“Let’s go after him!” Veronika suddenly rose from the sofa and grabbed the car keys.
Galina, who had been sitting beside her with a cup of coffee, did not even understand what she had just heard at first.
“After whom? Kirill?”
“Who else?” Veronika was already putting on her jacket. “He’s ‘at work’ again. For the tenth time this month. Enough.”
“Nika, maybe you should call him first?”
“I did. He declined the call. Then he texted: ‘Meeting, can’t talk.’ At half past eight in the evening, Galya. Their office closes at seven.”
Galina slowly set her cup down on the table. She had known Veronika for many years and had seen her in many states: tired, hurt, angry, stubborn. But this version of her — sharp, collected, almost frighteningly calm — Galina was seeing for the first time. Veronika was not pacing around the room, not clutching her phone, not asking for advice. She had simply made a decision.
“Are you sure you want to see this?”
Veronika zipped her jacket all the way up to her throat and looked at her friend in a way that made Galina stand up without another word.
“I want to stop being a fool in my own apartment.”
Kirill had started coming home late at the beginning of March. At first, everything sounded believable. According to him, there was an audit at work, then an urgent project, then a new boss, then some documents that needed to be “pulled from the archive.” Veronika listened, nodded, warmed up his dinner, and tried not to cling to small details.
She was not the kind of woman who checked pockets and passwords. She had always believed that once a marriage reached the point of surveillance, the marriage had already cracked. But Kirill seemed to be pushing her toward that crack himself.
He had started taking his phone with him even to the bathroom. Before, he could leave it charging in the kitchen, but now he grabbed it so quickly, as if there were not messages on the screen but an opened package of someone else’s secrets. If the screen lit up, Kirill covered it with his palm. When she asked questions, he answered with irritation.
“Are you imagining things again?”
“I just asked who was texting.”
“Work. Are you going to monitor every single letter now?”
He came home late, but he did not look exhausted. Not like a man who had spent hours dealing with other people’s mistakes in documents, but with a light smile he tried to hide at the front door. Sometimes his shirt smelled of sweet perfume. Not sharp, not cheap, but the kind a woman applies before a meeting, expecting the scent to stay close to the skin.
Once Veronika pulled a long blond hair from the collar of his coat. Her own hair was dark and short.
“What is this?” she asked, holding the hair between her fingers.
Kirill did not even look embarrassed.
“Someone must have been standing next to me on public transport. Are you serious?”
“You drive to work.”
He blinked, then frowned.
“I walked from the parking lot. Nika, stop it.”
After that, she went silent. Not because she believed him. She simply decided to see how many more absurdities he would bring into the house and call work.
That evening, Galina came to Veronika’s place for no particular reason. She brought a bag of fruit, sat down in the kitchen, and immediately noticed that her friend was barely listening. Veronika kept glancing at her phone.
Kirill was supposed to be home by eight. At eight fifteen, a message arrived:
“I’ll be late. Work. Don’t wait up.”
Veronika read it, placed the phone face down, then picked it up again and opened the banking app. The last transaction on their shared card had not been at the business center, not at a café near the office, and not at a gas station. The payment had been made at a flower shop on the other side of town.
Veronika stared at the screen for several seconds, then stood up.
“Let’s go after him.”
Galina silently took her bag.
Kirill’s office was twenty minutes away. Veronika drove calmly, but too evenly. Galina sat beside her and secretly watched her hands. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white, red patches appearing along her cheekbones. Veronika’s face had become motionless, only her brows drawn together.
“Nika, if he’s there… with someone… don’t rush in right away.”
“I’m not going to put on a street performance.”
“Good.”
“I want facts.”
They arrived at the business center at nine. The parking lot was almost empty. Kirill’s car was not there.
Veronika did not even look surprised. She stopped near the barrier and dialed her husband’s number. Long rings. Then the call was declined.
A minute later, a message arrived:
“Can’t talk. Management is nearby.”
Galina turned toward the building. The windows on the floor where Kirill worked were dark.
