The café smelled of cinnamon, caramelized milk, and something sweetly unsettling, as if the air carried the fresh tension of an autumn storm. Darya sat by the window, holding her cup close, as if hoping the coffee would not only invigorate her but also help her “come down to earth” a little, distract her from her thoughts. Outside, pedestrians hurried past, while she had only a short break between shifts — twenty-five minutes.
She stared into space, not focusing on anything, when a shadow stopped nearby. A man of medium height, slightly stooped, with kind eyes and traces of fatigue around them. He wore a café apron, and a recent burn mark showed on his wrist.
“Is this your first time here?” he asked in a soft, slightly hoarse voice.
Darya looked up. He was smiling, but not like a waiter — more like someone genuinely interested.
“No, it’s my second time,” she replied.
“I’m Artyom. The owner of this cozy little place and the cook, in case my assistant suddenly decides to sneak off on a romantic date.”
Darya smiled:
“Darya. An office administrator, whose name has long since been forgotten there.”
Their conversation started easily, without tension — more like a continuation of an old acquaintance briefly interrupted. He joked about customers, his assistant’s wife who “gives him a reason to skip work every week,” and how hard it was to find chocolate without palm oil that one could still eat without guilt.
Darya hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. Nor had she caught herself wanting to stay longer than her short lunch break allowed.
At some point, he looked at her hands — thin fingers, bitten nails — and spoke quietly:
Then everything started spinning, as if someone had removed the blocker on their shared time…
Artyom began texting every day. Not formal “hi’s,” but lively, heartfelt messages: “Today we baked cherry cheesecakes. Remember, you hate cherries in desserts. But I added them anyway.” He knew how to get her attention: sometimes sending a funny cat meme, sometimes a voice message reading aloud The Master and Margarita with an intonation that made it feel like it was August, not November, outside.
A week later he suggested meeting — not at the cinema or a bar, but just to walk in the park. Darya put on an ordinary coat but felt out of place — he was too alive, warm, and real for her gray office reality.
They walked until evening, talking about everything: his attempts to become a cook, which ended due to his rejection of snobbery in the restaurant world, and her long-standing dream to become a translator, which she never realized, ending up as an assistant to a boring boss.
On their third meeting, he took her hand. Without words, without ceremony — just took it, as if it were inevitable.
A month later he met her every morning by her entrance with coffee and buns. Two months later he stayed overnight at her place. And three months later he said words she, as it turned out, had been waiting to hear deep inside:
“With you, I feel so calm, as if I’ve found my place. Want to visit your parents? Get to know them?”
She was surprised. Usually, men would drag this out, sometimes until the very breakup. But he was immediate, confident, as if he knew exactly that her parents were open, kind people — easy and warm to be with.
Darya smiled.
“Let’s go. Just don’t outdrink my dad — he likes to test people.”
Artyom winked.
And so, a week later, they sat on the veranda at her father’s house under a blanket. Igor Petrovich immediately found common ground with the newcomer, Elena Vasilievna bustled in the kitchen humming to herself. Artyom told café stories, cracked sunflower seeds, and seemed part of the family.
Darya looked at him and thought, “Could this really be true?”
She didn’t yet know the real test was only beginning.
The evening ended with a samovar and Murka played on the accordion by her father.
For the first time in a long while, Darya felt not just love, but complete acceptance — one where you don’t need to be convenient, meet expectations, or pretend. Simply: her father approved, her mother blessed, and she herself was madly in love.
But already on the train, looking out the window, Artyom suddenly became serious:
“In a couple of days, I want you to meet my mother,” he said quietly. “But… prepare yourself. She’s… special.”
Darya smiled:
“Is your mother like a Shakespeare heroine? Lady Capulet?”
He smirked, but a shadow of sadness remained in his eyes.
“Almost. Just without the poison. Although… who knows.”
“I’ll manage,” Darya answered confidently, unaware of what she was about to face.
The door opened slowly, almost theatrically. Standing in the doorway was a woman — Olga Alekseevna. Slim, elegant, in a light classic suit, with a perfect hairstyle.
“Hello, Darya. Come in. I hope modern art doesn’t scare you?”
Darya hesitated slightly but entered. The apartment interior resembled pages from a design magazine: snow-white walls, strict shapes, African masks, abstract glass and stone installations, neat rows of books on psychology and architecture. Not a hint of home comfort — no soft pillows, no blankets, no smell of food. Only the cold scent of perfume.
Olga Alekseevna pointed to a chair:
“Please sit. Artyom told me you work… somewhere in an office?”
“Yes, I’m an administrator at an engineering company,” Darya answered calmly.
“Engineers… interesting. A friend of mine started at Gazprom in a similar position. Then she married a director and… you know how that goes.”
Darya remained silent. Artyom grimaced slightly, but his mother continued as if interrogating.
“Your parents, as I understand, are from the provinces? Gzhatsk or something like that?”
“A small village in the Smolensk region,” Darya answered briefly.
