Veronika ran her palms once more over the folds of her strict, perfectly pressed blazer, as if trying to smooth not only the fabric but also her inner tension. She stood before a tall mirror in the spacious, lavishly appointed foyer of an expensive restaurant, and her reflection felt foreign to her—a composed, successful woman behind whose mask lay fatigue and doubt. This business meeting, which she had learned about only recently, could become that long-awaited turning point, the key moment for her own venture, for the startup that was more than just a job. This project, into which she had poured two long years of her life, countless sleepless nights spent in the glow of a laptop screen, and all her savings, had finally attracted the attention of a serious venture firm. Today the question of major investment was to be decided, and Veronika understood that everything depended on her composure and persuasiveness.
The “Emerald Garden” restaurant was one of those places where the very atmosphere spoke of status and wealth: enormous crystal chandeliers casting fanciful reflections on the walls, subdued, soft, almost intimate lighting, tabletops of rare dark wood polished to a mirror sheen. It was precisely this restaurant she had chosen for such an important conversation, wanting to make the most positive, indelible impression on the investor. Her dress—deep dark blue, almost the color of night—strict in cut but with a gracefully understated neckline, was meant to underscore her business acumen and impeccable taste. She gave her reflection one last appraising look, mechanically smoothed a stubborn strand that had escaped her sleek hairstyle, and, taking a deep breath, walked confidently to the host stand.
“Good evening,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and cordial. “I have a reservation under the name Veronika Sokolova.”
The host, a young man with impeccably styled hair and a flawlessly polite smile, nodded and motioned for her to follow him deeper into the dining room. Veronika walked behind him, acutely aware of her heart beginning to beat faster and louder, disturbing its usual rhythm. She silently, for the umpteenth time, repeated the key points of her presentation, trying to drive away other, intrusive thoughts. Thoughts that her husband, Artyom, had once again stayed late at his office. For the past several months he had practically been disappearing at work, citing incredible workloads, crunch time, and urgent projects. Veronika had more or less grown used to his frequent absences, but in the quietest moments she still felt a light sadness, a longing for the times when they could simply sit side by side on a cozy couch, talk about anything, and laugh for no reason, enjoying each other’s company.
The host stopped at a table set in a cozy, slightly dim corner, and Veronika was about to take her seat when her gaze swept the room and then froze, riveted to a distant point. At the opposite end of the restaurant, behind a delicate translucent glass partition that demarcated the so-called VIP area, she saw a figure she knew all too well. Artyom. Her Artyom. He sat at a small table, leaning toward a young, very attractive woman with long, flowing wheat-blonde hair. Their heads were inclined so close together that Veronika physically felt something snap inside her, harsh and painful, giving way to an icy emptiness.
She stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. The host, noticing her sudden stupor and pale face, politely asked,
“Is everything quite all right, Ms. Sokolova? Are you feeling well?”
“Yes, thank you…” she managed to force out, unable to tear her eyes from the scene behind the glass. “I’m fine, I just felt a bit light-headed from the change of surroundings.”
But there was nothing fine about the situation. Artyom, her husband, the man with whom she had lived hand in hand for seven full years, was laughing, looking into the eyes of that stranger. His hand lay on her slender wrist, and the woman, in turn, coyly twirled a silky lock of hair around her finger. Veronika felt blood rush noisily to her temples, a faint ringing begin in her ears. Instinctively, she took a step back, trying to hide behind a massive decorative column, anything to remain unseen.
“This is some mistake, a coincidence,” she feverishly tried to convince herself. “He told me himself he had a meeting, urgent work. Maybe she’s an important new client? A business dinner?”
But deep down—in that place where the bitterest truths live—she knew perfectly well it wasn’t so. Under no circumstances had Artyom ever looked at female business partners or colleagues with a gaze like that—warm, gentle, truly intimate. And his smile… it was that very smile, sincere and unguarded, that Veronika had not seen on his face for many months. She forced herself to take another, deeper breath and tried with all her might to clamp down on her emotions. She needed to focus on the upcoming meeting, yet her legs, as if with minds of their own, carried her closer to where they were sitting.
