“Oh, damn, I nearly shit myself laughing at that meeting!” Marina threw her shoes into the corner and collapsed onto the sofa without even bothering to take off her jacket. “Can you imagine? They were accusing you right in front of the whole department of embezzlement! And you — damn it — an experienced accountant, audited and verified by Grand Consult!”
But she was talking to nowhere. To the kitchen cabinet, to the cat Vasya, and to the sparkling wine bottle resting on her elbow. Because people get tired, and cabinets keep secrets.
It all started, as usual, on a Monday.
“Marina, come in,” Alla Viktorovna said over the phone without any intonation. That’s how either robots or mothers-in-law who decided to start a war speak.
Her office resembled a freezer, only colder: you could leave without self-esteem or a career.
Marina entered. She nodded shortly, businesslike. At the desk — the mother-in-law. Beyond the glass — Moscow City and the shattered pieces of her confidence.
“We have a situation…” Alla Viktorovna began, pressing her lips together. “There is a serious shortage in the last quarter’s reports. Almost six million. And everything is signed with your signature.”
Marina sank down. Not on the back of the chair, but right on the edge — as if it was the edge of an abyss. She couldn’t say anything, only bitterly smiled at the corner of her mouth — that nervous smile, shameful even to see in the mirror.
“Are you serious, Alla Viktorovna?” Marina tried to speak calmly. “I’m not a newbie fresh from retraining courses. I stand behind every figure with my head. Check the revision history.”
“We checked,” she interrupted. “Everything is documented. Signatures, calculations. You’re just careless. Or… deliberate?”
“Is this a provocation?” Her voice broke. “I triple-check every document before signing! Who even…”
“That’s enough, Marina. You’re fired. For cause.”
“Does Dima know?” she exhaled.
“Of course. He agrees.”
At that moment, it felt like the ground was pulled out from under Marina’s feet. She didn’t expect heroism from her husband, but for him to side with his mother? After eight years of marriage and two mortgages?
She stood up. Silently. Only threw back as she left:
“You don’t need a daughter-in-law, Alla Viktorovna. You need a mirror to admire yourself and repeat: ‘How smart, successful, strong… and as lonely as a tree in a field.’”
She didn’t answer.
Marina left.
What followed was like a nightmare movie: a notice in the mail, messenger blocked, and complete silence from her husband.
He simply disappeared. Like a cat from the stairwell. No calls, no messages. Only a transfer of five thousand rubles — “for food.”
Thanks, darling. Just as I was about to add some humiliation to dinner and fry it in the pan of disappointment.
On the third day after dismissal, she got a call. Unknown number. A familiar voice:
“Marina, this is Nikolai Petrovich.”
She almost dropped her cup. Her ex-father-in-law. The same one who left Alla Viktorovna many years ago and went to build houses in Krasnodar Krai. Literally — physically building.
“I heard what happened,” his voice was quiet but gripping. “I want to meet. Talk. Maybe offer a job.”
Marina was silent.
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
“This isn’t about trust,” he said. “It’s about justice. And maybe your chance to make a move.”
They met on Tverskaya. A cozy café, a gray coat, a gaze like forged steel.
“I left that family but not out of my mind,” said Nikolai Petrovich. “Alla is stirring up dirt again, like before. But I have a plan. I need a reliable accountant. You fit.”
Marina laughed — bitterly, almost hysterically.
“I was just publicly shamed, fired, and my husband, by the way, didn’t find anything better than to agree with it.”
“All the more reason,” he smiled. “The perfect time for a knight’s move.”
That night Marina didn’t sleep. She reread her reports, recalled every edit. She was sure she was set up. And she knew exactly how.
In the morning she sifted through all correspondence with colleagues. And suddenly — a find: a copy of an internal document that shouldn’t have been in the final report. But it was. With her signature. Which she definitely didn’t put.
It was a hack. And only one woman could have organized it — with an economics degree and an icy heart.
“Nikolai Petrovich,” she said into the phone, “I agree. And I have something interesting.”
“Great,” he didn’t even ask what. Only added, “But know this: if we do this — there’s no turning back.”
“I don’t want to go back,” Marina replied quietly. “Only forward.”
The next morning she put on her strict jacket again and headed to a new office building. Nikolai Petrovich’s company smelled of ambition, coffee, and cinnamon.
She walked confidently. Because for the first time in many days she didn’t feel anger or despair — but a surge of excitement. As if standing at the starting line, and someone already gave the count:
“Ready… set… revenge.”
“So you want to say she just forged your signature?” Nikolai Petrovich thoughtfully twisted a flash drive as if holding not a storage device but a grenade pin.
“No,” Marina paused, letting each word land firmly. “She copied it. Scan, graphic editor, insertion into PDF — plenty of options. Don’t you know what a woman who doesn’t accept a daughter-in-law is capable of?”
