— I’ll burn it. Right here, in front of your eyes.
Alevtina Ignatyevna’s voice—my mother-in-law—was dry as old parchment. She stood in the middle of the living room Rodion and I had furnished together, holding a thick, unmarked envelope.
Her face showed nothing. The icy mask she’d worn since the day of the funeral.
“You can’t,” I said, though my voice trembled. I knew she could. And would.
“I can, Ksenia. I’m his mother. And you are the mistake he made. A mistake that will not receive a single kopeck of my son’s estate.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked to the kitchen. I followed, feeling the room narrow and the air grow thick and viscous.
Alevtina Ignatyevna took a deep steel mixing bowl from the shelf—the one I usually used for dough. She set the envelope on the bottom. A click of the lighter.
The tiny flame bit greedily into the corner of the paper.
“Here’s your inheritance!” she hissed, watching the fire devour the heavy cardstock. “Ashes. You’ll get exactly what you deserve.”
I watched the fire. The tongues of flame danced, reflected in her pupils. There was pure, unclouded triumph in them. She was sure of her victory. She was destroying her son’s last will to leave me penniless.
The smell of burning filled the air. My mother-in-law watched me, expecting tears, hysteria, begging. But I kept silent.
I remembered what Rodion had said a week before the end. His quiet, tired voice: “Mom will stage a show, Ksyusha. She’ll find a way to push you. My lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, prepared a special ‘document’ just for her. She’ll think it’s my last will.
Play along. Let her have her little fake victory.” I hadn’t fully understood his plan then, but now everything fell into place.
Alevtina Ignatyevna brushed the black ash into the sink and turned on the water.
“That’s it. Justice is restored,” she said, wiping her hands and looking down at me. “You can start packing. I’m giving you three days.”
She pivoted and marched out, each step pronounced. Certain she had just erased me from her son’s life for good. The door slammed behind her.
I was alone in the kitchen, heavy with the bitter smell of smoke. Slowly I walked to the bookcase. Among the books stood an old, battered, hardbound cookbook I’d inherited from my grandmother.
Alevtina Ignatyevna was drunk on her cruelty. She could never have imagined she had burned only the decoy, the fake her own lawyer had slipped to her.
And the real will—or rather, the key to it—every single word of it, was securely encoded in the recipes of that old book.
Rodion had thought of everything. He knew that a standard will would be challenged by his mother for years, draining me in court. So he chose another path.
The next morning, the phone rang. I knew who it was.
“Ksenia?” Alevtina Ignatyevna’s voice oozed false sympathy. “I thought you might need help. With moving.”
I was silent, giving her room to savor her move.
“I’ve called an appraiser. He’ll come today at two. We need to understand the value of the apartment,” she paused. “For the notary, of course.”
She pressed. Methodically, mercilessly. Not giving me even a day to catch my breath.
“All right,” I answered quietly.
“And another thing. My lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, would like to meet with you. He’s ready to offer you a certain sum… as a gesture of goodwill.”
A gesture of goodwill. She was offering hush money for my life with her son.
I opened the cookbook to page 112. The recipe for “Tsar’s Fish Soup.” Rodion had circled it in pencil.
“Ingredients: Sterlet—1 pc. (large, fatty). Pike perch—2 pcs. (smaller). Onions—3 bulbs. Parsley root—40 grams.”
This was our cipher. Rodion, a programmer to the core, had turned my grandmother’s recipes into a key. Page number, line number, word number. Everything led to a bank safe-deposit box, where the originals lay—to accounts, to passwords.
“Ksenia, are you listening?” my mother-in-law asked impatiently.
“I hear you. I’ll be waiting for the appraiser.”
At two o’clock the appraiser arrived. Behind him, uninvited, came Alevtina Ignatyevna. She behaved like the owner.
“Look here, the parquet—oak,” she pointed. “And the windows face the sun.”
She led him through the rooms where our memories still hung in the air and hawked them, cynically, piece by piece. I sat in the kitchen, leafing through the book.
