“Come on, Anya, don’t be childish. My money is mine. Yours is yours. Fair and square,” Dima leaned back on the couch and laughed loudly, from the gut.
That laugh, which just a year ago had seemed genuine and contagious, now grated on my ears like cheap metal.
He looked down at me, and his eyes glistened with sticky smugness. A year ago, they were filled with adoration.
Now — condescending pity for the “poor girl” he had so generously allowed to live next to him.
“I just thought that since the fridge is shared, it would make sense to buy it together,” I replied quietly, studying the pattern on the rug.
Don’t look up. Whatever you do, don’t look up and let him see the cold fury slowly rising from the pit of my soul.
“Makes sense if everyone pays for themselves. Am I supporting you? No. Do I cover rent and utilities? Yes. Be grateful for that. A new fridge, sorry, is a luxury. The old one still works.”
He said it like he was tossing me a chewed-up bone.
That old fridge, inherited from his grandmother, howled like a wounded beast at night and turned fresh vegetables into icy mush.
I nodded silently.
“A year, sweetheart. Just one year,” my father’s voice echoed in my mind. “I’m not against your Dima. I’m against your blindness. You’ve known each other for three months. Let him prove he loves you, not what I can offer. Live on your own. Not a penny from me. Let’s see what he’s made of.”
Dad was furious about our rushed wedding. He believed Dima was after my dowry. To prove him wrong, I agreed to the experiment.
I even took back my mother’s surname, so no one at work would make any associations. To Dima, this became a tale of how a rich father had “disinherited” his rebellious daughter.
The dough turned out to be rotten. For the first six months, Dima played the noble man. He thought if he stuck it out, my “scary” father would soften. Then he realized — there would be no money.
And the mask began to slip. First, the flowers disappeared. Then he’d “forget” his wallet at restaurants. Now we had a “split budget” — where his was his, and mine was shared.
“Alright, don’t pout,” he said, ruffling my hair like I was a dog. “Earn some money and buy one. You’re smart. You’ll manage.”
I slowly lifted my eyes to meet his. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his gaze.
Just the confidence of a man who earned well and thought he had scored a beautiful but financially useless wife.
He had no idea that I was “managing” at a company owned by my father.
He didn’t know the key project that would earn him a fat bonus — from the first to the last step — was developed and executed by me.
And he definitely didn’t know that tomorrow, at ten a.m., his meeting wouldn’t be about a promotion.
“Yes, darling,” I forced the most submissive smile I could muster. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
That evening he came home with shining eyes and dropped a folder with a car dealership logo on the table.
“Look what a beauty I found!” he exclaimed, unfolding a glossy brochure. A sleek, expensive SUV stared at me from the page.
“I’m taking out a loan, of course. But with my salary, it’s nothing. I’ll make the down payment from the ‘Horizon’ project bonus. It’s coming in soon.”
He spoke fast, excited, unaware of how frozen my face had become.
“Horizon.” My project. My sleepless nights. My calculations. My negotiations. Dima was just the nominal lead, the one who signed my reports and presented them with flair.
“You’re buying a car?” I asked, my voice hollow, muffled, as if underwater. “But… you said we need to save. That our financial cushion is still too thin.”
He looked up from the brochure, genuinely confused, as if I had said something absurd.
“Anya, you’re confusing things again. ‘We’ — that’s when it comes to your spending. I’m not asking you for money, right? I earn, so I spend. That’s motivation.”
Motivation. A man should strive, aim higher. And I was just dragging him down with my petty concerns.
He used that phrase more and more: “You’re holding me back.” Every time I brought up shared plans or responsibilities, I hit that wall. I — with my problems — was interfering with his grand destiny.
“I’m just trying to be practical,” I made one last attempt. “Maybe we should sort out housing first? Start saving for a mortgage? Together.”
Dima laughed. That same loud, confident, humiliating laugh from earlier.
“A mortgage? With your salary? Anya, don’t be ridiculous. To save for a mortgage, you need to earn, not shuffle papers for pennies.”
“When I become commercial director, then we’ll talk. For now — be happy for your husband. Your husband is about to drive a cool ride. You should be proud.”
He pulled me close, wrapping his arm around me. He smelled of expensive cologne and fake, stolen success.
“Speaking of the director,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Tomorrow I have a meeting with the CEO. Looks like the ice is melting. The old man finally sees my worth.”
My heart skipped a beat. The CEO. My father.
I pulled back, so he wouldn’t feel the tension in my body.
“That’s… that’s wonderful, darling!” I forced a smile.
“Of course it is! Tomorrow decides everything. Wish me luck.”
He went to bed almost immediately, blissfully happy and confident in his future. I sat in the kitchen for a long time, staring into the darkness outside.
The old fridge hummed — like a countdown. A countdown to his fall. And I wasn’t going to wish him luck. I was going to enjoy the show.