“So management is sitting in the dark, then,” she said quietly.
Veronika opened the navigator and quickly found the address of the flower shop from the bank transaction.
“We’re going there.”
The flower shop was on the ground floor of a new residential complex. A bright sign lit up the wet asphalt, and buckets of roses and chrysanthemums stood by the entrance. Veronika parked across the street.
“What now?” Galina asked.
“We wait.”
They did not have to wait long. Ten minutes later, Kirill’s car appeared from around the corner. He stopped near the entrance of the neighboring building, got out with a bouquet in his hand, and adjusted the collar of his coat while looking at his reflection in the glass door.
Veronika did not move. She only exhaled slowly through her nose and pressed her lips into a thin straight line, as if holding words back with her teeth.
Kirill entered the intercom code and went inside.
Galina cursed under her breath.
“Nika…”
“Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“In there.”
“What if he’s not alone?”
Veronika turned her head.
“That’s exactly why.”
They got out of the car and approached the entrance. The door had closed, but almost immediately a girl with a dog came out from inside. Veronika held the door and slipped in after her without looking back.
The elevator showed the seventh floor. Veronika pressed the button and waited. The entrance hall smelled of fresh paint, wet dog fur, and other people’s dinners. Galina stood beside her and had already turned on the recording on her phone without raising it too obviously.
“Just in case,” she whispered.
Veronika nodded.
There were four apartments on the seventh floor. Music was coming from one of them. Not loud, but domestic. A woman’s laughter. Then Kirill’s voice — soft, pleased, the kind of voice he had not used at home in a long time.
“Stop it, it suits you. I told you I chose it with taste.”
Veronika stopped in front of the door. On the doormat stood Kirill’s men’s shoes. The very ones she had bought him in autumn because the old ones leaked. Beside them were women’s boots with thin soles.
Galina touched her sleeve.
“Maybe you shouldn’t?”
Veronika pressed the doorbell.
Behind the door, the music stopped. Footsteps followed. The lock clicked. A woman of about thirty-five appeared in the doorway, blond, dressed in a comfortable home outfit. Around her neck shone a chain that Veronika recognized immediately. She had chosen it herself as an anniversary gift for Kirill, and later he had said the chain had broken and been lost.
The woman smiled uncertainly.
“Who are you looking for?”
Veronika looked past her.
“My husband.”
The woman’s smile vanished.
Kirill came out of the room holding two plates. When he saw Veronika, he stopped so abruptly that one plate struck the doorframe. Everything changed on his face in a single second: satisfaction, fear, anger, and an attempt to invent an explanation.
“Nika? What are you doing here?”
“Watching how your meeting is going.”
The woman in the doorway turned to Kirill.
“What Nika?”
Veronika took a step forward.
“Veronika. His wife.”
The apartment went silent. Even the music that had been turned off a minute earlier seemed to hang in the air like an unpleasant aftertaste.
The blond woman slowly stepped away from the door. Now Veronika could see the room: the bouquet on the table, a box of chocolates beside it, two cups, an open laptop. On the screen was a website with apartment listings.
“Kirill,” the woman said, her voice now dry and alert. “You told me you were divorced.”
Veronika gave a short laugh.
“Interesting. And he told me he was working late.”
Kirill put the plates on the nearest cabinet and stepped into the corridor, trying to pull the door shut behind him.
“Nika, let’s go outside and talk.”
“No. We’ll talk here now. In front of witnesses.”
“Don’t make a scene.”
“You made the scene when you bought flowers with our shared card and went off to play the single man.”
The woman turned pale.
“With your shared card?”
Galina stood a little to the side, holding her phone so the recording continued without looking too obvious. Veronika noticed it from the corner of her eye and straightened slightly.
“What is your name?” she asked the woman.
“Svetlana.”
“Svetlana, did you know he was married?”
The woman shook her head. There was no triumphant look on her face, not the expression of a mistress who had finally met the wife. Quite the opposite: she looked as if she had been dragged into bright light and forced to see the dirt on her own hands.
