed. The money’s gone.”
“A year and a half?” Marina felt the scale of his deception spreading through her like cold water. “You hid this for a year and a half? That you dug yourself into a three-million hole?”
“I thought I could fix it. Find a way out. But I ran out of time. They’re threatening me. I need money. Immediately.”
“So you decided to steal my business.”
“Not steal!” Sergey snapped, turning toward her. “Take what’s rightfully mine! We built the salon together. I have a right to it!”
“No,” Marina said, shaking her head. “You don’t. It’s registered to me. Every document is in my name. Every investment came from me. You contributed nothing but advice. And now you want to take everything to cover your dirty debts—debts I didn’t even know existed.”
Sergey sank onto the sofa and covered his face with his hands. Marina stood across from him, looking at a stranger. Eight years of marriage—and it turned out she had never truly known him.
“I will not sign those documents,” Marina said. “Not ever. And I’m filing for divorce.”
Sergey looked up.
“Marina, wait…”
“No,” she replied. “The trust is gone. You planned to deceive me, steal my business, and leave me with debt. What kind of marriage is that?”
“I’ll change. I’ll find a way to repay everything. We can—”
“We can’t,” Marina cut in, turning toward the hallway. “Tomorrow I’ll call the lawyer. We’ll handle the divorce properly. If you want compensation for the years you helped around the salon, we can discuss a small amount. But the business stays mine.”
“Where am I supposed to live?”
“Not my problem. Move in with Viktor. If he helped you design this brilliant fraud scheme, he can also give you a couch.”
Marina went into the bedroom and closed the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, hugged her knees, and stared at the wall. Inside her was an emptiness—cold, heavy. Eight years. Eight years together, and it was all built on lies. Sergey didn’t love her. He didn’t respect her. He was just waiting for the right moment to grab more for himself.
She remembered opening the salon—how much effort, time, and nerve it had taken. How she searched for a space and negotiated with the landlord. How she did the repairs herself, painted walls, assembled furniture. How she found the first specialists and convinced them to work for an unknown new salon. How she stayed up at night over tax forms and reports, teaching herself what she had to know.
Sergey had been nearby. Encouraging her. Driving supplies. But his help had been minimal. The real work was hers. The risk was hers. The sweat was hers. The salon was her creation.
And Sergey believed he deserved half—just because he’d stood close to her. Because they were married. But marriage wasn’t a license to take someone else’s labor. It wasn’t permission to lie and steal.
In the morning Marina called Elena Pavlovna and asked her to start the divorce process. The lawyer agreed and said she’d prepare the paperwork. Marina also called a locksmith and had the apartment locks changed—just in case.
Sergey left on his own. Quietly. He packed two suitcases, avoided Marina’s eyes, didn’t try to explain himself or apologize. He simply took his things and walked out. Marina watched him go and felt something like relief.
A month later the divorce was finalized. They met, signed the papers. Sergey received compensation—three hundred thousand rubles. It wasn’t much, but Elena Pavlovna explained that he had no legal claim to the salon because he hadn’t invested money into creating it. The business remained entirely with Marina.
Sergey moved in with Viktor. Marina heard that from mutual acquaintances. She also heard that her ex had sold his car to pay down part of the debt. The creditors didn’t stop; they kept demanding more. But those problems belonged to Sergey now—not to her.
Marina stayed alone in the apartment where she’d lived for eight years. At first it felt strange—too empty, too quiet. Then she got used to it. Eventually she even began to like the silence. No one pressured her. No one lied. No one built plans behind her back.
The salon kept running as usual. The staff didn’t notice anything in their owner’s personal life. Clients came in, booked appointments, left positive reviews. The business brought in income—a steady, honest income that Marina controlled herself.
Sometimes she thought back to that conversation near the entrance. If she hadn’t overheard Sergey’s words, would she have signed the papers? Maybe. She’d trusted him. She hadn’t doubted him. She might have signed without reading. And then she would have learned the truth when it was already too late—after the business was transferred, the loan issued, and Sergey was gone.
Thank God she heard it in time. Thank God she stopped, checked the documents, and saved what she had built—saved herself from debt and ruin.
Marina stood in the salon and looked at the mirrors, at the specialists leaning over their clients. This was her place. Her work. Built through labor, stubbornness, patience. No one would take it from her. No one would trick her again. Because now Marina knew the bitter truth about trust—and about people who are willing to betray you for money.
Eight years of marriage turned out to be an illusion. But the salon was real—the reality she had created with her own hands. And it would stay with her. Without Sergey. Without his debts. Without his lies.