Nika stood in the entryway, staring sadly at her favorite Italian sneakers. They weren’t just in the wrong spot—someone had shoved them into the deepest, dustiest corner of the shoe cabinet. And in their rightful “front-row” place, right on the doormat that said Welcome, stood a pair of glossy patent stiletto ankle boots—sharp, predatory, finished off with a gold buckle.
Tamara Vitalyevna had arrived.
The official story was: “Mom needs a full checkup at a big-city clinic—blood vessels, blood pressure, you know, age.” The unofficial version—Nika’s private truth—was simpler: her mother-in-law had gotten bored in her provincial town, where she’d already “lined everyone up,” from the neighbors to the housing-office boss, and now she’d decided to scale her energetic management style to her son’s household.
Nika sighed, adjusted the strap of her heavy laptop backpack, and stepped inside. Instead of the familiar smell of a clean apartment and the faint lemongrass diffuser she loved, she was hit with a thick, heavy cloud of expensive but painfully old-fashioned perfume. Poison, it seemed. Or something from the same category—strong enough to take out cockroaches and disobedient daughters-in-law alike.
“Nika, is that you?” Tamara Vitalyevna’s voice came not from the kitchen, but from the study—more precisely, from the second room Nika had carefully turned into her home office.
Nika peeked in. Tamara Vitalyevna was sitting in Nika’s ergonomic chair—the one that cost sixty thousand rubles—her legs in sheer tights propped on the ottoman. On the desk, usually spotless (MacBook, planner, a glass of water), lay scattered folders, receipts, and a calculator.
“Good evening, Tamara Vitalyevna,” Nika greeted her tightly. “How was the trip? How are you feeling?”
“What kind of feeling?” her mother-in-law waved a hand, not even looking up from the papers. “My head feels like cast iron. But that’s nothing compared to what I’ve seen here in your home.”
Nika tensed.
“And what exactly did you see? Dust? I had a cleaning service here on Saturday.”
Tamara Vitalyevna removed her horn-rimmed glasses and stared at Nika the way a seasoned auditor looks at a warehouse clerk caught stealing.
“Dust has nothing to do with it, sweetheart. Dust is irrelevant. I’m talking about the financial sinkhole you two are living in. Igor’s been complaining that you’re always short on money—so I decided to see where it’s all going.”
Igor appeared in the doorway. He looked guilty, yet oddly pumped—as if he’d been waiting for this. He wore a T-shirt that read Born to be wild, which in this moment looked especially ridiculous.
“Hey, babe,” he said, kissing Nika on the cheek. “Mom just wants to help us manage the budget. You know she was a chief accountant for thirty years.”
Without a word, Nika walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands trembled slightly. She had bought this apartment three years ago. Alone. Before she even met Igor. She fought the bank for that “Euro two-bedroom” in a good neighborhood, paid off the mortgage at a brutal pace, denying herself vacations and even a new car. This place was her fortress. And now a stranger sat inside her fortress, balancing the debit and credit of her life.
Dinner felt like an emergency board meeting right before bankruptcy. Tamara Vitalyevna ate the sushi Nika had ordered, poking at the Philadelphia cream cheese with her chopsticks as if it offended her personally.
“Look at this,” she said, tapping a roll. “Twelve hundred rubles for rice and fish of questionable freshness. Nika, do you realize a kilo of trout costs nine hundred? Rice is a hundred. If you cook at home, this dinner costs three hundred at most. Restaurant markup is three hundred percent. You’re feeding someone else’s business.”
“Tamara Vitalyevna, I work until seven,” Nika replied calmly, dipping her roll into soy sauce. “An hour of my time costs more than the time it takes to roll sushi. It’s called delegating.”
“Delegating,” her mother-in-law mimicked. “Trendy words. In reality—it’s laziness. Igor, pass the ginger. Also, I looked at your utility bills. Why is the water running like there’s no tomorrow? Are you bathing an elephant? And these subscriptions—movies, music, cloud storage… I did the math: twenty thousand a year. For nothing. For air.”
Igor sat with his eyes down and nodded along.
“Mom, well… Nika needs cloud storage for work—”
“For work the employer should pay,” Tamara Vitalyevna cut him off. “You live beyond your means. Igor still hasn’t paid off his credit card, interest is piling up—and you’re eating sushi.”
Nika froze. She hadn’t known about any credit card debt.
