You know, I’ve always dreamed of having my own place,” I said with a faint smile, looking at the keys he held in his hands. “And I’ve always had my own place,” he replied with that same smile, which now only caused me disgust.
It was already 9:30 PM. I checked my phone again—no messages from Sergey. Dinner had long gone cold, the candles had burned out, and the wine I had opened two hours ago had lost all its aroma, just like our relationship.
Suddenly, the front door slammed so hard that the glass in the china cabinet rattled. Sergey burst into the apartment, carelessly removing his tie. He smelled of expensive perfume—not the one I gave him for our anniversary.
“Why are you late?” I asked, trying to stay calm. “What, do I have to report to you now?” he threw back, tossing his briefcase on the sofa. “I work, you know. Someone has to support this house.”
I bit my lip. Six years of career growth at a major company, three promotions, and still, to him, I remained just a “woman with career ambitions.”
“I made dinner. I wanted to discuss something important…” I started.
“You know what, Anya?” he interrupted. “I’m tired. Tired of these endless complaints, your constant dissatisfaction, these staged candlelit dinners. You live in some kind of romance novel, but it doesn’t work.”
I froze. A lump formed in my throat, but I wasn’t going to show him my tears.
“You’re right,” my voice sounded firmer than I expected. “I do live in a novel. Only it’s not a love story. It’s a detective story. And you’re the main antagonist.”
His laugh sliced through the air like a whip. That sound painfully echoed inside me.
The divorce process went quickly, as if Sergey had prepared for it in advance. The apartment we created together, where I invested not only money but also a piece of my soul, remained his. “Legally, it belongs to me,” he said calmly, as if it were an old t-shirt.
Marina, my best friend, helped me find a temporary rental apartment in a nearby district. Small but cozy. “It’s only temporary,” she repeated, and I nodded, trying to believe her words.
“You know what the worst part is?” I asked, pouring wine into glasses in the new tiny kitchen. “I really loved him. Not the apartment, not the status, not the lifestyle, but him himself.”
“And he only loved himself,” Marina handed me a napkin. “And you know what? It’s time you learned this art too.”
I looked at my reflection in the window. Before me was a tired woman with a dimmed gaze. Was this really me? The same Anna who once dreamed of conquering the world at university?
“You’re right,” I said resolutely, finishing the wine in one gulp. “It’s time to learn to love myself. And something else.”
“What’s that?” Marina inquired.
“Revenge,” I answered, and for the first time in a long time, my smile was genuine.
A month after the divorce, I existed as if on autopilot. Work, home, back to work. I tried not to think about the past and avoided the temptation to check Sergey’s social networks. Marina joked that I had become like a zombie from “The Walking Dead,” only dressed. Perhaps she was right.
“You can’t isolate yourself in this apartment forever,” Marina declared one evening, bursting in with a bottle of wine and a box of pizza. “And no, working until midnight doesn’t count as normal social activity.”
“I’m not isolating,” I countered, closing the laptop. “Just… adapting.”
“Adapting?” She snorted, pulling two glasses from her bag. “Honey, you’re not a coral reef, needing centuries to adapt. By the way, remember the presentation of the new project next week?”
I groaned. Of course, I remembered. The project I had been working on for the last six months was supposed to be either my triumph or my downfall. Honestly, the latter seemed more likely, given the current state of my life.
The morning before the presentation began with me spilling coffee on a white blouse. At another time, this would have thrown me off, but today I just laughed. What could be worse than losing a husband and an apartment?
“Anna Viktorovna,” called Alexey Petrovich, our director, as I was heading to the conference room. “A moment of your time?”
My heart seemed to drop. Was he about to cancel the presentation? Or worse, did he already know about the project’s failure?
“I reviewed your materials last night,” he began, as we entered his office. “I have a suggestion.”
I braced myself for the worst.
“How do you like the idea of heading a new department?”
“Excuse me… what?” I blinked, sure I had misheard.
“The new strategic development department,” he continued, smiling. “Your project is exactly what we need. And judging by how you prepared it, you are the perfect person to implement it.”
