Part 1. The living room’s icy shine
The living room darkened into a thick, evening half-light, as if it could sense a storm gathering. The windows threw back the glitter of the big city, and what used to feel like a warm family nest suddenly resembled a cold aquarium: outside the glass, someone else’s life roared and sparkled; inside, their own was quietly drowning.
Tikhon stood by the fireplace—purely decorative, yet costly, like everything in this apartment. He kept twisting the ring on his finger, the same ring he planned to take off forever in a minute. His face was well-kept, his stubble perfectly trimmed—he got it touched up at a barbershop every week—and his expression carried a mix of disgust and triumphant impatience.
Zhanna sat deep in an armchair, scanning paperwork on insuring turbines for a new hydroelectric plant. Her work demanded steel nerves and the instinct to spot disaster before it happened.
This disaster, she had missed.
“I’ve found someone else. Pack your stuff and get out of my apartment,” her husband declared. His voice was flat and dry, like the rattle of banknotes inside a counting machine.
He expected tears. He expected Zhanna—so used to comfort, in his mind—to beg, clutch at his hands, ask why, ask how could you. He’d even rehearsed a speech: love was gone, and Alina—his new obsession—was younger, fresher, and looked at him with the worship his wife no longer had.
But Zhanna slowly set the tablet aside. She removed her thin-framed glasses and looked at him.
There was no shine of tears in her eyes. Only a heavy, cold flame, like the steady blaze of a gas torch. She narrowed her gaze with a sly little squint, and that tiny movement made Tikhon—confident credit specialist, certain of his own righteousness—feel unexpectedly uncomfortable.
“My apartment?” she repeated. Her voice was low, humming with vibration. “Are you sure about that, Tikhon?”
“Absolutely,” he said, puffing out his chest and straightening his suit lapels. “I’ve paid the mortgage for the last five years. I’m the owner here. Alina moves in tomorrow. By lunch, I don’t want a trace of you left. You can dump Liza on my mother for the weekend while you go find yourself some little hole to live in.”
Zhanna rose.
She wore silk loungewear, yet moved as if she’d put on armor. Something old and predatory woke inside her. She wasn’t going to be prey. Humility was for the weak. Anger—that was the fuel she’d built her career on, insuring industrial giants against losses worth millions.
“You’re making a mistake, darling,” she said, stepping close. “Not because you’re leaving me. I could survive that. But because you’re doing it without a shred of respect. You’ve decided to throw me out like a worn-out piece of furniture?”
“Don’t make this complicated, Zhanna. Just leave.”
“I will,” she nodded, her lips twisting. “But when I come back, you’ll be begging for mercy. And I don’t give handouts.”
She turned sharply and headed for the bedroom—not to pack, but to change clothes.
Tikhon exhaled. For a second, it felt like he’d won.
He had no idea he’d just signed his own sentence—one that would be carried out with special cruelty.
Part 2. The winter garden at the country house
The next day, Zhanna drove to her mother-in-law, Svetlana Petrovna.
It was a monumental brick house in an old dacha settlement, ringed by pine trees. Svetlana Petrovna was a blunt, commanding woman who had never felt much affection for her daughter-in-law. Their relationship had long been a polite ceasefire: two strong women sharing one man—who, it turned out, wasn’t worthy of either.
Svetlana Petrovna was cutting away wilted monstera leaves in her winter garden. When she heard footsteps, she didn’t turn around.
“If you came to complain about Tikhon, you’re wasting your time,” she tossed over her shoulder, the pruning shears clicking. “I raised him an egoist. I know that.”
“I didn’t come to complain,” Zhanna said, stepping to the wrought-iron table and dropping her handbag onto it. Leather striking metal made the older woman flinch. “Your son threw me out. And he’s bringing a whore into the house. Her name is Alina. She’s twenty-four and has never worked a day in her life.”
Svetlana Petrovna froze. Slowly, she turned, setting the tool down.
“He threw you out?” she repeated. “Out of the apartment where my granddaughter is registered?”
“Exactly. He said he’s the owner. And that Liza is a ‘nuisance’ he can dump on you for weekends while he entertains his new doll.”
Zhanna watched her mother-in-law’s face change. The usual contempt for “women’s tears” vanished, replaced by something sharper. The enemy of my enemy is my friend—but it was deeper than that. Fear for her granddaughter. The wounded pride of a matriarch.
Tikhon had broken the main family rule: keep the dirt inside the house and respect the structure. To drag some young girl into the “living place,” into the family space, was pure audacity.
“I didn’t think he could be that stupid,” Svetlana Petrovna hissed. “Did he forget who gave the down payment? Who covered his debts to the bank when his bitcoin mess blew up back in 2018?”
“He thinks he’s ‘self-made,’” Zhanna said with a cold smirk. “Svetlana Petrovna, I’m not going to cry into a pillow. I’m going to destroy him—morally and financially. I need your help not as a mother-in-law, but as a woman who doesn’t want her granddaughter’s inheritance wasted on some silicone doll.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her closely. For the first time in ten years of marriage, she saw an equal in Zhanna. Not a compliant wife.