“What credit card, Igor?” she asked, turning to him.
Igor flushed bright red, like an overripe tomato.
“Well… I was short for a laptop… I’m building a startup, you know. I needed to upgrade my equipment.”
“Fifty thousand?” Nika clarified.
“Seventy,” Tamara Vitalyevna corrected crisply. “Plus late fees. It’s almost a hundred now. See, Nika? Your husband is in debt, and you spend like crazy. That’s not how a family behaves. A family budget must be transparent and consolidated.”
Nika put her chopsticks down. Her appetite vanished.
“Fine,” she said dryly. “I’ll pay off his card from my bonus. But this is the last time, Igor.”
“Oh, no need to pay it off,” her mother-in-law suddenly said in a softer, almost affectionate voice. “Why throw money away? I have a better idea. Bigger. Strategic.”
Tamara Vitalyevna pushed her plate aside and pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her house robe. She unfolded it, smoothed it flat on the table with her palm.
“I sketched a plan. Look. What do you have right now? Nika’s apartment. A liquid asset, no arguing that. Central area, renovation, metro nearby. Market value—about fifteen million, yes?”
Nika nodded, feeling a cold ripple run down her spine.
“But it’s a dead asset,” her mother-in-law continued in a lecturer’s tone. “You simply live in it. It produces no income. Yet the family will grow, needs will grow. Igor needs a launchpad for business, you need more space. A two-bedroom is a joke if you’re thinking about children.”
“We’re not thinking about children yet,” Nika said.
“You’re not thinking, but the clock is ticking,” Tamara Vitalyevna dismissed her with a wave. “Here’s how it goes. We sell this apartment. Fifteen million in hand. Then we take a mortgage—family mortgage, the rates are favorable right now. We buy a three-bedroom in New Moscow at the excavation stage, but in a nice complex. That’ll cost twelve. Three million remains. With that we buy a studio outside the city—register it in my name so we don’t lose tax benefits and can ‘optimize’ taxes. I’m a pensioner, I have perks. We rent the studio out—passive income! It’ll pay the mortgage on the three-bedroom. And while the building is going up, you’ll live with me.”
She looked at Nika and Igor as if she’d just solved world hunger.
“Brilliant, right? In two years you’ll have a big apartment, plus the studio earning money, plus Igor gets a million to invest into his business from the difference.”
Nika stared at the scheme drawn in confident strokes—circles, arrows, numbers. And right in the middle, the words “Nika’s apartment” were crossed out with a thick, heavy X.
“Wait,” Nika said slowly. “You’re suggesting I sell my ready, paid-off apartment in the center, take on a mortgage for a concrete box past the ring road, and then invest the leftover money into a studio… registered in your name?”
“Of course!” Tamara Vitalyevna beamed. “That’s called diversifying risk. And honestly, Nika, why do you need a two-bedroom in the center? Dima—ugh, Igor—needs it more to get started. A man has to feel solid ground under his feet. Right now he’s basically living off you. But this way—shared mortgage, shared responsibility. That strengthens a marriage.”
Igor finally looked up. Hope lit his eyes.
“Nik, she’s right. The plan works. Mom even talked to a realtor. We’ll kill two birds with one stone—pay off debts and expand. I can finally start my own thing, stop working for someone else. You always said you wanted me to grow.”
Nika shifted her gaze from her husband to her mother-in-law. Tamara Vitalyevna was smiling, but her eyes stayed cold and hooked, like a pike’s. She wasn’t asking. She’d already decided.
“Igor, can we step out for a minute?” Nika asked.
“Why step out? We don’t keep secrets from Mom,” he frowned.
“Fine,” Nika said. “Then I’ll say it here.”
She stood up.
“No.”
Tamara Vitalyevna’s smile slid off her face.
“What do you mean ‘no’? You don’t understand the benefits? I can show you the numbers—”
“I understand perfectly,” Nika said clearly. “Your benefits. You want to take my only home away, bury me in debt for an apartment in the middle of nowhere that will suddenly become ‘joint marital property,’ and then take the liquid remainder for yourself under the excuse of ‘a studio in Mom’s name.’”
“How dare you speak to me like that?” her mother-in-law’s voice rang with steel. “I’m thinking about the family! About your future! You’re selfish, Nika. You only care about yourself. And your husband is suffering—he’s unrealized!”