“He said he was living with his mother while dividing property with his ex. That his wife had left a long time ago. That the apartment was almost sold. That he would soon put money down for our new place.”
Veronika turned to Kirill.
“Our new place?”
Kirill jerked his chin.
“She misunderstood everything.”
“Of course. Everyone misunderstood except you.”
Svetlana quickly went to the laptop and turned the screen toward Veronika.
“He was choosing options. He said he would have a share after your apartment was sold. That you were dragging things out because you were greedy.”
Veronika felt her ears burn. She lifted a hand and rubbed her temple, trying to keep her thoughts in order. The apartment she and Kirill lived in had been left to her by her grandmother. An inheritance. Six months of waiting, documents, a notary, then registration of ownership. Kirill had nothing to do with that apartment. He had come into it with two suitcases and the eternal habit of calling what belonged to someone else “ours.”
“Kirill, did you promise her money from my apartment?”
“I said we would figure something out.”
“No. Now you’ll say it clearly.”
He clenched his jaw.
“Nika, don’t disgrace me.”
“Too late.”
Svetlana suddenly disappeared into the room and returned with a small velvet box.
“And was this bought with your shared card too?” she asked, opening it.
Inside were earrings. Veronika had seen them before — on a jewelry store website. At the time, Kirill had claimed he was buying a gift for his boss on behalf of the department and had simply been asked to choose it.
Veronika took the box, looked at the earrings, and placed it back.
“Beautiful. A work meeting with presents.”
Svetlana snapped the box shut and threw it at Kirill’s chest. He failed to catch it, and it fell to the floor.
“Get out,” she said.
“Sveta, wait…”
“I said leave.”
“You believe her? She’s doing this on purpose…”
“Do I believe the documents you showed me?” Svetlana pulled a folder from a drawer and took out a printout. “What is this, then?”
Veronika took the sheet. It was a copy of an old extract for the apartment, where she was listed as the owner. Next to it, in pencil, were calculations: “sale,” “down payment,” “remaining amount.” Apparently, Kirill had not even bothered to hide the fact that he intended to dispose of property that was not his.
“You went through my documents?” Veronika raised her eyes to him.
Kirill immediately became louder.
“They were lying around at home! I have a right to know what’s happening with the place where I live!”
“You live there. You don’t own it.”
“We’re husband and wife!”
“So what? An inherited apartment is not divided. You know that very well because I told you more than once.”
He stepped closer to her, but Galina immediately moved beside Veronika.
“Kirill, keep your distance.”
“And who the hell are you?” he snapped.
“A witness. And a person with the recording turned on.”
Kirill froze. His gaze darted to Galina’s phone, then to Svetlana, then back to Veronika. Now he no longer looked confident. His arrogance began sliding off him like a badly glued label.
“Nika, let’s go home. I’ll explain everything.”
“You are not going home tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You will give me the keys to my apartment and the cards connected to my account. Tomorrow you’ll come for your personal belongings. With me and Galina present. Not alone.”
“You can’t throw me out!”
For the first time that evening, Veronika smiled. Not happily, but briefly and tiredly.
“I can. The apartment is mine. You were not registered there, you have no temporary agreement, and you are not an owner. You lived there as my husband. After tonight, that is over.”
Kirill sharply turned to Svetlana.
“You see? This is what she’s like! She was just waiting for an excuse!”
Svetlana folded her arms across her chest.
“Are you serious right now? You lied to me for three months, brought me gifts paid for with her money, promised to sell her apartment, and now you want me to pity you?”
“I wanted to build a normal life!”
“At someone else’s expense,” Veronika said.
The words hung in the air very calmly. Without shouting. That made Kirill even angrier.
“You always do this! You count everything! You remember every purchase!”
“Because I know the value of my things.”
“Choke on your apartment, then!”
“I won’t. I’ll live in it.”
Svetlana opened the front door wider.
“Kirill, leave.”