“But… what about Mikhail Stepanovich? Wasn’t he supposed to get this position?” I asked, still in shock.
“He was supposed to,” nodded Alexey Petrovich. “However, he accepted an offer from competitors. And you know what? I’m glad. Your approach is much more interesting.”
By the end of the day, I still couldn’t believe the reality of what was happening. The presentation went off with a triumph, the promotion contract was in my bag, and my phone was literally exploding with congratulations from colleagues.
“I told you so!” Marina triumphed over a glass of champagne in our favorite bar. “You were always smarter than all of them, just letting that guy overshadow your light.”
“Don’t call him that,” I replied mechanically, then laughed. “Though you know, you’re right. He really is a fool, took everything we had together and left.”
“And now what?” she winked at the waiter, and a new bottle appeared before us.
“Now?” I pondered. “Now I’ll buy myself an apartment. One that I want, not Sergey. And you know what? I’ll hang pink curtains. Sure, I’ll take out a mortgage, but with the new position, I’ll manage.”
“He hated pink!”
“Exactly why!” I raised my glass. “To pink curtains and a new life!”
The next six months flew by. The new position demanded full dedication, but I enjoyed every moment. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing what I really loved.
My new apartment (with pink curtains) accumulated details that made it truly mine. No compromises, no “what will Sergey say.” Only what I liked.
“You’ve changed,” Marina noticed once over lunch, examining me. “And it’s not just the new haircut and wardrobe.”
She was right. I really had changed. The uncertain woman who constantly looked to her husband was gone. Now I made decisions independently—and was responsible for their consequences too.
“You know what’s funny?” I asked, stirring sugar in my coffee. “I’m grateful to him. Grateful for opening my eyes. Now I live my life.”
“To whom? Sergey?” Marina choked on her salad, nearly spilling the sauce.
“Exactly. If not for his betrayal, I would have continued living in his shadow, content with the role of ‘successful husband’s wife.'”
That day started as usual: a meeting with the CEO, then the way back through the reception. As I passed by, I inadvertently overheard a conversation:
“…Confirmed from the head office. The entire department is moving under her leadership.”
I froze in place.
“Anna Viktorovna will now also be responsible for the Moscow branch?” someone wondered.
“Yes, starting from the first of the month. Can you imagine the scope? Thirty people in the team.”
The corners of my lips twitched into a smile. Thirty people—a serious responsibility. But now I knew I was ready for any challenge.
“Do you know who works there?” continued the voice. “Sergey Vitalievich, her ex-husband.”
My smile slowly turned into a predatory grin. Oh yes, I knew exactly who worked there. And fate clearly decided to give me a special gift.
In the evening, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, examining my reflection. The expensive suit fit perfectly, the new haircut added confidence, and my eyes shone with determination.
“Well, Sergey Vitalievich,” I whispered to my reflection, “ready to meet your new manager?”
Marina’s message vibrated on my phone:
“Heard the news! How does it feel?”
I quickly responded:
“Remember, you said life is the best screenwriter? It seems it just wrote the perfect ending to my story.”
“Ending?” Marina immediately returned. “I think it’s just the beginning!”
The first meeting with Sergey in the new role was to take place at the department’s general meeting. I was as nervous as before a first date. Two hours spent trying on different outfits, three times redoing my makeup. Finally, I settled on my favorite gray suit, which I once bought on sale. It wasn’t the most expensive, but it fit impeccably. And the shoes… I remember how he threw a fit then: “Just a pair of shoes! Why such money?” For me, they were a symbol of personal victory.
Looking at my reflection in the glass office doors, I almost laughed. Where was that bewildered woman, stumbling over boxes as she left his apartment? She was gone. In her place stood another—with a straight back and a cold gaze.
“Good morning, colleagues,” my voice sounded confident as I entered the conference room.
Thirty pairs of eyes turned towards me. The only pair frozen in shock belonged to Sergey. His face paled so quickly that I even worried he might faint.
“For those who are not yet acquainted,” I began, smiling professionally and politely, “I am Anna Viktorovna, your new manager. I’m sure we’ll work excellently together.”