“How interesting. Probably good bread and fresh air there,” Olga Alekseevna took a sip of white wine. “Do you read?”
“I try. I recently finished Hoffmann — The Sandman.”
“Hoffmann? An unusual choice for a young woman. Though maybe symbolic,” there was no genuine interest or desire to communicate in her voice. Only cold judgment.
Suddenly, Darya felt out of place. Not because of a different social category or background — simply because this house had no room for her warmth, for her world. Here reigned an exhibition, control, and the impassive gaze of the mistress.
Artyom squeezed her hand but stayed silent. Trying to lighten the mood, Darya approached a wall with a collection of paintings and began examining one.
“You have a stunning mask. African?”
“Dogon. A colleague gave it to me — a true artifact.”
“I once wrote a thesis on African myths. This mask reminds me of the legend of the spirit of deception…”
“Ohhh…” Olga Alekseevna suddenly exclaimed, clutching her chest. “Heart! Oh God, I can’t breathe…”
Darya stepped back. Artyom jumped up. His mother slowly sank into the chair like an actress on stage — mouth open, eyes half-closed.
“Water! Quickly!” he rushed to her.
Darya dashed to the kitchen, her hands trembling, her ears ringing with her own pulse.
Minutes later Olga lay on the sofa, quietly moaning, with a pillow placed under her back. Artyom fussed nearby, and she whispered:
“Just don’t call an ambulance… It will pass… Just nerves…”
Darya stood in the hallway, feeling like an outsider. A spectator of someone else’s drama.
And then for the first time a sharp thought flashed in her mind like a splinter:
“Did it even happen? Or was it all an act?”
Outside, the sky hung heavy and gray. Artyom was silent at the wheel, his fingers gripping it so tightly it seemed the metal might snap. Darya sat with crossed arms, wondering what it all meant. Why had she started this?
“Sorry,” he finally said without turning to her. “She’s always like that. It’s not your fault. That’s how she protects herself. You understand?”
Darya was silent.
“How about… we go to the registry office?” he said almost jokingly, but his voice betrayed him with a tremor. “Right now. Spontaneously. To make it easier. So I know for sure: you’re mine.”
She turned. Wanted to laugh. Wanted to say, “Are you crazy? After all this?”
But in his eyes shimmered loneliness, pain, some mad hope. As if with this step he wasn’t running from his mother but clinging to the only real thing left.
“But you can’t just… you have to file paperwork in advance…”
“I already did,” he confessed. “Got a certificate that my mother recently had surgery. Said we’re in a hurry. They checked today — they can register us tomorrow.”
She blinked.
“So you… were ready?”
He blushed slightly.
“Not exactly… I just hoped. That you were the one.”
And indeed: at the duty registry office, they listened, accepted the documents, quickly verified the certificate. The woman with glasses after a pause said:
“Come tomorrow at nine. We’ll register you. Green light for newlyweds.”
The next day Darya became a wife. No dress, no guests, no music. Only her signature, trembling hand, and Artyom’s whisper in her ear:
“Now you’re mine. And I’m yours. Forever.”
He finally sighed freely. Held her hand all evening, as if only that could assure him she wouldn’t disappear.
Darya tried to believe this was really happening. That happiness was possible even in such a strange — somewhat distorted — but her own way.
Two days later, he took her things. They moved into his house — an old two-story mansion with a cozy kitchen and a large wooden table.
At the doorstep Olga Alekseevna greeted them. In a light gray blouse, with a barely noticeable smile, eyes showing no joy or approval.
“Welcome, Darya. I hope you’ll be… comfortable here,” she said, emphasizing the last word.
The next morning was breakfast. Oatmeal, banana, toast. And a strange tea — “Himalayan cleansing,” as the mother-in-law announced, placing a cup in front of her daughter-in-law.
Darya took a sip. The taste was tart, with a metallic aftertaste. She smiled politely, not knowing life had already stepped into a new dimension — the unknown.
At first, she blamed it all on fatigue. Wedding, moving, a mother-in-law with a cold statue’s face — the body struggles to adapt.
But by lunch she began to feel nauseous. By evening, her head felt crushed as if someone had tightly fastened a belt around her temples. And at night she woke up sweating, hands shaking, bitterness rising in her throat.
“Maybe I caught something,” she muttered when Artyom brought her tea.
He sat next to her, ran a finger down her cheek:
“Don’t go to work. Rest. Let me take care of you.”
Darya nodded. He was there. Loving, attentive, caring. He even made her a playlist called “Healing Jazz.” Everything seemed almost perfect if not for one “but” — her body was gradually giving out.
Sometimes, when Olga Alekseevna set another cup of herbal infusion in front of her, her gaze lingered on Darya’s face — appraising, with some hidden agenda. As if waiting for a reaction: how she’d drink it, grimace, pale.