He grabbed his coat, shoved his feet into his shoes without tying the laces, and walked past Veronika. On the landing, he tried to take her by the elbow, but she immediately stepped back.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Nika, you’re emotional right now. Let’s go home and talk.”
“The keys.”
“I’ll give them back later.”
“Now.”
“They’re in the car.”
“Then we’re going down to the car.”
Galina walked beside her. Unexpectedly, Svetlana came out of the apartment too and locked the door.
“I’m coming with you,” she said. “He took something from me too. Let him return it at once.”
No one spoke in the elevator. Kirill looked at the floor, then into the mirror, then back at the floor. Veronika stood straight, holding her bag with both hands. In her head, a list of steps was already forming: get the keys, block the shared card, call a locksmith in the morning, pack his things, find a lawyer for the divorce because Kirill would definitely try to cling to the property.
At the car, Kirill rummaged through his pockets for a long time, noisily jangling the keys as if he were doing her a favor. Finally, he handed over the key ring.
Veronika counted them.
“The lower lock key isn’t here.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“Kirill.”
He looked away.
“Probably at home.”
“Then we’ll go there now and get it.”
“I said I don’t know!”
Veronika took out her phone and dialed a number.
“Who are you calling?”
“The police. I’ll report that my husband is refusing to return the keys to my apartment after I caught him with another woman and found out he had copied my documents.”
“Are you completely insane?”
“I am completely sane. I was just too convenient before.”
Kirill abruptly reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out the second key.
“Here! Calm down already.”
Veronika took the key without touching his fingers.
Meanwhile, Svetlana demanded that he return the money for the apartment rent, part of which Kirill had apparently promised to pay but constantly “forgot” to transfer. He tried to argue, but with the recording on, he quickly lost the desire to pretend to be a decent person.
When Veronika and Galina got back into the car, Kirill knocked on the window.
“Nika, you do understand I’ll come home anyway.”
Veronika lowered the window a few centimeters.
“You’ll come tomorrow afternoon. For your things. If you show up tonight and start banging on the door, I’ll call the police. And yes, I’m changing the locks in the morning. No statements, no discussions. I’ll simply call a locksmith.”
“That was my home too!”
“No, Kirill. It was my apartment, where I gave you a place. You decided that along with that place, you also received a right to me, my money, and my life. You were wrong.”
She raised the window and drove out of the courtyard.
Galina was silent for almost the entire ride. Only when they were near the house did she ask carefully:
“How are you?”
Veronika did not answer right away. She parked, turned off the engine, and sat for several seconds looking at the entrance.
“Strange. I thought it would be worse.”
“It may hit you later.”
“Maybe. But not now. Right now, I have things to do.”
At home, the first thing Veronika did was walk through the apartment. She did not cry, did not throw things, did not tear through the closets in despair. She simply checked the space that had suddenly become hers again. In the bedroom, Kirill’s shirt lay on a chair. His razor was on the bathroom shelf. In the hallway stood the old umbrella he kept forgetting to throw away.
Every object seemed to say: he is still here.
Veronika took out large bags and began putting his clothes inside. She did not toss them, cut them, or ruin them. She folded everything evenly, almost neatly. She did not want to sink to petty revenge. She wanted to restore order.
Galina helped in silence. Only once did she stop by the wardrobe and point to a box.
“Is this his?”
Veronika opened the box. Inside were documents she had not seen in a long time: a copy of the inheritance certificate, the property extract, an old apartment valuation agreement. Kirill had clearly taken them out more than once. Between the sheets was a note with a realtor’s phone number.
Veronika sat down on the edge of the bed. She did not collapse, did not cover her face with her hands. She simply sat there, placed the documents on her lap, and slowly began turning the pages. Her face became so focused that Galina did not dare say anything.
“He was preparing,” Veronika finally said.
“Looks like it.”
“He wasn’t just cheating. In his head, he was already selling me off piece by piece.”