A fury.
“What are you planning?” the older woman asked, and there was respect in her voice.
“A lesson. A brutal lesson. Tonight they’re having dinner at Panorama. I know because I still have access to his location—he was so arrogant he forgot to turn it off. I’m going there.”
“To start a scene? That’s vulgar, Zhanna.”
“No. I’m staging a public execution. And you, Svetlana Petrovna, need to prepare the documents—the ones Tikhon has been pretending don’t exist.”
The older woman nodded slowly, lips tightening into a thin line.
“Go. And I’ll call our notary. Looks like it’s time to remind my son who actually owns ‘his’ empire.”
Part 3. The “Panorama” restaurant
The restaurant glowed with gold and crystal. The crowd was refined and expensive: men in designer suits, women in dresses that cost more than a small town’s annual budget. Tikhon sat at the best table by the window, pouring champagne.
Across from him sat Alina—a vivid brunette with plump lips and eyes full of hunger. She laughed loudly, tossing her hair back, and kept touching the chain around her neck—Tikhon’s gift, paid for just yesterday from the family account.
“You’re so decisive, Tisha,” she cooed. “I was terrified you wouldn’t be able to tell her.”
“I’m a man, baby. I decide,” Tikhon said smugly, covering her hand with his. “She’s nobody. A grey mouse. You’ll be the mistress.”
That was when Zhanna walked in.
And she didn’t look like any grey mouse.
She wore a scarlet dress that clung to her like a second skin, and stilettos sharp as blades. She moved through the room without looking left or right, and people instinctively shifted aside, feeling the hard wave of aggression coming off her.
Tikhon noticed her only when she reached the table. He went pale; his hand twitched, and a drop of champagne fell onto the spotless white tablecloth.
“Zhanna? What are you doing—” he started, trying to stand and force severity into his face.
“Sit,” she snapped so sharply that nearby tables went silent.
“Who’s that? The old wife?” Alina drawled, scanning Zhanna. “Listen, get out. He made it clear—”
Zhanna turned her head slowly toward the mistress. Her face was calm as ice; her eyes were hell.
“Shut up,” Zhanna said quietly.
She picked up Tikhon’s glass of red wine.
“You’re wearing my earrings,” she observed. “I recognize them. Fifth anniversary gift.”
“Tisha gave them to me!” Alina screeched.
“Take them off,” Zhanna ordered.
“Are you insane? Security!” Tikhon shouted, jumping up.
That was when something inside Zhanna snapped.
She splashed the wine straight into Alina’s face. The dark red liquid soaked the expensive cream dress, running down into the neckline. Alina shrieked, sprang up, forgot every last rule of manners, and lunged at Zhanna with her nails.
Her mistake.
Zhanna had been kickboxing for the past three years—stress relief her husband never even suspected. She caught the girl’s arm. One sharp yank—and Alina flew onto the table, sweeping plates aside. Shattering glass drowned out the music. Zhanna grabbed her by the fake hair extensions. Fabric tore with a brutal rip, exposing lace underwear.
“You filthy—!” Tikhon bellowed, grabbing his wife by the shoulder and trying to drag her away.
Zhanna pivoted on her heels, using his pull as momentum, and drove her fist—knuckles white—into his jaw.
The punch was perfect.
A crack sounded. Tikhon stumbled back, clapped a hand over his mouth, and blood began to seep through his fingers. A tooth hit the floor with a hard, ugly clack.
The whole room fell into dead silence. Alina howled on the floor, clutching the shredded remains of her dress and a torn clump of hair. Tikhon stared at his bloodied palm in horror, then looked at Zhanna like he was seeing a demon.
“Never,” Zhanna hissed, leaning in close, “ever touch me again. This is only the beginning, Tisha. You wanted war? You’ve got it.”
She adjusted her hair, stepped over the sobbing Alina, and left the restaurant with her head held high under the stunned gaze of the crowd. Even security didn’t dare stop her.
Part 4. The “Elite-Auto” dealership parking lot
Two days passed.
Tikhon—cheek swollen, a temporary crown in place—was trying to preserve whatever dignity he had left. Alina threw tantrums, demanding compensation for the humiliation. To placate her and prove he still had money and power, he brought her to a car dealership to pick out a new vehicle. He needed that feeling of control back.
“You promised me a Porsche, baby,” Alina whined, hiding her bruises behind dark sunglasses.
“You’ll get your Porsche,” Tikhon lisped. “I’ll arrange the loan right now—my bank will approve me in seconds.”
They stood in the lot, staring at a glossy SUV. A manager, smiling obediently, filled out a preliminary application on a tablet.
Then a black SUV rolled into the lot.
Svetlana Petrovna stepped out. She wore a severe suit and leaned on a cane with a silver knob—something she’d never used before, purely for effect. Zhanna walked beside her, calm and radiant.
“Mom?” Tikhon froze. “What are you doing here? And why are you with her?”
Svetlana Petrovna came to her son without sparing Alina so much as a glance.