“If he wants to ‘realize himself,’ he can earn it,” Nika felt anger boil inside, but her voice stayed icy. “The apartment is not for sale. It’s my safety net. End of discussion.”
“Yours?” Tamara Vitalyevna rose. She was shorter than Nika, but at that moment she seemed to fill the entire kitchen. “Sweet girl, you’re married. In a family there is no ‘yours’ and ‘mine.’ There’s ‘ours.’ And if you’re not willing to invest in a shared future, what kind of wife are you?”
Igor jumped up too.
“Nika, you’re acting like a dog in the manger! Mom is offering a solution! I’m suffocating in that office, I need capital! And you’re sitting on your precious square meters, shaking like you’ll lose them!”
“I’m shaking because I worked five years without a weekend for those meters!” Nika snapped. “While you, Igor, were ‘finding yourself’—playing guitar and taking crypto-investing courses!”
“Don’t you dare throw that in his face!” Tamara Vitalyevna shrieked. “Money corrupts people, I always said it. You’ve become spoiled, Nika. But fine. We’ll find a way to deal with you. Igor—tell her.”
Igor sucked in air, looked at his mother for support, and blurted:
“If you don’t agree, I’ll… I’ll consider it betrayal. And we’ll split the budget. Since you’re so principled—pay for yourself. Half the utilities too.”
“And wear and tear on appliances!” Tamara Vitalyevna chimed in. “The washing machine is shared!”
Nika looked at them—two “family members.” One she had loved (or thought she loved), and the woman who had raised him. Right now they looked like debt collectors here to seize a debt that didn’t exist.
And then Nika laughed—loud, real, to the point of tears.
“And who exactly told you you have any right to my premarital apartment?” she laughed, looking her mother-in-law straight in the eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. You too, Igor. You want to split the budget? Great. Let’s start now. You owe me half the rent for living in my apartment. Market price in this neighborhood is sixty thousand. That means thirty a month from you. Plus half the utilities. Plus groceries.”
Tamara Vitalyevna turned purple.
“You’re going to take money from your husband? You’re a prostitute!”
“No, Tamara Vitalyevna,” Nika said coolly. “A landlord. And by the way, our ‘hotel’ is also paid. Your stay is five thousand per day. Checkout is noon.”
Tamara Vitalyevna grabbed at her chest—dramatic, theatrical, like a bad stage play.
“Oh… Igor, water… She’s done it to me… my heart…”
Igor rushed to his mother, fussing and pouring water with shaking hands.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he screamed at Nika. “Mom is sick! She’s having a crisis!”
“She’s not having a crisis,” Nika said evenly, though her heart was hammering in her throat. “She’s performing. I’m going to work. Tomorrow morning we’ll discuss when you’re moving out.”
Nika left the kitchen, shut the office door firmly, and leaned back against it. Her legs went weak. Through the door she heard Tamara Vitalyevna’s moaning and Igor’s low voice: “Don’t worry, Mom, we’ll pressure her. She’s emotional, that’s all…”
Nika sat at her desk and opened her laptop, but the letters swam. She had to calm down. She turned on the voice recorder on her phone—normally she used it for work ideas, but tonight it might be useful for something else.
An hour passed. Silence. No sound from the kitchen. Nika relaxed slightly, assuming they’d gone to bed. She slipped into the hallway, trying to reach the bathroom quietly.
The kitchen door was slightly open. Voices came from inside—low, almost whispering.
“…Mom, what else can we do? She dug her heels in.”
“It’s fine, Igorek. If she’s stubborn, we’ll break her. Just don’t cancel your meeting with Vadim. He already gave you the deposit, right?”
Nika froze, not breathing. Vadim? Deposit?
“He did,” Igor’s voice sounded dull. “Three hundred thousand. I used it to pay off the card and repay the guys I owed—the ones who started the meter.”
“Good boy. No turning back now.”
“But Mom, if Nika finds out I put the car up as collateral… I mean, not sold it—pawned it… She’ll kill me. The car is in her name. I only drive it on power of attorney.”
“You idiot, Igorek,” Tamara Vitalyevna said sweetly. “Do you have a general power of attorney? Yes. Then you have the right. When we sell the apartment, we’ll buy the car back and she won’t even know. The main thing is to force her to sign the apartment deal. I saw pills in her medicine cabinet—light antidepressants. We’ll slip a couple into her tea, she’ll be compliant as silk. And my realtor, Svetochka, will do the paperwork fast. We’ll say it’s refinancing documents…”
The floor seemed to drop out from under Nika.
