Part 1. A Reeking Feast in a Puppet Kingdom
The scent of pork fat frying with onions—thick, greasy, almost tacky—pushed through the workshop door as if it weren’t even shut. It clung to velvet stage costumes, seeped into the porous wooden heads of unfinished marionettes, and settled everywhere like a stain. Jeanne winced and set down the fine brush she’d been using to paint delicate wrinkles onto the face of a wooden stargazer.
Her apartment, once a calm refuge and studio, had turned over the last three months into something closer to a highway-side eatery.
“Jeanne! Get out here already, quit fiddling with your little toys!” Aunt Rimma’s voice—heavy as her body—rolled down the hall. “Stasik’s here! He brought a whole boar!”
Jeanne untied her work apron, emptied her lungs in one slow exhale, and opened the door.
Her spacious kitchen-living room—left to her by her grandmother, a professor—looked like a battlefield. The “court” was already seated at the oval table: Aunt Rimma, her husband Uncle Pasha, their daughter Ladka (restless and obnoxiously bold), and, naturally, Stanislav himself.
Stas had planted himself at the head of the table, even though that seat had always been left empty in memory of Jeanne’s grandfather. A chauffeur for a powerful official at headquarters, he never stopped acting like a man who owned the world. His shirt was stretched so tight across his belly that the buttons looked ready to fire like bullets.
“Oh, look who finally decided to grace us,” Stanislav laughed, stabbing a glistening piece of pork with his fork. “Sit down. Learn how normal people eat. Otherwise those sprouted grains of yours will have you crowing like a rooster any day now.”
“I don’t eat pork, Stas. You know that,” Jeanne said calmly, lowering herself onto the edge of a chair.
“That’s why you’re skinny as your dolls,” Rimma cut in, wiping her shiny lips with the back of her hand. “A man needs a woman with something to hold onto—someone who warms, not rattles. Stasik’s embarrassed to take you out. Nothing but bones.”
Ladka snickered, sweeping her hungry eyes over the apartment walls. Her gaze—sharp, measuring—slid from the antique sideboard to the paintings and up to the tall ceilings of central Moscow.
“It’s not about her figure,” Stanislav said, setting down his fork and leaning back. The chair complained under his weight. “It’s about respect. How many times do I have to tell you, Zhanka? My house—my rules. And what did you feed me yesterday? Steamed broccoli again? I’m a man. I work like an ox. I drive people who decide other people’s fates. I need real fuel.”
“This is my house, Stas,” Jeanne reminded him.
Someone at the table choked on a laugh. Stanislav slowly turned his head toward her, and in his eyes—usually foggy with fullness—something nasty lit up.
“For now,” he said, with meaning. “But we’ll fix that soon. A family should be one organism. And you’re like a cancer cell—rejecting our traditions.”
In the corner, leaning against the refrigerator, stood Igor—Stas’s cousin. He was the only one not eating, rolling his car keys in his hand and staring at the floor. He looked deeply uncomfortable, but he didn’t dare challenge the “family voice.”
“Eat,” Stanislav ordered, pushing a plate toward Jeanne. It was piled with gray, overcooked meat. “Or what—now you don’t respect us?”
Jeanne slid the plate away.
“No.”
Stanislav’s face flushed.
“You haven’t grown into the right to say ‘no’ yet.”
Part 2. A “Joke” with a Knife Edge on the Dacha Veranda
A week later, the stage moved to Uncle Pasha’s dacha. Stanislav insisted they ring in the New Year “as a family,” out in the fresh air. Jeanne agreed only because she hoped to speak to Stas alone—without the chorus of relatives.
Naïve hope.
They were on a glassed-in veranda where the wind whistled through every crack. A massive table sagged under bowls of mayonnaise-loaded salads. Two extra “characters” had joined the cast: a distant relative named Tolya who looked like a ferret, and a neighbor who seemed invited purely to fill space.
The “fun” level climbed with each emptied bottle. Stanislav was on fire—telling stories about his boss, inflating them until it sounded like Stas himself ran the ministry while the boss merely sat nearby as decoration.
“And my Zhanka…” he suddenly announced, locking an arm around Jeanne’s shoulders—an arm heavy as iron. “She’s our little artist. Glues noses onto dolls. Doesn’t do real work, doesn’t bring money into the house, and still turns her nose up at proper food.”
“Oh, drop her already, Stasik!” Ladka squealed. “We’ll find you a real woman—one who knows how to run a home!”
Then Stanislav stood and tapped his fork against a glass pitcher, demanding the room’s attention.
“And maybe I already have.” He grinned. “Jeanne, I’ve got a surprise for you under the tree.”
Everyone fell silent. Jeanne looked up, expecting an apology—or a gift.