“Well, I lived with her for twenty years,” he chuckled and squinted. “It didn’t come for free — my hair started falling out, nerves too. And you’re good — lasted longer than I thought. Four years in her kingdom — almost like a sentence in a camp.”
“Five and a half,” Marina corrected silently, clenching her hands on her knees. And with every memory — of family dinners full of unspoken reproaches, of looks sharper than knives — a simple desire grew in her: not just to take revenge, but to do it beautifully. Very beautifully.
Workdays were different now. Nikolai Petrovich had a new construction company, large-scale projects, connections you could only dream of. He appointed her deputy in finance, despite “fired for cause” on her resume.
“You know,” he once said, sitting beside her in an empty conference room, “I once wanted Dima to marry a smart woman. Just didn’t think intelligence could be a problem.”
“Maybe I should pretend to be dumb then?” Marina smirked crookedly. “Like Tanya from the old office. Her function is to bring coffee and laugh at the right time.”
“You’re too independent,” Nikolai Petrovich shook his head. “Alla Viktorovna doesn’t like those. She needs convenient ones. Who nod, agree, and look admiring.”
“I can look admiring,” Marina straightened her back, “especially if the person I’m talking to holds a check for a Mercedes with my name on it.”
He laughed. Genuinely and loudly.
But the fun was short-lived.
A week later Nikolai Petrovich handed her files. Copies of correspondence, transfers, documents she didn’t even suspect existed at the previous company. It turned out Alla Viktorovna not only skillfully copied signatures but also… stole. Not millions — tens.
“See this?” he put a printout with tables before her.
“Offshores?” Marina frowned.
“That would have been your ticket to hell if you stayed,” he smiled. “You’re now a witness. A victim. And if you want — an accomplice in my little plan.”
“I’m already in it,” she replied grimly. “Only we’re not acting. This is real.”
The plan was simple: expose. And do it loudly, spectacularly. So Marina would enter Alla Viktorovna’s office not as a beaten former employee, but as a woman with documents, a lawyer, and preferably cameras.
But first, they needed ironclad proof.
“I have an idea,” she said one evening as they sat in his office on the top floor. “I need to get into the old office. The archive. There should be originals or at least drafts. Alla Viktorovna is like an evil collector: she keeps everything like relics.”
“You’re serious?” he raised an eyebrow. “That’s risky.”
“And with you, Nikolai Petrovich, was it safe?” she smiled.
That day Marina entered the building as a stranger. In a coat, with a ponytail, in inconspicuous glasses — as if coming to a lawyer for inheritance. The guard she used to share lunch with didn’t recognize her right away.
“Marina Sergeyevna? Who are you here to see?”
“To the legal department. Personal matter.”
Not a lie. The matter was very personal.
While they called a lawyer, she slipped deeper into the building. Everything as before: the smell of coffee, rustling papers, someone arguing with Excel. She passed the door marked “Financial Service,” pulled the handle — locked. But she had the key. An old one. She had “forgotten” to return it.
Five minutes. Only five. She opened the drawer. And found it. A gray folder. Inside — documents falsified after her departure but signed with her electronic signature.
“Well, sweetheart,” Marina thought, “even after firing, I’m useful to you?”
“So what now?” Nikolai Petrovich asked when she showed him the find.
“We’ll report to law enforcement. Lawyers. This is now criminal.”
“And are you ready for the scandal?”
Marina took off her glasses. Rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“I want to see how Alla Viktorovna explains signing a document transferring money to Switzerland while in the clinic with a 39-degree fever and IV drip. I have a certificate. And witnesses.”
At night Dima called her.
“What are you planning?!” he hissed into the phone. “Mom’s hysterical! Says you declared war on her!”
“War?” Marina snorted. “She started it when you both decided I was expendable.”
“You’ll destroy everything!” he raised his voice. “It’s family! Company! Money!”
“Family is where there is no betrayal,” she said quietly. “And your family is where mom is. Mine is where I’m valued.”
“Mom says you’re in cahoots with dad! That you staged this to get back at her!”
“Dima,” Marina spoke calmly, “if I wanted revenge, I’d come with a frying pan. Now I’m just restoring justice.”
He faltered, then said:
“You’re nothing without us. Just an ex-wife.”
Marina smiled.
“And you’re just your mother’s son.”
And that’s all you are, Dimочка.
A week later Marina received a subpoena. To court. As a witness and victim in a major fraud case.
And three months later Alla Viktorovna was detained. Right in her office, in front of her framed portrait.
Nikolai Petrovich arrived that evening. Brought wine. And an offer.
“Marina,” he said, pouring glasses, “I think you should stay. Not as a deputy. As a partner. Share in the company. Fairly.”
She looked at him — with a feeling that words cannot describe. As if she was thrown off a train and woke up in a luxury car, with a glass of champagne in hand.
