My gaze fixed on my mother-in-law, whose condition resembled that of someone who had just seen a ghost. In her hand, a small envelope trembled nervously, and her eyes had frozen in an expression of panic. The loud music in the banquet hall of the old mansion drowned out all sounds, rendering our conversation completely confidential.
This sunny May morning was supposed to be the perfect day. The old mansion of my fiancé Sergey’s family was preparing to welcome numerous guests. Waiters were skillfully setting the crystal glasses, the air was filled with the aromas of fresh roses and premium champagne. Expensive portraits in massive frames seemed to watch over the proceedings from the walls.
“Anastasia, have you noticed that Sergey seems a bit strange today?” my mother-in-law whispered, glancing around anxiously.
I frowned. Indeed, Sergey had looked tense all day. Now he was at the far end of the hall, holding his phone to his ear, his face frozen in a mask.
“Just nerves before the wedding,” I tried to dismiss it, adjusting my veil.
“Look at this. Right now,” she said, shoving an envelope into my hand before quickly dissolving into the crowd of guests, regaining her previous high-society smile.
Hiding behind a column, I hurriedly unfolded the note. My heart stopped.
“Sergey and his company are planning to get rid of you after the wedding. You’re just a part of their plan. They know about your family’s inheritance. Run if you want to stay alive.”
My first thought was mockery. Some stupid joke by my mother-in-law. But then I remembered Sergey’s suspicious conversations that he would abruptly cut off when I appeared, his recent coldness…
Across the hall, my gaze found Sergey. He had just ended his conversation and turned toward me. His eyes revealed the truth—a stranger with a calculating glint.
“Nastya!” called my bridesmaid. “Time’s up!”
“Just a minute! I need to check the restroom!”
I dashed out through the service corridor onto the street, having kicked off my shoes. The gardener raised his eyebrows in surprise, but received only a dismissive wave in return:
“A bride needs some air!”
Outside the gate, I flagged down a taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked, eyeing the unusual passenger.
“To the station. And quickly.”
I tossed my phone out the window: “The train’s in half an hour.”
Within an hour, I was on a train to another city, having changed into clothes bought from a station shop. My mind spun around one question: could all of this really be happening to me?
Back at the mansion, panic had surely set in. I wondered what story Sergey would concoct. Would he pretend to be the grieving groom or reveal his true self?
Closing my eyes, I tried to sleep. Ahead lay a new life—uncertain, but definitely safe. It’s better to be alive and incognito than a dead bride.
Changing myself for the sake of safety—this is what fifteen years of perfect coffee practice means.
“Your favorite cappuccino is ready,” I said, placing a cup in front of a regular at a modest café on the outskirts of Kaliningrad. “And the blueberry muffin, as always?”
“You are too kind to me, Vera Andreevna,” the elderly professor smiled, one of those who regularly warmed our little coffee shop.
Now I was Vera. Anastasia had dissolved into the past along with the white dress and shattered hopes. I had paid dearly for the new documents, but the price was fully worth it.
“What’s interesting in the world?” I nodded toward his tablet as he scrolled through the latest news.
“Another businessman caught in a scam. Does the name Sergey Valeryevich Romanov ring a bell?”
My hand trembled, and the cup clinked against the saucer. A familiar face appeared on the screen—painfully familiar, albeit slightly aged, yet still exuding that confident perfection.
“The head of the ‘RomanovGroup’ holding is suspected of major financial fraud.” Below, in small print: “Talks continue about the mysterious disappearance of his bride 15 years ago.”
“Lena, do you realize what you’re saying? I can’t just go back like this!”
I paced around the rented apartment, pressing the phone to my ear. Lena, the only one I had entrusted with the truth, spoke quickly and assertively:
“Nastya, listen! His company is under intense scrutiny, he’s never been this vulnerable. This is your chance to reclaim your life!”
“What life? The one where I was a frivolous girl, nearly becoming a murder victim?”
“No, the life where you are Anastasia Vitalyevna Sokolova, not some Vera from a coffee shop!”
I froze before the mirror. The woman staring back at me had grown older and more cautious. The first strands of silver had appeared in her hair, and a steely glint had taken residence in her eyes.
“Lena, did his mother save my life back then? How is she now?”
“Vera Nikolaevna is in a nursing home. Sergey had long sidelined her from the company. They say she asked too many questions.”
The “Golden Autumn” nursing home was located in a picturesque area outside the city. Posing as a social worker (and the necessary papers were easily accessible thanks to my savings), I was led to Vera Nikolaevna without any trouble.
She was sitting by the window in an armchair—so frail and aged that it took my breath away. But her eyes—the same sharp, gripping eyes—recognized me instantly.
“I knew you would come, Nastyenka,” she simply said. “Sit down, and tell me how you’ve spent these years.”
I recounted my new life—about the café, quiet evenings with books, about learning how to start over. She listened, nodding occasionally, then said:
“He had planned to stage an accident during the honeymoon on a yacht. Everything was arranged in advance.” Her voice trembled:
“And now he has sent me here to spend my days because I started digging into his affairs. Do you know how many such ‘accidents’ have occurred over the years with his partners?”
