Vera poured herself a coffee and walked over to the window. Dawn was only just breaking, yet her head was already swarming with thoughts about the day ahead. First up was a meeting with a supplier, then a review of the accounting reports, and after lunch—a call with a client from Tver. Her schedule was mapped out to the minute, and that sense of order made her feel calm and ready.
The small print shop Vera had inherited from her father five years earlier needed constant attention. Pavel Dmitrievich always said business was like a little child: take your eyes off it for a moment and it would either cause trouble or fall ill. He was old‑school—demanding and principled. He worked as long as it took, never shifted responsibility onto others, and always kept his word.
“Vera, remember the main thing,” Pavel Dmitrievich used to repeat, “three things will make you successful: keeping your word, mistrusting manipulators, and respecting work—your own and other people’s.”
Even their dacha plot in the Moscow suburbs, in a quiet spot on a small lake, he viewed not as a place of leisure but as another sphere of responsibility. It had its own order, its own rules. Vera recalled how every spring he planned what to plant and explained the importance of caring properly for the garden.
When Pavel Dmitrievich died suddenly of a heart attack, both the business and the dacha passed to Vera. Many doubted a young woman could cope, but in five years the print shop not only stayed afloat—it grew, and the dacha became a well‑kept retreat where Vera recharged.
The phone rang. Artur.
“Good morning! Already up, workaholic?” her fiancé’s voice sounded brisk and cheerful.
“Long ago,” Vera smiled into the phone. “I’m finishing my coffee.”
“What time will you be done today? Maybe we can meet after work?”
Vera glanced at her planner.
“I’ll be free around six, but then I have to stop by the restaurant to finalize the wedding menu.”
“Oh, this wedding,” Artur sighed, a hint of weariness in his voice. “Sometimes I think it would’ve been easier to just sign the papers and fly off to some island.”
“Come on, it’s only two weeks away,” Vera laughed. “I’ve nearly organized everything; you don’t need to worry.”
“Exactly! You’ve taken it all on yourself, my practical girl.”
Artur was the opposite of the serious, thoughtful men Vera had dated before—spontaneous, witty, always ready to dash off on a trip or to a party. They met at the gym—Vera took Pilates, Artur trained with a CrossFit coach. They started chatting in the café, exchanged numbers, and a week later had dinner in a restaurant. Confident and smooth‑talking, he could make any woman feel special.
Vera spoke about her business; Artur listened attentively, asked questions, praised her entrepreneurial flair. He himself worked at some consulting firm, often traveling to meet clients and calling from different cities.
“You know what amazes me about you?” he said on one of their first dates. “You’re… dependable. Not like these modern girls who just want to marry rich. You have your own business, your own income.”
Vera took that as a compliment to her drive and diligence. Her father had always said a real man would appreciate exactly those qualities in a woman.
The proposal came half a year later—in one of the city’s best restaurants, with champagne and a sapphire ring in a velvet box.
“I’ve met the woman of my dreams,” Artur said, looking into her eyes. “Will you be my wife?”
Although her father had taught her not to rush big decisions, Vera agreed almost at once. Artur seemed the perfect life partner—attentive, caring, with a good job and shared interests.
Vera met Artur’s mother, Irina Konstantinovna, soon after the engagement. The future mother‑in‑law was a slim, impeccably groomed woman in her mid‑fifties. Over lunch she studied Vera closely, asking about her work, her plans, her view of family life.
“My dear girl,” Irina Konstantinovna smiled, “the main thing in a family is to hold on to your man. Arturchik has a temper, but if you give in on small things you’ll live in harmony.”
Vera nodded, though the idea felt alien. Her father had raised her to be independent, not reliant on someone else’s opinions. But to keep peace she didn’t argue.
Another time, while they were picking out dishes for the future home, Irina Konstantinovna remarked in passing:
“You know, family means everything is shared—sorrow, joy, and property. In our line it’s always been that way—the women bring all they have into the house and lay it at the husband’s feet. They never regretted it, because they got protection and support.”
Vera hadn’t paid much attention then. So what if Artur’s family had such traditions? She cared about their future together, not past customs.
Wedding preparations fell entirely on Vera’s shoulders. Artur was constantly busy—meetings, reports, calls. Vera chose the riverfront banquet hall, set the menu, found a decorator, met the emcee, booked musicians. She even drew up most of the guest list, though of course she cleared it with Artur.
“Why did you invite Sergei and Anya?” Artur asked while scanning the list. “I haven’t talked to him in ages.”
“But you said you went to school together and he’s an old friend,” Vera replied, puzzled.