“Prokhor Zakharovich will see you at ten tomorrow at his office,” she tossed at me as she walked past. “Don’t be late. He doesn’t like to wait.”
The next day I went to her lawyer’s firm. An expensive office in the city center. Prokhor Zakharovich himself—sleek, in a perfectly tailored suit, with a predatory smile.
“Ksenia Arkadyevna, please, have a seat. As you understand, there is no will. By law, the sole heir is the mother, Alevtina Ignatyevna.”
He slid a document toward me.
“However, my client is a generous person. She is prepared to pay you one hundred thousand rubles. In exchange you sign a waiver of any and all claims.”
One hundred thousand. For an apartment worth tens of millions. For Rodion’s business. For everything.
I looked at him, playing the part of the grief-stricken widow.
“I… I need to think,” I whispered.
“Think faster, girl. Generosity has an expiration date,” the lawyer smirked.
Sitting beside him, Alevtina Ignatyevna added,
“This is more than generous. Rodion would approve of my care for you.”
I went home. The plan was working. They believed in my weakness. I opened the book. The recipe for “Kurnik” pie. “Puff pastry—500 g. Flour—1 cup. Eggs—3 pcs. Boil hard.”
“Boil hard.” That was the command. An instruction to act. I sat down at Rodion’s laptop. They didn’t know I was already preparing the main course.
On the third day, Alevtina Ignatyevna didn’t come alone. Two broad-shouldered movers stood behind her.
“I hope you’ve already packed your little things?” she asked. “Because I don’t have time to wait. The furniture stays for now. And this junk,” she nodded at the stack of my books on the table, “can be thrown out.”
Her gaze stopped on the cookbook lying on top. She smirked and picked it up by two fingers.
“And that trash as well. Always with your recipes. Did you think the way to my son’s heart was through his stomach? How primitive you are, Ksyusha.”
She drew her arm back to toss the book into a big garbage bag.
And at that moment, the act ended. No more role of the quiet, grief-stricken widow.
“Do not touch. That. Book.”
My voice sounded in a way that made even the movers freeze. There were no tears in it, no pleading. Only steel.
Alevtina Ignatyevna was taken aback.
“You’re going to give me orders? In my house?”
“This is not your house. And it never was,” I walked over slowly and took the book from her slackening fingers. I looked straight into her eyes. “Enough. We’re done.”
I stepped to the table, took out my phone, and dialed Prokhor Zakharovich.
“Good afternoon, Prokhor Zakharovich. This is Ksenia Arkadyevna. I’ve considered your generous offer. And I’ve decided to decline.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Moreover, I have a counterproposal. I’d like to discuss with you the recipe for ‘Easter Kulich’ on page two hundred and four. In particular, the ingredient ‘Imported candied fruit, twelve pieces.’”
It seems to me that ingredient has a direct connection to Rodion’s offshore account in Cyprus. The very one you, of course, know nothing about. Isn’t that right?”
Heavy silence hung in the receiver. My mother-in-law stared at me, her eyes fraying at the edges. The mask began to crack.
“You have twenty-four hours to contact me and discuss the terms of the real will. Otherwise my attorney will contact the tax authorities. And not only ours. Good day.”
I ended the call. I looked at the frozen mother-in-law and the two movers.
“Leave. All of you.”
They backed out. The door clicked softly. I was alone. The appetizers were over. It was time to serve the main course.
Prokhor Zakharovich called within an hour. The voice that had oozed smugness yesterday was now taut as a wire. The meeting was set for the next morning at his office.
I arrived at exactly ten. I wore a strict pantsuit. In my hands—only that same cookbook.
They were already waiting in the conference room. Alevtina Ignatyevna sat hunched, her face gray. Prokhor Zakharovich, on the contrary, tried to exude confidence, but his darting eyes gave him away.
“Let’s skip the formalities. We don’t have much time.”
I set the book on the polished table. Opened it at random. The recipe for “Mixed Meat Solyanka.”