“Vera Nikolaevna,” I said cautiously, taking her hand, “do you have any evidence?”
She smirked:
“My dear, I have an entire safe full of evidence. Do you really think I’ve been silent all these years for nothing? I was waiting. Waiting for you to come back.”
That same steely spark lit up in her eyes that I saw each morning in the mirror.
“Well then, dear bride,” she squeezed my hand, “shall we give my son a belated wedding surprise?”
“Are you sure you’re from the inspectors?” the secretary examined my documents skeptically.
“Exactly so,” I adjusted my glasses with a strict frame. “An emergency inspection related to recent publications.”
The office assigned to me within the walls of RomanovGroup was located two floors below Sergey’s office. Every morning, I watched his black Maybach arrive at the main entrance. Sergey hardly changed—still with impeccable posture, elegant suit, and that accustomed look of a man who commands everyone. His lawyers had so far successfully hushed up the scandal, but it was only a matter of time.
“Margareta Olegovna, do you have a minute?” I asked the passing chief accountant. “Didn’t it seem that there were certain… discrepancies in the 2023 financial report?”
The chief accountant noticeably paled. Just as Vera Nikolaevna had suspected, this woman knew too much and was looking for a way to clear her conscience.
“Nastya, something’s not right,” Lena’s voice trembled through the phone. “They’ve been following me for two days now.”
“Calm down,” I locked the office door. “The flash drive is in a safe place?”
“Yes, but Sergey’s people…”
“Be on alert. And remember—tomorrow at ten, as agreed.”
I moved to the window. At the entrance, I could see two sturdy men in plain clothes. The company’s security service was starting to worry. It was time to accelerate events.
“Sergey Valeryevich, you have a visitor,” the secretary said, barely concealing the tremor in her voice.
“I made it clear—no one is allowed in!” he snapped.
“She says… that you left her at the altar 15 years ago.”
A heavy silence fell over the office. I strode in decisively, not waiting for permission.
Sergey slowly lifted his head from the documents. His face turned into a mask.
“You…”
“Hello, darling. Surprised?” I greeted.
He abruptly pressed a button on his phone:
“Security, come here!”
“Not necessary,” I placed a folder on the desk. “Your documents are already with the investigators. Margareta Olegovna turned out to be surprisingly talkative. And your mother… she spent years gathering compromising evidence on you.”
His hand reached for the desk drawer.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” I warned. “A shootout would create unnecessary noise. And the prosecutors are already waiting by the main entrance.”
For the first time, I saw fear flash across his face.
“What do you want?” he spat.
“The truth. Tell me about the yacht. About the ‘accident’ you planned.”
He leaned back in his chair and unexpectedly laughed:
“You’ve grown up, Nastya. Yes, I was planning to eliminate you. Your inheritance was meant to be an investment for the business. And then… I had to play the role of the grieving groom for years so that no one would ask too many questions.”
“And how many lives have you taken over these years?”
“This is business, darling. There’s no room for feelings here.”
The noise outside the door grew louder—the investigators were approaching.
“You know what?” I leaned toward him. “Thank your mother. She not only saved my life but taught me patience: sometimes you must wait a long time to strike precisely.”
Three months later, I sat in my favorite coffee shop in Kaliningrad. A courtroom trial was being broadcast on the TV—Sergey had been sentenced to fifteen years in prison. That was exactly how long I had spent wandering.
“Your cappuccino, Professor,” I set the cup in front of a regular customer.
“Thank you, Vera… or rather, Anastasia Vitalyevna,” he said sheepishly, smiling. “Now you’re going back to your old life?”
I looked around my café, at its cozy corners, at the regulars who had become my second family.
“You know, Professor… perhaps the old life was never real? Maybe I’m only now beginning to truly live. I bought this café and I’m staying here.”
Outside, spring rain fell, filling the air with the freshness of freedom.
From the perspective of the main character’s husband, the story might have unfolded like this:
I adjusted my tie in front of the mirror. A week remained until the grand ceremony, and every step had been calculated to perfection—except one: my damn mother, who had been watching me too closely lately.
Three months ago, everything seemed simply perfect. We were sitting in the restaurant “Jean-Jacques” with Igor and Dima, our business partners—or rather, partners in what we called business.
“Guys, we have a problem,” I said, swirling a glass of whiskey in my hand. “We need five million euros to get started. Without them, our Chinese contract is doomed.”
“We could take out a loan…” Dima began.
“Who would approve such a large loan?” I smirked. “After the real estate failure, that’s hardly possible.”
Igor silently gazed at the ceiling, then slowly said, “What about your fiancée? Didn’t you mention that her family is quite well-off?”
I froze. Nastya. The beautiful, trusting Nastya with her inheritance from her grandfather—a network of jewelry boutiques and impressive accounts in Swiss banks.