“Yeah, but… Fine, leave them,” he waved it off and went back to his phone.
Oddly, when it came to wedding expenses Artur showed utter indifference.
“However much it costs, we’ll spend it,” he said. “You only get married once.”
That surprised Vera—in other matters he was thrifty—but she was glad she didn’t have to penny‑pinch. She wanted everything perfect.
Two days before the wedding Artur suggested meeting at a café.
“We need to discuss something,” he said mysteriously, “a family council.”
Vera assumed it was about last‑minute details or a surprise for the guests. But at the café she found not just Artur but also Irina Konstantinovna.
“Verachka, dear,” the future mother‑in‑law began once Vera sat down, “Artur and I have talked and we’d like to propose an idea… for the good of the family.”
Vera looked at her fiancé in confusion. He seemed tense, bracing for an unpleasant conversation.
“You see,” Irina Konstantinovna went on, “there are so many divorces these days, so many problems. We want your marriage to be strong and peaceful.”
“And?” Vera sensed a trap.
“And we think,” Artur joined in, “that we should play it safe. You know, in case something goes wrong.”
“What are you talking about?” Vera was bewildered.
“Either you transfer the business and the dacha to my mother, or the wedding is off!” Artur blurted, as if it were a routine business deal.
Vera felt her breath catch.
“What…?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Irina Konstantinovna laid a patronizing hand on Vera’s shoulder. “It’s just a formality, for peace of mind. When you have kids I’ll sign everything back.”
Vera stared at them, trying to take it in. Bits of past conversations flashed through her mind: Irina Konstantinovna probing about the print shop—how many clients, what turnover; Artur’s odd interest in the dacha and whether it was fully registered.
“Why?” she finally asked, looking straight at Artur. “Don’t we love each other?”
“Of course we do,” Artur answered quickly. “But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s just… insurance. You never know.”
“My dear girl,” Irina Konstantinovna interjected again, “everyone does this. What difference does it make whose name is on the papers if you’re family? Why burden yourself with business headaches? A woman should enjoy life, not slave over documents.”
Vera looked at the two people she thought she knew and didn’t recognize them. Where was the caring, understanding Artur? Where had this grasping, calculating Irina Konstantinovna come from?
“Listen,” Artur took her hand, “it’s just a formality. Mum’s right—what difference does it make whose name is on the assets? We’ll share everything anyway.”
“Since when do you care about my business?” Vera asked quietly. “You never even asked how things are going.”
“Well, I don’t meddle in your affairs,” Artur began to sound irritated. “I respect your space. But this is different—we’re becoming a family.”
“And that’s why you want me to sign everything over to your mother?”
“Don’t dramatize!” Artur raised his voice. “Just sign the papers, that’s all. It’s for the common good!”
Vera remembered her father’s warning about manipulators: “They always talk about the common good when they want something for themselves.”
“So are you agreeing?” Artur asked impatiently. “We can go to the notary tomorrow morning. I already have the documents ready.”
Vera stood up slowly. Inside she felt a cold but clarifying wave rise. Her father’s image flashed before her—Pavel Dmitrievich never rushed, but he didn’t hesitate when things were clear.
“I have to go,” she said, picking up her bag.
“Wait, wait,” Artur grabbed her arm. “Where are you going? We’re not done.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Vera pulled free. “I need to think.”
“There’s nothing to think about,” Irina Konstantinovna insisted. “The papers are ready, just sign.”
Vera glanced at her, then at Artur. In those few minutes, every attractive trait she had seen in them seemed to vanish, leaving only greed and manipulation.
“See you tomorrow,” Vera said and walked out.
All the way home Artur’s words replayed in her mind: “Transfer the business and the dacha or no wedding.” Not a request, not a discussion—an ultimatum. Months of courtship and talk of the future—for what? A print shop and a dacha.
At home Vera took out her wedding dress—the lace‑topped, cinched‑waist gown she had dreamed of. Then she opened the velvet box with the sapphire ring. Its deep blue sparkled in the evening light.
“What now?” she thought, sitting on the edge of her bed. By morning she would have to choose: sign everything over to strangers or cancel the wedding two days before the ceremony.
By morning she knew the answer. Without calling Artur she went to the registry office and filed to cancel the ceremony. The clerk looked at her sympathetically but asked no questions. Then Vera called every guest, apologized to the restaurant, cancelled the décor and the cake.
Her phone rang nonstop—Artur. She didn’t pick up. Messages poured in: “What’s going on?” “Are you crazy?” “Call me!” “Stop this nonsense!”