She stopped a couple of steps from the glass partition, using a tall floor planter with a lush tropical plant as cover. Now she could see the stranger in every detail. The woman was noticeably younger—twenty-five at most. Her hair was styled with impeccable, almost Hollywood precision, and the bright makeup that accentuated her features made her face even more striking. Her dress—bright scarlet, hugging every curve—looked as if she were headed not to a modest dinner but to a society gala or a fashion show. Artyom whispered something to her, leaning even closer, and the woman laughed, throwing back her elegant head. Veronika felt her fingers curl into a tight, tense fist of their own accord.
“Ms. Sokolova?” The host’s voice pulled her back to harsh reality. “Your guest seems to have arrived. Shall I show him to your table?”
Veronika turned slowly, forcing her facial muscles to mimic a calm smile. Her investor—a solid man of about fifty in a perfectly tailored dark suit—was already standing at the entrance to the dining room, looking around for her. She nodded to the host, feeling her lips go numb.
“Yes, of course, please bring him over.”
But all her thoughts, all her attention were now fixed on what was happening behind the thin glass barrier. While she made polite small talk with the investor and smoothly segued into presenting her project, her eyes, like a treacherous magnet, kept sliding back to the VIP section. Artyom and that woman were still there. Now they were clinking wine glasses, and Veronika noticed the stranger lightly, almost weightlessly touch the back of his hand—and he… he didn’t pull away. On the contrary, his fingers closed around hers for a brief but eloquent moment.
By the time the investor moved on to concrete questions about the financial model and the payback horizon, Veronika could barely hear him. Her mind was flooded with a chaotic tangle of thoughts and images, and her heart pounded so loudly and rapidly that she felt its thud echo through the entire room. She apologized, citing a sudden wave of nausea and the need to step away for a moment, and strode quickly out of the dining area.
In the cool, marble-lined restroom she pressed her forehead to the cold, smooth wall and closed her eyes tightly. She desperately needed to collect her thoughts, to understand what was happening. Was Artyom cheating on her? Or was her own imagination, fueled by exhaustion and stress, painting terrifying pictures? She knew him as well as she knew herself—well enough not to believe this was innocent. He hadn’t said a word about any business dinner, and that dazzling woman was definitely not his project colleague. With trembling fingers Veronika took her phone from her bag and opened her chat with Artyom. The last message from him had been sent in the afternoon, just a few hours earlier: “Swamped—running late, don’t wait up for dinner.” A standard, routine phrase that now, in light of what she’d seen, felt like the height of cynicism and deceit.
She returned to the dining room again, but instead of going back to her table, she was drawn irresistibly toward where he sat. Her steps were heavy but resolute, though inside everything fluttered and shook with tension. She had no intention of staging a public scene—at least not here and not now. She simply needed to see it with her own eyes, to catch snatches of their conversation so that no doubts remained.
The glass partition, as it turned out, did not fully muffle sound, and Veronika, holding her breath, managed to make out certain phrases. The woman—whose name, she learned, was Alisa—laughed again at something Artyom had said. Then Veronika heard the words that slashed into her consciousness like a red-hot knife:
“You know, it’s been a very, very long time since I’ve felt this… light and free. With you I feel like I can breathe again.”
Those simple words struck Veronika so hard she nearly staggered. Light? Free? And what about their marriage? Their hard-won years together? Their endless conversations about the future, about children, about a house by the sea? Their quiet evenings when they made plans and shared dreams? Veronika felt hot, salty tears spill down her cheeks, but she clenched her teeth, fists tight, and forced herself to stay put, not to reveal her presence.
She returned to her table, apologizing once more to the investor for her brief absence. The rest of the meeting passed in a dense, impenetrable fog. She answered questions automatically, nodded, forced smiles, but her mind was completely consumed by the shock she had just endured. When the investor finally took his leave, confirming once again that he would be in touch next week to discuss next steps, Veronika remained sitting alone at the table, staring vacantly at the empty crystal glass with just a few drops of white wine left in it.
She didn’t know what to do now. Confront Artyom this very minute and demand an explanation? Or remain silent, pretend nothing had happened, preserve the fragile calm of their relationship? Her pride and sense of dignity screamed, urging her to get up and lay everything she’d seen and heard at his feet. But fear—the fear of losing everything they had painstakingly built over the years, the fear of the unknown and of loneliness—held her fast.