“Let’s not even go there,” Dima shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Why?” Igor leaned forward. “Accidents happen. Especially during the honeymoon. Yachts are notoriously unreliable…”
Nastya had fallen for me by our third date. I realized it when she looked at me across the table in the restaurant “Pushkin.” Her eyes sparkled, and her fingers nervously played with a napkin. She talked about her work in a gallery, and I feigned interest, inwardly pleased at how easily everything was unfolding.
“Sergey, why do you always turn off your phone when we’re together?” she once asked.
“Because I want to be with you only,” I replied with a smile, grateful for those acting classes I had attended at university.
She blushed and believed me. Just as she believed everything else—my stories of successful deals, compliments, promises. I nodded and smiled, calculating sums in my mind.
Only my mother watched me with suspicion. Especially when she noticed documents for a yacht on my desk.
“Sergey,” she addressed me at dinner while stirring cooled borscht, “you never liked water. What yacht?”
“For the honeymoon, Mom. I wanted to surprise Nastya.”
She stared at me for a long time, then quietly said, “I don’t recognize you anymore, son. What have you gotten yourself into?”
The day before the grand ceremony, we met with the guys in my office. The plan was meticulously worked out:
The wedding.
A honeymoon on a yacht.
A tragic incident in the open sea.
A bereaved widower gaining access to his wife’s finances.
“And if she refuses to go on the yacht?” Dima asked.
“She won’t refuse,” I smiled. “She’s so happy she’ll agree to anything.”
That evening, my mother attempted to speak with me again: “Sergey, stop this. I see that this isn’t you. Remember who you used to be…”
“Who, Mom? A loser with debts? No, I’ll handle my own problems,” I retorted sharply and walked away.
The morning of the wedding began in a flurry and with champagne. I stood before the mirror, studying my reflection—an impeccable suit, a confident smile, a cold gaze. In my pocket lay tickets for the next day’s flight and documents for the yacht.
“Ready?” Igor peeked into the room.
“More than ready,” I adjusted my tie one last time. “Time to be the happy groom.”
Then events took an unexpected turn.
For the first half hour, I flawlessly played the part of the concerned groom.
“Where is Nastya? Has anyone seen the bride?”
The guests scattered throughout the mansion, checking every room. I darted among them, feigning worry and occasionally dialing her number. Nastya’s phone was unreachable.
“Maybe she’s just nervous?” one of her friends speculated. “Pre-wedding jitters happen…”
I nodded absentmindedly but kept an eye on my mother. She sat in an armchair, unmoving, with an odd expression of satisfaction on her face. It wasn’t worry—this was certainty.
“Damn it, Sergey!” Igor paced in my office as the guests dispersed. “What do we do now?”
“We file a report with the authorities,” I murmured, rubbing my temples with a glass of whiskey. “We’ll search for the missing bride.”
“You don’t get it. What about the plan? The yacht is booked, every detail is in place…”
“The plan can be adjusted,” I said, pouring cognac into my glass. “Now I transform into the grieving groom whose beloved mysteriously vanished on the eve of the celebration.”
“And the funds?” dared Dima, who had so far remained silent.
“We’ll find an alternative approach.”
After a pause, Dima asked, “Sergey, what about your mother… Couldn’t she have somehow interfered?”
I abruptly turned to him, “What are you implying?”
“Well, lately she’s been acting rather strangely. Maybe she suspected something?”
A picture began to form in my mind: my mother’s behavior, her questions, her actions at the wedding…
“Damn,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “She ruined everything.”
Late that evening, I caught her in the winter garden. She was tending to her beloved orchids as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
“What did you tell her?”
My mother didn’t even look back: “The truth, son. The very truth you so carefully concealed.”
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” I grabbed her shoulder, raising my voice. “How many resources and efforts have gone to waste!”
Finally, she looked up: “Do you realize what you were about to do? Destroy the girl who believed in you?”
“This is business, Mom. There’s no room for personal feelings.”
“Business?” she bitterly laughed. “When did you become that kind of person? Was that little boy who cried over his sick hamster’s paw really capable of calmly planning murders?”
“Enough!” I snapped, snatching the watering can from her hands. “You’ve ruined everything. But don’t worry, I’ll find a way to fix this.”
“How exactly? Will you destroy me too?” she asked.
I froze. In her eyes, there was no fear—only boundless exhaustion and deep disappointment.
“No, Mom. But you will have to step away from the company’s affairs. It’s for your own good.”
A week passed. The story of the bride who had vanished without a trace gained widespread attention. I gave interviews, offered rewards for information, and feigned the sorrow of a presumed groom. The press swallowed the story whole.
“And now?” Igor asked when we met in the new office.
“We’ll develop the business by other means,” I said, handing him a folder of documents. “There are several companies that can be acquired at an affordable price. Their owners suddenly found themselves in a tight spot…”
“Coincidence?” he smirked.
“Something like that,” I smiled. “The key rule—no more weddings. They’re just too complicated to organize.”
Looking out the window, where the city lights twinkled in the darkening sky, I thought of Nastya. Wherever she was now, it no longer mattered. New prospects lay before me, and this time no one could break them.
Even my own mother.
Yet she had managed, and you know the ending.