“Just promise me,” Marina raised her glass, “that I will never see those fake reports again. And if I do — I’ll throw them at you.”
“Deal,” he smiled. “You’re a dangerous woman, Marina.”
“No, Nikolai Petrovich. I just stopped being convenient.”
“That’s it. I’m burnt out,” Marina slammed the laptop shut as if it owed her not just salary but moral damages for the last twenty years.
“Are you sure he’s shut down?” Nikolai Petrovich asked lightly mockingly, putting a cup of fragrant coffee in front of her. “Or should we call an exorcist? Maybe he’ll banish Excel straight to hell.”
“Better bring two validol pills and shave my head to become a nun. But make the monastery male-only and forbid women to enter, especially those with surnames ending in -ova.”
“Got it. That was a hint. By the way, Alla Viktorovna sends greetings from pre-trial detention. Through her lawyer.”
“I hope in the form of a dry cracker. Without a note ‘sorry, couldn’t resist.’”
Two months passed. Nikolai Petrovich’s company prospered. Business was climbing like a stock index on a good news day. Marina was now an official partner: with a share, documents, an office, and… headaches that come with real power.
Alla Viktorovna remained under investigation. The trial hadn’t happened yet, but public opinion had already delivered the verdict: in a small business town, falling into the mud is like falling into a concrete block. You can’t wash off.
But when it ended, silence began. The kind that makes you uneasy. Not screams, not tears — empty, ringing silence.
Marina often caught herself thinking: now she has everything — freedom, money, respect… and emptiness inside. Even anger evaporated. No boiling, no pain — just quiet. Like in a house where everyone has gone on vacation.
“You know what’s the worst?” she said one evening, looking at a glass of wine. “When the enemy is defeated, and you don’t even feel relief.”
“So you’re not happy?”
“Happiness is when you’re wrapped in a blanket, with a fever, eating potato pies. And this… it’s like winning the Olympics and no one came to watch.”
For a long time he was silent. Then unexpectedly said:
“I’m alone too. For five years now. The house is like a museum — beautiful, but empty.”
“We’re like two exhibits in a showcase,” Marina sighed. “Only my price tag’s been knocked off long ago.”
“You’re not an exhibit. You’re a woman who went through hell and didn’t break. You have a backbone.”
“How old are you?” she suddenly asked, squinting.
“Fifty-nine.”
“Hmm. Then there’s still time to build a new business, plant a tree, and get divorced three times.”
“And also,” he paused, “you can marry again. A smart woman who can’t stand stupidity but loves coffee with cinnamon. You dreamed of that, right?”
Marina looked at him for a long time, as if solving a difficult equation.
“Only if there’s no wedding with a white dress. And separate bathrooms.”
Soon the office started whispering. Some “saw” them having lunch together, others “heard” him calling her Mashenka (though he always said “Comrade Partner”).
Once even Dima called. Voice like a crumpled letter.
“Mom says… you and dad live together?”
“Tell mom we already share a bed. So yes,” Marina answered calmly. “Only an orthopedic mattress. Healthy spine — the key to success.”
“He’s really getting back at her, right?”
“He’s getting back at her by not regretting the divorce.”
“You like that?”
“No, Dima. I’m just living. For real. For the first time.”
Then came the trial.
The courtroom was packed. Alla Viktorovna — in a strict suit, with a lawyer and a mask of cold confidence. She didn’t look at Marina.
Marina — collected, calm. With a folder of documents, a lawyer, and inner silence. Not anger, not revenge — just facts. Because the decision was already made.
On the witness stand she said briefly:
“Yes, I was fired on false documents. And I forgave. But forgiveness doesn’t cancel responsibility. Especially if you’re a director and a mother.”
After the verdict (4 years probation and a ban on management) Alla Viktorovna looked at her for the first time.
And quietly asked:
“Do you think you won?”
Marina smiled.
“I don’t think. I just don’t fear anymore.”
That evening Nikolai Petrovich waited for her outside the court. In a suit, with a bouquet of flowers and a shy smile.
“This is for you. For courage. And for not becoming her.”
“I almost did,” Marina admitted honestly, taking the bouquet. “But you pulled me out.”
“Then let me offer you not a date…” he held out his hand, “but a life together. Calm. Without intrigues. With chess and morning coffee.”
Marina looked at him for a long time.
“Only if I wear a robe at home, with curlers and socks with bears. And you don’t run away.”
“I’ll stay. Even if you curse at sausage packaging.”
She laughed.
“All right. Let’s try. But no schemes and setups. Next time you’ll end up in detention.”
That summer she went south for the first time in many years. Not with a husband, not with a laptop, but just with herself.
She sat by the sea. Drank wine. Remembered how she once stopped believing she could laugh.
But she was wrong.
Life is just beginning. Even if you’re already 48.
And especially — if there’s someone next to you who isn’t afraid of your strength.