In the end, she decided to wait until Artyom and Alisa left the VIP area. She wanted to meet his gaze, to see his first, unfeigned reaction to her being here. The half hour she spent waiting felt like an eternity, filled with inner pain and emptiness. At last they stood up. Artyom slipped an arm around Alisa’s waist, tenderly, almost familiarly, and they headed for the exit. Veronika rose slowly, feeling her knees treacherously tremble, and followed them at a respectful distance.
It was chilly outside, and she instinctively pulled her light coat tighter around her. Artyom and Alisa stopped by his car, parked a few meters from the restaurant entrance. Veronika froze in the deep shadow cast by the building’s heavy cornice and continued to watch. They stood very close, and Veronika saw Alisa rise on tiptoe and softly, almost tenderly, kiss Artyom on the lips. It was not a friendly, casual kiss. It was long, full of restrained passion and tenderness—a kiss that left no doubt about the nature of their relationship. Veronika felt the ground slip from beneath her feet, the world around her losing its contours.
She didn’t even remember how she suddenly found herself beside them. Her own voice, shaking with emotion yet surprisingly loud and clear, tore the evening quiet:
“Artyom, tell me—would this be your new intern? Or perhaps your partner on that urgent project that’s been keeping you late at work all these months?”
He turned sharply, his face—smiling just a second before—draining of color, turning almost gray. Alisa recoiled a step, her wide eyes filled with genuine fear and confusion.
“Veronika…” Artyom began, but his voice broke into a rasp. “Let me explain… It’s not what you think.”
“Not what I think?” Veronika’s voice shot up to a high, nearly hysterical pitch. “Are you seriously trying to make me believe that? You’ve gone on for hours about crunch time, meetings, piles of paperwork—and at the same time you’re out here… kissing her on the street like some love-struck teenager?”
Alisa, clearly feeling acutely uncomfortable, mumbled, staring at the ground:
“I… I honestly didn’t know he had a wife… I would never…”
“You didn’t know?” Veronika spun toward her, eyes blazing with pain and fury in the glow of the streetlights. “It never occurred to you to ask why there’s no ring on his left hand? Or did the question simply not interest you? Did you just not care?”
Artyom tried again, taking a step toward her:
“Veronika, I’m begging you, not here. Let’s go home, and I’ll tell you everything, explain everything. Just please, calm down.”
“Home?” She gave a bitter, soundless laugh, with no trace of mirth in it. “Do you really think that after all this I’ll want to go anywhere with you and discuss anything? You destroyed everything, Artyom. Absolutely everything we had. You shattered our story to pieces.”
She spun on her heel and walked away with quick, uncertain steps, without turning or looking back. Hot tears streamed down her face, streaking her expensive powder, but she was desperate not to let him see her weakness, her pain. She heard him calling her name, but his voice grew fainter and fainter until it finally dissolved into the city’s nighttime hum.
At home—in the very apartment that until recently had been their shared nest—Veronika sat on the edge of the couch, staring at a single point, seeing nothing around her. Her phone was exploding with Artyom’s calls and messages, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at the screen. She didn’t know what would come next. Divorce? Or an attempt to forgive, forget, and start anew? She still loved him—that love lived in her despite all the pain—but could she ever trust him again? Could she ever forget the image of their kiss under the streetlight?
At dawn the next morning, she quietly packed the bare essentials into a weekend bag and went to her oldest, most trusted friend. She needed to be alone, away from those walls steeped in memories, to figure out how to live on. Artyom kept calling, writing long, remorse-filled messages; he even came to her friend’s building, begging for a meeting, but Veronika remained adamant and refused to speak to him. She felt cruelly betrayed and deceived, but along with the pain a new strength—unknown to her before—began to sprout day by day. She refused to be a victim in this story. Her business, her dreams, her personal life, her future—these were now in her hands alone, and she would never let Artyom take those from her as well.
Exactly one month later, after days of reflection, tears, and searching for herself, Veronika officially filed for divorce. Artyom tried to change things to the very end, to win her back, begged for another chance, but she remained firm in her decision. That evening at the restaurant—that shadow behind the glass—would forever remain her point of no return, a line that, once crossed, left no way back. She began a new, independent chapter of her life and, though the pain of loss and betrayal still lived somewhere deep in her heart, she knew she would cope with everything. Because Veronika Sokolova had learned to stand on her own two feet again—and she had no intention of bending before anyone ever again.