“‘Beef kidneys—200 g. Soak in three waters,’” I lifted my eyes to the lawyer. “Three transactions to the Zurich account. Two years ago. Tell me, Alevtina Ignatyevna, did your son hide that money from you? Or were you hiding it from the tax authorities along with your counsel?”
My mother-in-law stared at her lawyer in shock. He turned pale.
“This… this is a misunderstanding.”
“This is not a misunderstanding. This is a criminal case,” I flipped the page. “The recipe for ‘Rasstegai with Viziga.’ ‘Dried viziga—1 pound. Soak overnight to draw out all the salt.’ A very interesting ingredient. Especially in the context of purchasing commercial real estate through a straw buyer, isn’t it, Prokhor Zakharovich?”
The lawyer pressed back into his chair. He understood. This book was not just a will. It was Rodion’s complete financial diary. His insurance against betrayal.
Alevtina Ignatyevna slowly turned her head toward the lawyer.
“You… you knew? You knew everything and kept quiet?”
“Alevtina Ignatyevna, this isn’t what you think…” he babbled, instantly betraying his client.
“Enough!” she barked at him, and in that shout was everything: rage, humiliation, and the dawning realization of total ruin. She understood she had been used.
I gave them a moment to absorb it, then spoke calmly.
“Rodion’s terms were simple. All his personal property, including this apartment and the accounts you now know about, passes to me. His share of the business—also.”
I looked at my mother-in-law. She no longer seemed a monster. Just a broken, unhappy woman.
“For you, Alevtina Ignatyevna, he left a lifetime stipend. Enough that you’ll want for nothing. But on one condition.”
She lifted her eyes to me, full of tears.
“You will disappear from my life. Completely. Any attempt to contact me, any attempt to contest his will—and the stipend is revoked, and Mr. Lawyer here,” I nodded toward Prokhor Zakharovich, “goes to prison. For a very long time.”
I stood. The meeting was over.
“All the documents will be sent to you tomorrow by my new attorney.”
I left the office, leaving them to deal with each other. The sun was shining outside. I didn’t feel euphoria. Only a cold, clear calm. Justice doesn’t bring wild joy. It simply puts everything in its place.
That evening I was home. In my apartment. I poured myself a glass of wine and opened the cookbook. This time—without any cipher. My eyes fell on the recipe for “Sharlotka.”
I took out flour, eggs, and apples. And for the first time in a long while, I began to cook. Just for myself. It was my quiet. My home. My new life.
Half a year later.
Six months passed. The low, golden autumn sun flooded the spacious office of Rodion’s IT company with light. Now it was my office. I hadn’t sold the business, as many advised. I took the helm.
The first months felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss. But even here, Rodion had given me a safety net.
On his laptop, alongside the encrypted accounts, I found folders with detailed instructions, plans, and notes on every key employee. It was as if he were guiding me by the hand from beyond.
I learned to speak their language—the language of code, deadlines, and startups. I was no longer just “Ksyusha with her recipes.” I became Ksenia Arkadyevna, and that name now carried weight, without any irony.
Alevtina Ignatyevna received her money regularly. Once a month. Not a day late. She never called.
I heard from mutual acquaintances that she sold her downtown apartment and moved to a quiet country residence. Alone.
Her lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, was less fortunate. After our conversation, he ran into serious trouble.
Several of his old real-estate cases suddenly surfaced. He was disbarred.
He lost everything. Sometimes you don’t have to cook revenge yourself—just nudge the right ingredients, and the dish cooks itself.
Today I came home earlier than usual. The apartment greeted me with the smell of fresh baking.
It wasn’t sharlotka. Today I was baking a complex, multilayered cake from that same book. A recipe Rodion and I never had the chance to try together.
On the kitchen table, next to the cooling cake, lay the open book. Over six months I had filled its margins with my notes.
Not ciphers. Just thoughts, ideas, new recipes. The book had stopped being a weapon and become what it was meant to be again—a source of warmth and creation.
I cut myself a slice of cake. It turned out perfect. The taste was complex, bittersweet. Like life itself.
I no longer played roles. Neither victim nor avenger. I simply lived.