Darya began cautiously refusing the tea. Hiding it. Sometimes pouring it down the sink, covering it with the sound of running water. After a couple of days, the mother-in-law said:
“Herbs don’t help? What a pity. Very rare blends — brought from Ladakh. There healers treat not only the body but also the soul. Although… if the soul is already gone — no herbs will save.”
She smiled. Coldly. Dryly. Like a knife.
Darya clenched her teeth. Somewhere deep inside, an instinct awakened — the one that warns of danger. But for now, she stayed — for Artyom. His warm embraces, his laughter, his breath in the silence — they were real. The only living things.
But one day, when he left for work and Darya decided to record a short video for him — a cheerful recipe for porridge with candies and chips — she placed the phone on the table, turned on recording… and forgot to pick it up.
The camera kept rolling. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Then Olga Alekseevna entered the room.
On the screen — her clear profile. In her hands — a small jar and a thin spoon. The kettle boiled. She opened the lid, added something to the cup. Not herbs. Powder.
She sniffed it, nodded, put the cup on the tray, turned to the camera — directly into the lens, unaware of it — and left.
Darya found the video half an hour later, preparing to edit the clip. She watched it again. And again. On the fifth viewing, zooming in, she spotted the label.
On the jar it said clearly in small print: “Zookill Rat Poison. Keep away from food areas.”
Darya grabbed her jacket, phone, and passport. Ran out barefoot in slippers.
Still on the minibus, she sent the video to Artyom.
Then — turned off her phone.
She returned only in the morning.
She stood by the house for a long ten minutes before daring to enter.
The phone was silent. Inside — emptiness, fear, and icy determination.
Darya climbed the stairs slowly, as if each step was not just a movement upward but a passage into a new life. She opened the door with her key.
Silence reigned in the hallway.
Olga Alekseevna was already waiting — in the kitchen, wearing a white blouse, holding a cup of coffee. No surprise, no sign of agitation.
“You’re back,” she said calmly, setting down the cup. “Good. A heroine.”
Darya stepped closer. Inside everything boiled, but her voice remained cold and even:
“You were poisoning me.”
“Prove it,” the mother-in-law shrugged. “You’re just having a hysterical episode from fatigue. Just get used to it — it will get easier. Everyone goes through it. Not everyone survives.”
“There’s video evidence. I sent it to Artyom.”
For a moment her face twitched. But immediately became a mask again.
“And you think he’ll believe you? I’m his mother. I raised him. And who are you to him?”
Darya said nothing. Approached closer — for the first time without fear. Very close.
And hit her.
Not hard. Not out of anger. Just short and clear — like a wake-up signal. Like an alarm clock’s punch.
Olga staggered. Not from the strength of the blow — but from the fact itself: she, so untouchable, had been touched.
“Damn you to death, bitch,” she hissed through her teeth.
Darya turned and left. Without ceremony, without tears, without screams — just left, as if finishing a routine task. The door remained open.
Outside, dawn was breaking. She took out her phone and turned it on. Six missed calls from Artyom.
She dialed. He answered almost immediately.
“I saw it,” he said. His voice was empty, shaken. “Sorry… for not realizing sooner. Sorry.”
“Don’t defend her anymore,” she asked quietly.
“I won’t,” he replied. “I want to talk to her. Then… I want to start over. With you. If you can forgive.”
Artyom watched the video again and again. Mindlessly. At first in darkness, then in light, then again in darkness — as if the light could change what he had just seen.
He stopped the frame — the moment when his mother carefully pours powder into the cup. Slowed it down. Each frame seemed to burn inside.
Her face — calm. Hands — steady. No accident. Everything was deliberate. Cold. Cruel.
He clenched his fists painfully, jaw tightening until it hurt.
This could not be called betrayal. It was something more — something unimaginable.
When he entered the kitchen, she sat there — with the same book, the same posture, as if nothing had happened.
“Did you know Darya recorded everything on camera?” he asked quietly.
Olga Alekseevna carefully put down the book. Slowly, as always.
“Are you really going to interrogate me?”
“You put poison in her tea. Before my eyes. In my house. My wife’s.”
“That’s not poison,” she replied coldly. “A microdose of zookeeper toxin. Harmless in small amounts. She didn’t get seriously ill. I wanted her to leave on her own. For you to wake up.”
“That was attempted murder.”
“That was protection,” Olga snapped. “You were blind. In love like a youth. And she — a simple girl. Uneducated. A liar. Not a match for you.”
Artyom closed his eyes. His face twisted in pain.
“Mom… you’re sick. You poisoned the woman I love. I…”
He rubbed his temples, took a deep breath.
“I won’t turn you in to the police. Only because you’re my mother. But listen carefully: you don’t come near us anymore. Neither her nor me. We’re leaving.”
“You’re betraying the family,” she hissed.
“Family is not poison in tea. Family is when a person is near, when you feel warmth. Feel safe. Something you never could give,” he said and without looking back left the kitchen, not even closing the door.
And Olga remained sitting — motionless like a statue. Only now her fingers trembled. Not from anger. From age. From loneliness. From what comes when you lose everything.