“We talked it over with Mom, with Uncle Pasha…” Stanislav began solemnly, like he was reading a verdict. “Jeanne, you’re not made for family life. You can’t cook, your attitude’s rotten. So we’re taking back the registry office application. No wedding.”
Jeanne froze. A roar filled her ears. But Stas wasn’t done.
“…Unless you prove you’re ready to obey me. See, I think a downtown apartment is too much for you. You can’t afford to keep it, utilities keep climbing. You sign it over to me—and then, fine, I’ll marry you and I’ll feed you. If not—take your puppet factory and get out.”
A heavy pause.
And then the veranda erupted with laughter.
Rimma cackled, shaking all over. Uncle Pasha howled. Ladka giggled and clapped like she’d been handed a front-row ticket. Stanislav laughed the loudest, delighted with his “joke.”
“Did you see her face?!” he yelled to Tolya. “Did you? Like she swallowed a lemon! Well, Zhanka—aren’t you having fun?”
“Is that… a joke?” Jeanne’s voice came out nearly inaudible.
“Depends how you look at it,” Stas said, wiping tears of laughter—then snapping abruptly serious. “The documents are already ready at the notary. You’ll sign tomorrow. I’m saving you from poverty, you idiot. Without a man you’ll be nothing. But with me, I’ll be the owner. I’ll decide. Your job is to open your mouth only when you’re eating what I tell you.”
Jeanne stood up and walked out into the freezing night. Behind her, drunken laughter kept crashing like thunder. They were sure she wouldn’t go anywhere. To them, she was a puppet—voiceless and obedient.
Part 3. A Fortress Under Siege
When Jeanne returned to the city, she discovered the lock to her apartment had been changed. Her old key didn’t work. She stood on the landing, staring at her own door, and felt fear melt into something else—dark, hot, and razor-sharp.
Stanislav opened the door. He wore a grimy undershirt, a sandwich clenched between his teeth.
“Oh, you’re back from your little wander?” he said. “Come in. But just so you know—there’s a face check now.”
Inside, Rimma was already running the place. She was rearranging books, sweeping Jeanne’s collector editions into boxes.
“Dust traps are going,” she declared. “We’ll put a big TV here. Stasik likes football.”
“What are you doing?!” Jeanne lunged and tried to yank a box from her aunt’s hands.
“Don’t scream!” Stanislav barked, appearing from the kitchen. “You’re here on borrowed rights. I already told everyone we’re basically husband and wife, so the property’s shared. And considering how much money I’ve spent on you…”
“You haven’t spent a single cent on me,” Jeanne hissed. “I pay every bill. You live here for free and eat at my expense.”
“Don’t measure my care with money!” Stanislav stepped in close, looming like a boulder. “I’m protecting you. From yourself. You’re childish. Tomorrow we go to the notary. Ladka already found buyers for your sewing machines. We’ll clear the room and make it a gym.”
Jeanne looked around. There were too many of them—Rimma, Ladka, Stas, and Uncle Pasha dozing in Jeanne’s favorite armchair. It wasn’t a visit. It was an occupation. They moved through her life like muddy boots across a clean floor.
“I’m calling the police,” Jeanne said.
“Call them,” Stanislav smirked. “I’ll tell them you’re hysterical, you attacked me. I’ve got connections at headquarters—forget? Every patrolman knows me. They’ll ship you off to a psych ward, make me your guardian, and I’ll get the apartment anyway.”
There was nothing left to argue. Jeanne had been cornered in her own entryway.
Part 4. The Betrayer Gets Betrayed
Jeanne locked herself in the bathroom—the only island of safety left. She sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the tile without seeing it. The faucet dripped steadily, counting out the seconds of her collapse.
A soft scratch came at the door.
“Jeanne? It’s Igor.”
“Go away,” she said.
“Open up. It’s important. Stas is in the kitchen, they’re popping champagne—celebrating their win. They sent me for towels.”
Jeanne hesitated for a heartbeat, then unlatched the lock. Igor slipped in and immediately locked the door behind him. He looked scared—and furious.
“Listen,” he whispered fast, glancing at the door. “They’ve completely crossed the line. I thought it was just talk, but they’re serious. They really plan to throw you out.”
“I know, Igor. Thanks for the update,” Jeanne said, flatly.
“No. You don’t know everything.” Igor pulled out his phone. “Look.”
He opened a chat thread.
“Stas got himself in trouble. Not cards—worse. He wrecked a company Maybach. The boss doesn’t know yet. Stas forged the trip logs and said the car’s at a specialist service for maintenance. He needs three million by the day after tomorrow to cover repairs through his garage friends before the boss comes back from vacation. If he can’t—he won’t just get fired. He’ll go to prison.”
Jeanne stared at the screen: a smashed headlight, a mangled bumper, an invoice with a brutal number, dates.