As soon as the meeting ended, Sergey tried to catch me in the hallway.
“Anya, wait! This must be some mistake!”
I turned around, raising an eyebrow:
“Sergey Vitalievich, do you have work-related questions? If not, I’m sorry, but I have an important meeting in fifteen minutes.”
“What the hell, work-related questions?!” he exclaimed, grabbing my elbow. “You were always just…”
“Remove your hand. This instant,” each word sounded clear and cold. “And for the future, I advise being careful with expressions. I wouldn’t want to consider this a breach of discipline.”
He immediately withdrew his hand, as if burned.
“You’ve changed,” he muttered, clearly shaken.
“Really?” I feigned surprise. “I think I’ve always been like this. Just some preferred not to notice.”
Several weeks turned into a complicated game. Sergey alternated between trying to find common ground and flaring up with irritation. I remained impenetrable, focused solely on work. Without personal emotions, without compromises. Every day became a new step forward, every success—another proof that I could do more than he ever expected.
“Sergey Vitalievich,” I addressed him at one of the meetings, “your report on quarterly indicators… how to put it mildly…”
“What’s wrong with it?” he snapped. “I always compile reports just like this.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” I responded, lightly tapping the pen on the table. “You continue to use a methodology from five years ago. The world evolves, and you are stuck in the past. Reevaluate the data considering new metrics. Deadline—by the end of tomorrow.”
“By tomorrow?!” he blushed. “That’s impossible! I already have plans, theater tickets…”
“Those are your personal difficulties,” I retorted coldly. “Work always comes first, or didn’t you teach me that?”
After the meeting, Olga, his new girlfriend who worked in the neighboring department, approached me:
“Anna Viktorovna, may I have a moment?”
I nodded, expecting a scandal or reproaches. However, she surprised me:
“I wanted to thank you.”
“For what?” I asked cautiously.
“For opening my eyes to his true nature,” she bitterly smiled. “Yesterday, I packed my things and moved out from his place.”
Three months into my leadership, Sergey hardly recognized himself. His former confidence was replaced by disarray, work performance went downhill, and attempts to maintain past authority seemed increasingly pitiful.
“Anya, we need to talk,” he intercepted me one evening at the exit from work.
“Anna Viktorovna,” I automatically corrected, taking out my car keys.
“Damn it!” he exclaimed, clearly on the edge of desperation. “I get it, okay? I was a blind idiot. Didn’t appreciate you, your ambitions, your potential. Let’s start over?”
I froze. How many times had I imagined this moment? How many nights had I dreamed of hearing these words?
“You know what’s ironic?” I slowly turned to him. “A year ago, I would have done anything for this. But now…” I shook my head. “Now it’s different.”
“Different?” he frowned. “You’re not even happy?”
“No, I’m grateful,” I calmly responded. “If not for you, I would never have realized how capable I am. Never found the strength to become the person I am now. You did far more for me than you could imagine.”
“And now what?” his voice trembled.
“Now?” I opened the car door. “Now you should write a resignation letter. Voluntarily, of course. And I will provide you with excellent references.”
“Are you taking revenge on me?” his face contorted.
“No,” I countered, starting the engine. “I’m just conducting business. Unfortunately, you no longer meet the company’s standards.”
In the evening, Marina and I settled on the balcony of my new apartment. The sunset painted the sky in the same pink hues as my curtains.
“You know,” Marina began thoughtfully, “when you talked about revenge a year ago, I thought it was just emotions.”
“And I was really angry,” I honestly admitted, taking a sip of wine. “But then I realized one important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The best revenge isn’t causing pain to others,” I responded. “The best revenge is becoming so strong that the person realizes how much they were mistaken.”
Marina raised her glass:
“To strong women!”
“And to those who help them reveal that strength,” I added with a smile.
My phone notified me of a new message: the company approved Sergey’s resignation. I looked at the sunset and thought that sometimes life writes scripts far more interesting than any movies. Sometimes the end of one story becomes the beginning of another—much more exciting.