Morning was drenched in his smugness. He whistled while picking out the most expensive tie. I handed him his coffee in silence, playing the devoted wife.
“Gotta look like a million bucks,” he muttered, inspecting himself in the mirror.
My eyes fell on a new dress hanging on the closet door. Simple, linen — but I had saved for it for three months on my “penny salary.”
My little victory. A symbol that I still existed outside of him.
Dima noticed it too. He approached, picked up the fabric between two fingers with disgust.
“What’s this… country chic nonsense?”
“It’s my new dress,” I said softly.
“Well, obviously. Bought whatever you could afford. Anya, listen—” he turned to me, his face suddenly serious, almost fatherly.
“Once I get the position, you’ll need to match it. No more of these… cheap rags. You’ll be the wife of an important man. This is embarrassing.”
He kept talking while I looked at the dress — my small, hard-earned joy — now trampled into the mud.
Then it happened.
While smoothing out his perfectly white shirt, he carelessly hung it on the same closet door.
The hot iron, which he’d left on the ironing board for just a second, slipped — right onto my dress.
A hiss. A spreading, ugly brown stain that burned through the fabric.
Dima looked at the hole, then at me. No regret. No guilt. Just annoyance.
“See? It took care of itself. Good riddance,” he smirked. “Don’t cry. Buy a new one. When I say so, and give you money.”
That was it.
Something inside snapped. Not with a bang, not with a crash. Just a quiet, final break. A year of humiliation, pretending, hoping — all of it burned with that dress.
“You’re right,” my voice sounded eerily calm. “Time to get rid of trash.”
He didn’t get it. He only heard submission in my words. He nodded patronizingly, grabbed his briefcase, pecked my cheek, and left — off to the meeting he thought would put him at the top.
I watched him go. Then I walked to the closet and pulled out my best business suit. The one Dad gave me when I graduated university. The one Dima had never seen.
I arrived at work an hour early. Walked past my desk in the shared office, past the surprised looks of my colleagues, and headed straight to the corner office labeled:
“Sales Department Head – D.A. Sokolov.”
The secretary looked up.
“Anna? Where are you going? Mr. Sokolov isn’t here yet.”
I smiled.
“I know. I’m taking my new place. Could you bring me a coffee? And please, change the nameplate. My surname is Orlova.”
At exactly 10:00 a.m., the door swung open. Dima entered. Radiant, confident, folder under his arm. He froze when he saw me in his chair. His smile faded.
“Anya? What are you doing here?” Confused, but not yet worried. “Go play somewhere else. I have a meeting with the CEO.”
“I know,” I said calmly, sipping my coffee. “So do I.”
Just then, my father walked in. Dima turned, confused, watching as the CEO walked up and placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Good morning, Dmitry,” Dad said. “I see you’ve met your new supervisor. Anna Pavlovna Orlova.”
Dima’s face contorted. Shock. Panic. Disbelief. He stared from me to my father and back.
“Orlova?.. Pavlovna?.. What is this? Anya, what kind of circus is this?”
“This isn’t a circus, Dima. It’s my real surname,” I said, standing up. “And Pavel Andreyevich is my father.”
His pupils dilated. He staggered like he’d been punched.
“Your… father? But you said—”
“I said he didn’t want anything to do with me. That was true. He didn’t want to deal with a woman who allowed herself to be humiliated. He waited for me to understand. And now I do.”
He stared at me, realization dawning. The car loan. The stolen bonus. His insults about “pennies” and “cheap rags.”
“Anya… kitten… this is all a misunderstanding!” He took a step toward me, arms outstretched, pleading. “I love you! I did everything for you!”
“You did everything for yourself, Dima,” I cut him off. “You made the rules. Your money is yours. My money is mine.”
“Well, this is my company. My office. My decision. You’re fired. For systematic appropriation of others’ work and intellectual property. I have all the materials for the Horizon project.”
He froze.
“Fired? You can’t—”
“I can. And don’t worry about the car. You won’t get the bonus. So the loan won’t be approved.”
My father watched in silence, his eyes full of approval.
“And one more thing,” I added, looking him straight in the eye. “You can pick up your things from the apartment before tonight. Leave the keys with the concierge. My lawyer will contact you about the divorce papers.”
He looked at me like I was a monster. His fake confidence gone, replaced by a small, greedy, terrified man.
“But… we’re a family!”
“We were never a family, Dima. You had a convenient project. But it’s been shut down. All performance indicators failed.”
I sat down in my new chair and picked up a pen.
“Now, if you’re done, leave. I’ve got work to do.”
…That evening, after the sound of his rushed packing had finally died down, I opened my laptop.
Went to a home appliance website. Found the biggest, most expensive stainless steel fridge with an ice maker and touch display. And clicked “Buy.”
Payment approved instantly.
From my personal card.