She wrote back briefly: “No wedding. Thanks for showing your hand before, not after.”
Artur’s reaction was instant—a torrent of calls and texts: “You ruined my life!” “We’d prepared everything and you cancelled!” “You care more about your business than family!” “Selfish!”
Vera blocked his number. An hour later calls from unfamiliar numbers began—Irina Konstantinovna.
“Verachka, what’s happening?” the would‑be mother‑in‑law’s voice carried poorly hidden irritation. “Artur says you cancelled the wedding. A misunderstanding?”
“No, not a misunderstanding,” Vera said firmly. “I won’t marry someone who gives me ultimatums about transferring my property.”
“My dear, you misunderstood! No one’s forcing you. It’s just… a tradition, for security.”
“Interesting tradition,” Vera replied. “How long have you had it?”
“Well… always,” Irina Konstantinovna faltered. “Listen, you’re thirty already, not a girl. Time for a family, children. Artur’s a good boy, caring, hardworking. You’re passing up such a match!”
“Thank you for your concern,” Vera said evenly. “But my decision is final.”
“You made this up!” Irina Konstantinovna snapped. “Artur wanted to protect the family and you didn’t even give him a chance to explain! Foolish girl!”
Vera hung up. In a couple of days the calls stopped. Apparently mother and son realized she wouldn’t change her mind.
Her friends supported her. When the initial shock passed Vera told them the story.
“Are you serious?” her best friend Katya gasped. “What nerve!”
“You absolutely did the right thing,” Liza agreed. “Imagine what would’ve happened later.”
Vera’s mother, Alla Sergeevna, was firmly on her side.
“Your father would be proud,” she said, hugging Vera. “He always believed you’d make the right choice, even if it was hard.”
At work no one pried, though some asked gently, “How could you decide so coolly?”
“Not that coolly,” Vera admitted. “I just knew it was right.”
Two weeks after the non‑wedding Vera met with Mikhail Andreyevich, a longtime business partner. Over coffee the talk turned to staffing.
“By the way, a young man dropped by,” Mikhail Andreyevich said. “Artur—I forget the surname. Said he had consulting experience and could work with clients.”
Vera froze mid‑sip.
“He didn’t mention me, did he?”
“Well,” Mikhail Andreyevich hesitated, “at first no. Then, as we were wrapping up, he suddenly said he was about to marry a promising entrepreneur. That if she transferred her business to him he could act as intermediary between our companies—very profitable for us, he said.”
“What did you tell him?” Vera asked quietly.
“I said we hire professionals, not people who build careers on connections.” He chuckled. “Apparently it’s not such a rare trick for him.”
Vera didn’t say that was her ex‑fiancé. She just thanked Mikhail Andreyevich. Now everything was crystal clear.
Artur had never loved her. The goal had always been the assets—print shop and dacha. How many other women had fallen for his “caring” act?
Life went on. Vera didn’t sink into depression or hide at home. She threw herself into the business with renewed energy: upgraded equipment, expanded staff, landed new contracts.
At weekends she drove to the dacha. Wrapped in a plaid blanket on the veranda, she drank cocoa and read. Her father’s lessons came back to her with new meaning: “Look at deeds, not words. A person can promise mountains of gold—only actions matter.”
Six months later a message arrived from Artur: “Vera, forgive me. I made a terrible mistake. Let’s talk. I’ll explain everything.”
She stared at it for a long time. What could have changed? Then she remembered his pitch to Mikhail Andreyevich—the rich‑bride scheme must have failed, and he was returning to plan B.
“The deal is off for good,” Vera typed and blocked the number again.
It was a crucial lesson: a real family is built on respect, support, and honesty—not legal formalities or property transfers. If someone demands you hand over what you’ve earned, that’s not love.
At the dacha Vera started a renovation—for herself, not for anyone else: new siding, new furniture, a gazebo. She adopted a shelter mutt named Charlie, planted roses along the fence (her father’s old dream), hung a swing from the apple tree.
In the mornings she loved stepping onto the porch with a cup of coffee, listening to the birds and watching the sun rise over the lake. At such moments she was grateful she’d had the courage to choose what was right, even when it was hard.
Vera lent the wedding dress to a rental shop—maybe it would bring joy to someone else. But she kept the sapphire ring, tucked away in a jewelry box, as a reminder that even the “weaker” party can say a firm “no,” especially when asked for the impossible.
And if anyone ever says to her again, “Either you transfer the business and the dacha or there will be no wedding,” she’ll just smile: “Indeed—there won’t be a wedding. Thanks for the honesty.”