The next day, Kirill arrived at two in the afternoon. Not alone — he brought his mother, Tamara Sergeyevna. She stormed into the entrance first and immediately began ringing the doorbell as if she intended to press the button through the wall.
Veronika did not open at once. First, she turned on the recording on her phone, then called Galina, who had deliberately come over that morning. Only after that did she open the door on the chain.
“Open it properly,” Tamara Sergeyevna demanded. “What kind of humiliation is this?”
“Your son came for his things. I’ll remove the chain now. He will come in, collect his personal belongings, and leave. You will remain in the hallway.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you don’t live here.”
Kirill stood behind his mother with a displeased expression. There were dark circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes; apparently, the night had not gone as pleasantly as he had planned.
“Nika, don’t start.”
“I already finished.”
She removed the chain and let him inside. Tamara Sergeyevna tried to follow, but Galina stood in the doorway.
“Only Kirill is coming in.”
“And who are you?”
“A friend of the apartment owner.”
“Owner!” Tamara Sergeyevna snorted. “They lived together. Everything is shared!”
Veronika turned to her.
“Tamara Sergeyevna, the apartment was inherited by me. It is not shared. Your son knows that. Now you do too.”
“You hide behind papers. He wasted years on you!”
“Let him put his years in a bag and take them. I don’t object.”
Kirill shrugged irritably and went into the bedroom. He packed angrily: pulling drawers out too sharply, slamming wardrobe doors, throwing clothes into his bag. Veronika stood nearby and made sure he did not take anything extra.
“This is mine,” he said, picking up an external hard drive.
“No. It has my work files and the family archive on it. Your laptop is over there.”
“I bought this drive.”
“You gave it to me for my birthday. Forgot? Or do you take back gifts now too?”
Galina gave a quiet snort in the hallway. Kirill threw the drive back.
When he reached the drawer with the documents, Veronika immediately stepped closer.
“There is nothing of yours here.”
“I’ll look for myself.”
“You won’t.”
He slowly straightened.
“Have you completely lost it?”
“After yesterday — yes. You will no longer touch the documents for my apartment.”
From the hallway, Tamara Sergeyevna loudly interfered:
“Kirill, take everything! Later she’ll claim nothing was there!”
Veronika went out into the entryway.
“One more piece of advice like that, and I’ll call the police. Your son is taking his personal belongings. That’s all. He is not taking documents, electronics bought by me, or keys.”
“You’ll regret this, Veronika!” Tamara Sergeyevna jabbed a finger in the air. “You don’t throw men away!”
“I’m not throwing anyone away. I’m returning defective goods to the manufacturer.”
Galina turned toward the wall so she would not laugh.
Kirill came out with two bags. He no longer looked angry, but lost. As if until the very end, he had expected Veronika to start crying, demand explanations, bargain for the relationship. Instead, she only checked whether he still had any keys.
“The card,” she said.
“What card?”
“The additional card linked to my account. The one you used yesterday to pay for the flowers.”
“I threw it away.”
“Then I’ll block it in front of you. And if there were purchases on it that were not for the family, I’ll pull up the statements.”
Kirill reached into his wallet and threw the card onto the cabinet.
“Choke on it.”
“Cutlery is placed down. Cards can also be placed down calmly. But it’s too late to expect manners from you.”
She took the card, cut it with scissors, and threw the pieces into the trash bag.
Kirill looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.
“You’ve become cruel.”
“No. I’ve become attentive.”
After he left, Veronika called a locksmith. The locks were changed that same day. The locksmith worked quickly and without unnecessary questions. The old lock cylinders went into a bag, and Veronika counted the new keys, giving one to Galina for safekeeping.
“Just in case,” she said.
“Good.”
That evening, Kirill sent a long message. He wrote that he had been confused, that Svetlana meant nothing, that he had wanted to feel needed, that Veronika herself had become cold, that he lacked warmth at home.
Veronika read it and noted to herself: not a single “sorry” for the documents, not one word about the money, not one admission that he had promised another woman her apartment. Only an attempt to make her guilty.