They didn’t just want to take her apartment. Igor had already committed a crime—he’d pawned her car to cover secret debts. And now they were discussing drugging her so they could slip in documents for a sale.
This wasn’t a household argument anymore.
It was war.
Nika moved silently back into her office. Her hands weren’t shaking now. They were cold and steady, like a surgeon’s before an operation.
She picked up her phone. One in the morning. She didn’t care.
She messaged an old university friend who now worked at the prosecutor’s office:
“Lesha, hi. Sorry it’s so late. I need your help—urgently. I think they’re trying to scam me out of my apartment. And not only that. Can we meet in the morning?”
A reply came within a minute:
“9:00 at ‘Kofemania’ near your building. What happened?”
Nika stared at the closed door behind which her “family” enemies were sleeping.
“All right, Tamara Vitalyevna,” she whispered into the darkness. “You want to play Monopoly? Let’s play. Only I’m making the rules now.”
She opened her banking app and froze every card Igor had access to. Then she went onto the government services portal and placed a restriction: no real estate transactions without her in-person presence.
The night was long.
Nika barely slept. Every noise in the hallway made her flinch. But by morning, fear had been replaced by a cold, clean rage. At 7:00 she was already up.
The morning gambit
When the kettle started to boil, Nika walked into the kitchen. Tamara Vitalyevna, dressed as if for a photo shoot and wearing the same patent stiletto boots, calmly sipped coffee. Igor sat beside her, hiding behind his phone.
“Good morning,” her mother-in-law sang out. “Ninochka, have you thought it over? We got heated yesterday, of course, but you understand—it’s all for the common good. Have some tea; I brewed it with mint. It calms the nerves.”
She held out a cup. Nika looked at the clear liquid and remembered the night conversation about “pills.”
“Thank you, Tamara Vitalyevna, but I prefer takeaway coffee,” Nika said, grabbing her bag. “Igor, I need you to drive me to work. The car is downstairs, right?”
Igor choked.
“Uh… babe… the battery’s acting up… I took it to a service early this morning.”
“Which service, Igor?” Nika stepped close. “The one called ‘Auto Pawnshop on Ryabinovaya’?”
A dead silence fell over the kitchen. Igor went gray-blue. Tamara Vitalyevna tried to speak, but Nika raised a hand.
“Quiet. The recording of your little midnight strategy meeting is already with my lawyer. I’ve written a report for fraud and theft—but I haven’t sent it yet. You have exactly one hour.”
One hour to pay
Nika put two sheets of paper on the table.
“First: Igor, you call this Vadim and tell him the deal is off. Where you find the money to return the deposit and buy back the car is not my problem. Ask your mother—she surely has savings tucked away. If in three hours my car isn’t parked outside with a full tank, I hit ‘send’ in the police app.”
“Second: Tamara Vitalyevna, your suitcases are already packed. A taxi to the station is paid for. Your ‘business plan’ for diversifying my assets goes into the trash—along with your ambitions.”
“You won’t dare!” Tamara Vitalyevna screeched. “Igor, son, are you really going to let this—”
“Mom, shut up!” Igor suddenly barked. He looked broken. “She heard everything. We’re done.”
Endgame
Two hours later the apartment was empty. Tamara Vitalyevna left, hurling curses and promising to “ruin her for seven generations.” Igor stayed behind—running around, calling people, borrowing money to return the car before the police showed up.
That evening, Nika sat in silence. On the Welcome mat, her sneakers were back where they belonged. She locked the door and changed the code on the keypad.
The doorbell rang. A courier stood there with a huge “Philadelphia” sushi set—the most expensive one, extra fish, double portions. Nika opened the window to let in fresh air that finally pushed out the suffocating trace of “Poison.”
She picked up her chopsticks, opened her laptop, and clicked a file titled “Remodeling Design Plan.” Now this wouldn’t be just an apartment—it would be a place where there would never again be “shared” debts or someone else’s schemes.
“Markup, you say?” Nika smirked, popping a roll into her mouth. “The highest margin is freedom.”
The next morning she filed for divorce. Igor returned the car—though to do it, Tamara Vitalyevna had to sell off her gold stash and rush back to her hometown, to “restore order” where it cost less.