“I’m here to cancel your little deal, son,” she said calmly.
“What deal? I’m an adult. I’m taking a loan in my own name!”
“In your own name?” Zhanna smiled. “Tikhon, you seem to have forgotten clause 4.2 in your employment contract: ‘Employees with a high risk of debt overload are subject to review by the security department.’”
“I don’t have any debts!”
“You do now,” his mother cut in. “Yesterday I filed for collection on what you owe me. Remember the IOU you signed five years ago when I gave you money for ‘your’ apartment? You said, ‘Mom, it’s just a formality—for taxes.’”
Tikhon went white. His knees nearly buckled.
“You… you used that piece of paper?”
“It’s not a piece of paper,” Svetlana Petrovna said coldly. “It’s a notarized loan agreement—with interest. With penalties and overdue charges, you owe me around twelve million. I’ve already notified the credit bureau. No bank—including your own—will lend you money for even a toaster. And your management already knows enforcement proceedings have started against their ‘leading specialist.’”
The dealership manager, hearing this, quietly reclaimed the tablet and stepped back.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tikhon,” he said, carefully polite, “but the system just issued an automatic denial. Right now.”
Alina pushed her sunglasses up. Her eyes widened.
“So… no car?”
“He won’t even have cab fare, sweetheart,” Zhanna said pleasantly. “His cards are frozen. I made sure the paperwork moved fast. My contacts in the insurance world can work miracles.”
Tikhon stood there, mouth opening and closing like a fish. His world was collapsing. His own mother—his own mother—had sided with his “ex”!
“Mom, you’re betraying your own son for that… that bitch?” he rasped.
“I’m saving my granddaughter’s inheritance from an idiot who traded his family for a mattress warmer,” Svetlana Petrovna snapped. “And by the way—pack your things at the dacha. You’ve already been removed from the apartment’s registration.”
Part 5. The apartment (the former home)
Tikhon ran back to the building. He didn’t believe it. It had to be a bluff—some sick joke. He abandoned Alina in the parking lot. The moment she realized he was broke, she spat on his shoe and walked off to hitch a ride.
He burst into the entrance, shot up in the elevator, and shoved his key into the lock with shaking hands.
It wouldn’t turn.
The lock had been changed.
He began pounding on the door with fists and feet.
“Open up! Zhanna! Open up—this is my apartment! I’m calling the police!”
The door opened.
But it wasn’t Zhanna standing there.
A broad-shouldered man in a mover’s work clothes filled the doorway, and behind him the corridor showed… bare walls.
“Who are you?” Tikhon blurted, stunned.
Zhanna stepped out of the empty living room holding a folder of documents. The apartment was stripped. Everything was gone: furniture, appliances, even the curtains. Only raw concrete and parquet remained.
“You… you stole everything,” Tikhon whispered, stepping inside and staring around. His footsteps echoed through the hollow rooms.
“Stole?” Zhanna laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls. “No, my dear. Everything in this apartment was bought either with your mother’s money or with my bonuses. The only things you owned here were your suits and your vinyl collection. They’re in a box by the elevator.”
“And the apartment? The walls—those are mine!”
“You’re wrong,” Svetlana Petrovna said, appearing in the doorway. “Remember the deed of gift? Three years ago, when you were afraid you’d get stuck with a client’s debt—and you knew perfectly well he was a fraud—you transferred the apartment to Liza and appointed Zhanna as her guardian. You thought you’d outsmarted the system by hiding your assets.”
Tikhon remembered. Back then it had seemed brilliant: hide property from potential liability. He thought he controlled his wife and mother, believed they would never turn on him. Greed and fear mixed with arrogance.
“So,” Zhanna continued coolly, “you’re standing in your daughter’s apartment. And as her legal representative, I’m demanding you leave the premises. We’re selling this place. The money goes into Liza’s account and toward buying a new home—where you won’t have a place.”
“Where am I supposed to go?” Tikhon looked up at them. His missing tooth throbbed; his cheek twitched. He looked small and crushed. “Mom?”
“To a dorm, son,” Svetlana Petrovna replied dryly. “Or rent a room. You’ll likely lose your job after that scandal and your debts. You’ll start over from zero. Maybe then you’ll learn to be a man instead of a peacock.”
“You didn’t expect this from me, did you?” Zhanna crouched in front of him. “You thought I’d cry and beg. Instead, I took what belongs to me and to my child.”
She stood and pointed to the door.
“Out.”
Tikhon rose slowly. He looked at his mother—her face was stone. He looked at his wife—she watched him with the winner’s disgust. He trudged toward the exit.
By the elevator stood a single cardboard box. Inside were his records and a couple of wrinkled shirts. On top lay a bag with Alina’s torn dress—someone had thoughtfully tossed it in.
The door slammed. The lock clicked.
Tikhon was left alone in the cold stairwell, realizing that the life he’d treated like a flawless construction had collapsed from one woman’s punch and two signatures on paper. He’d thought he was the hunter.
But he was nothing more than foolish prey.