She answered briefly:
“Divorce through court. About belongings and documents — only in writing.”
Then she blocked him in the messenger, leaving only ordinary text messages open so she would not lose evidence.
A week later, Kirill tried to come back. He arrived late in the evening and rang the doorbell. Veronika looked through the peephole: he stood there with a grocery bag and flowers. Apparently, he had decided that a familiar set of gestures could open any door.
“Nika, open up. I want to talk.”
She did not open.
“Leave, Kirill.”
“I understood everything. Honestly. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake is buying the wrong bread. You lied for months, dragged out my documents, and made plans for my apartment.”
“I was a fool.”
“I agree.”
“So give me a chance!”
Veronika stood on the other side of the door and looked at the new metal lock plate. Before, perhaps, she would have opened. At least out of habit. At least because the neighbors could hear. But now that habit seemed more dangerous than loneliness.
“There will be no chance.”
Kirill kept talking outside the door for a while. Then he moved on to reproaches, then pity, then irritation again. Veronika called the police when he started pulling the handle.
The officers who arrived spoke with him in the hallway. He tried to explain that he lived there, but Veronika showed the apartment documents and said he had returned the keys, collected his personal belongings, and no longer had access. Kirill was warned, and he left, throwing the bouquet on the stairs. Veronika did not pick it up. By morning, the flowers had been taken by the cleaner or one of the neighbors.
The divorce was not quick. Kirill did not want to agree peacefully. In court, he tried to say that he had contributed to renovations, bought groceries, “created comfort,” and therefore had a moral right to part of the apartment. The judge listened evenly, while Veronika provided documents: inheritance, ownership registration, dates, confirmations. The apartment remained hers, as it was supposed to.
They had almost no jointly acquired property. The car belonged to Veronika: she had bought it before marriage. She kept the household appliances because most of them had been purchased with her money and were located in her apartment. Kirill took his personal belongings, tools, laptop, and several boxes of books he had not opened in years.
Unexpectedly, Svetlana wrote to Veronika herself a month later. She did not justify herself, did not try to become friends. She simply sent screenshots of messages where Kirill promised to “resolve the apartment issue” and “finally become free soon.” Veronika thanked her. The screenshots were no longer needed for court, but they helped her finally stop doubting.
One day, Galina asked:
“Doesn’t it hurt that he not only cheated but also portrayed you as some greedy ex?”
At that moment, Veronika was sorting through a shelf in the hallway. In her hand was the old key ring, now useless after the locks had been changed. She twirled it around her finger and placed it in a bag.
“It hurts. But do you know what’s worse? I almost believed that I had become suspicious and difficult. He said it so confidently that I had already started checking myself more than I checked him.”
“And now?”
“Now I check the facts.”
Two months later, the divorce decision came into force. Veronika left the courthouse without any sense of celebration. There was no music, no victorious tears, no beautiful scene in the rain. It was an ordinary gray day, a queue at the pedestrian crossing, a woman with a child at the bus stop, a man with a pharmacy bag. Life continued without special effects.
Galina was waiting for her by the car.
“Well?”
“It’s over.”
“A free woman?”
Veronika looked at the folder with documents, then at the sky.
“No. Just the owner of my own life.”
They drove home. To the apartment where no one took a phone into the bathroom anymore, where no one smelled of another woman’s perfume at the door, where no one invented meetings in a dark office and made plans for someone else’s inheritance.
That evening, Veronika slept peacefully for the first time in a long while. Before going to bed, she walked through the rooms, turned off the lights, checked the new lock, and paused by the front door. Beyond it were the stairwell, the city, other people’s conversations, other people’s lies, and other people’s expectations. Inside was her home.
And now she knew for certain: the story about “working late” had not collapsed when she saw Kirill with a bouquet outside another woman’s entrance. It had collapsed earlier — at the moment Veronika stopped persuading herself not to notice the obvious.
And that evening, when she said to Galina, “Let’s go after him,” she was not going after her husband.
She was going after the truth.
And she came back without him.