“He wants to sell your apartment,” Igor went on. “Urgent buyout. A realtor is already on the way—he’ll be here within the hour. Ladka gets a cut if she convinces you to sign a general power of attorney. They’re not marrying you, Jeanne. They’re robbing you. And after that he planned to declare you incompetent—because of an ‘eating disorder.’ Like you starved yourself into madness.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Jeanne raised her eyes.
Igor’s mouth twisted.
“Because that animal borrowed two hundred thousand from me six months ago and claimed he paid it back. Then he told my wife I blew it on a mistress. Almost destroyed my marriage. I want to watch him rot.” He forwarded her files. “There’s an audio recording—him talking through the apartment scam with the realtor. And photos of the Maybach.”
Jeanne clenched her phone. Fear drained away, replaced by a clean, ringing fury. Every nerve in her body felt like a live wire.
“Thank you, Igor,” she said. “Now go. I need to wash my face.”
Part 5. The Bumblebee’s Flight Down the Stairs
Five minutes later, Jeanne came out of the bathroom. Music blared in the living room. Stanislav stood in the center with a drink in hand, offering yet another toast to “real masters of life.”
“Turn the music off,” Jeanne said.
Her voice wasn’t loud—but it cut through the noise like a blade.
Stanislav turned, wearing a lazy grin.
“Oh, our princess is awake. What do you want? You sign the papers, and we’ll turn it off.”
Jeanne walked to the table. The relatives fell silent, sensing something shift in the air. She was unnaturally calm, but her movements had the controlled precision of a predator right before it strikes.
“Out,” she said.
“What?” Rimma choked on a spoonful of salad.
“I said: OUT. ALL OF YOU.”
“Are you sick or something?” Stanislav stepped toward her, reaching for her elbow as if to shake her into place.
Jeanne didn’t move back. She raised her phone.
“I have photos of the Maybach, Stas. And an audio recording—your conversation about the apartment scheme. I’m sending it to your general’s office right now. Turns out I did a corporate order for them once. The contact’s still in my phone.”
Stanislav’s face went the color of old plaster.
“You… you wouldn’t dare.”
“I already did,” Jeanne said evenly. “Hit ‘send’ while I was walking down the hallway.”
“You filthy—!” Stanislav roared and lunged at her, his fist swinging.
The relatives gasped, but nobody moved. Fear for their own skins froze them in place.
Jeanne didn’t flinch. Something inside her detonated like a supernova. Months of humiliation—mocking her food, her work, her life—burst out in one blazing surge.
She slipped aside from the clumsy, drunken punch. Her hand—trained to control the intricate mechanisms of marionettes—shot forward. Her fingers locked into Stanislav’s thick hair with a grip like steel.
“OW! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
Jeanne yanked his head down into her momentum and, turning hard, cracked him across the face with a sharp, whipping slap. The sound landed like a gunshot. Blood sprayed from Stanislav’s nose, splattering his expensive shirt.
“That,” Jeanne said calmly, “is for calling me a cancer cell.”
Blinded by pain and shock, Stanislav folded. Jeanne, driven by an adrenaline storm, seized him by the collar. The fabric tore with a ripping sound. Where that strength came from was anyone’s guess—but she dragged a hundred-kilo man toward the door like a sack of rags.
“Let go! Psycho!” Stas squealed, trying to brace his feet against the parquet, but his trendy shoes slid helplessly.
“GET OUT!” Jeanne screamed. “OR YOU’RE NEXT!”
Aunt Rimma and Ladka shrieked, grabbed their coats, and bolted for the door, tripping over each other. Uncle Pasha—forgetting his hat—scurried after them.
Jeanne hauled Stanislav onto the landing and kicked the door open with her foot.
“Get out of my life.”
“Jeanne, wait—we can talk, I’ll explain everything…” Stas whimpered, smearing blood across his face. His swagger had vanished. All that remained was a pathetic thief caught red-handed.
Jeanne turned him so his back faced the stairs, drew her leg back, and with all the rage she had left, drove her boot into his backside.
Stanislav flew halfway down the staircase, tumbled end over end, and collapsed on the landing below. He groaned, trying to gather himself into a human shape again.
From above, Jeanne stared down at him. Her chest heaved, her hair had come loose, but her eyes burned with triumph.
“And don’t you ever come back,” she threw down.
Igor—who left last—stepped neatly over the sprawled Stanislav and, without looking back, tossed one last line over his shoulder:
“Well, brother… how’s that joke working out for you? Fun yet?”
The heavy door slammed shut, cutting the puppet kingdom off from the world of grease, lies, and mayonnaise salads.
Jeanne sank to the floor, looked at her palm—still on fire—and, for the first time that night, laughed. Not the brittle laugh of a victim, but the loud, free laughter of someone who had finally won.