Elena Sergeyevna had always worked from morning till night. Even as a child, when other girls played with dolls, she made clothes for them and sold them for pennies to the neighborhood kids. At university she tutored on the side, and afterward—straight into the office of a large company. When she realized she’d hit the ceiling, she launched a beauty and style blog.
She started in the kitchen of her one-room flat. She filmed on an old phone, with a desk lamp for lighting and a foil reflector. Her first followers found her by hashtags and shared her posts with friends. Elena said what she thought: not every woman has to be the perfect mother; you can build a career and still be feminine; money is freedom, not evil.
A year later she had a hundred thousand followers. Another year after that—her own cosmetics line. Then clothing. Then she wasn’t renting an apartment anymore—she was renting out two of her own.
At thirty-two, Elena Sergeyevna was what many women of her generation dream of being: independent, successful, beautiful. And very lonely.
At the presentation of a new collection of spring dresses in a gallery at Patriarch’s Ponds, she noticed him at once. Tall, broad-shouldered, with attentive brown eyes and a smile that warmed her chest. He was standing by a painting—an abstract in blue tones—studying it as if trying to crack the riddle of the universe.
“Beautiful,” Elena said, coming closer.
“Very,” he turned, and she realized he was looking not at the painting but at her. “Igor Vitalyevich.”
“Elena Sergeyevna.”
“Ah, is this your collection?” he nodded toward the dress displays. “Impressive. You have excellent taste.”
They talked the whole evening. He worked in IT, told her about startups and investment; she spoke about the difficulties of small business and women’s entrepreneurship. Igor listened attentively, asked smart questions, didn’t try to lecture or offer unsolicited advice.
“You’re a remarkable woman,” he said as he walked her to her car. “May I see you tomorrow?”
Tomorrow turned into every day. Igor courted her in style: flowers for no reason, dinners at expensive restaurants, weekend trips to St. Petersburg and Kazan. He admired her drive, praised her new projects, and took pride in her success.
“You’re building an empire,” he would say, holding her in bed after another sleepless night spent on reports. “I want to be part of your life. Forever.”
He proposed in the same restaurant where they’d had their first dinner—on one knee, with a diamond ring that, as it turned out later, cost about as much as her monthly profit. Elena cried with happiness and said yes, thinking she had finally found someone who understood and accepted her as she was.
The wedding was modest—only the closest people. Igor insisted that lavish celebrations were a waste of money that could be put to better use. Elena agreed, deciding he was right—why show off when there are real feelings?
The first months of married life were like a fairy tale. Igor moved into her three-room apartment in the center; they set up their home and made plans. He suggested they combine finances—“we’re a family now”—and Elena, without a second thought, gave him access to her main accounts. Trust felt natural.
“Your business is growing, and I’m looking for new projects,” Igor explained when Elena asked why he wasn’t in a hurry to go back to work. “I want to find something worthwhile, not just grab the first thing that comes along.”
The search dragged on. Six months later, Igor was still “considering offers” and “meeting potential partners.” What he did master excellently was the role of the successful woman’s husband: he accompanied her to events, looked sharp in expensive suits Elena bought, and made polished small talk with her business partners.
“You have such a wonderful husband,” her friends said. “He supports you so much, he’s proud of you.”
Elena nodded and smiled, though a sediment was already settling inside. Igor was indeed proud—of her money, her apartment, her car, her status. And at the same time, with each month he slipped further into the role of a handsome accessory to a successful wife.
By the end of the first year of marriage, he no longer even pretended to look for work. He’d gotten into fitness instead—an expensive gym membership, a personal trainer, athletic wear from top brands. Then came a hobby—photography. A two-hundred-thousand-ruble camera, lenses, courses, trips for plein-air shoots.
“You always wanted me to find myself,” he would say when Elena cautiously asked about work. “That’s what I’m doing. Maybe my calling is in the arts?”
Elena worked even more. New collections, regional expansion, launching a second cosmetics line. Her husband was never home—training sessions, photoshoots, meetings with his “creative colleagues.” He came home late, tired, sometimes a little drunk.
“You hardly pay any attention to the family,” he said when Elena once again worked on her laptop past midnight. “I feel lonely.”
“Try contributing something to this family,” she answered more sharply each time. “Maybe then I’d have more time to rest.”
“What do money have to do with it? A family isn’t only about finances.”
But not even finances were coming from Igor into the family. He didn’t cook, he didn’t clean, he didn’t even do the grocery shopping—Elena had a housekeeper. His contribution was limited to showing up at official events and periodic declarations of how much he lacked feminine attention.
By the third year of marriage, Elena realized she was living alone. Igor was physically nearby, slept in their bed, ate the food prepared by the housekeeper, but he was like a ghost—a handsome, well-groomed ghost who spent her money and from time to time reminded her of his existence with complaints.
“We could take a vacation,” she suggested once over dinner.
“Where?” Igor didn’t look up from his phone.
“I don’t know. The islands. Want to go to Japan?”
“What would I do there?” He finally raised his eyes. “I’m not a typical tourist. I need active rest, new experiences.”
“Such as?”
“For example, a photo tour of Kamchatka. Or diving in the Maldives. Though that’s expensive, of course…”
Elena realized that for him a vacation was just another way to spend her money, not time spent together. They didn’t go to Kamchatka, but Igor did get a diving certificate. True, in Egypt, not the Maldives—she still wasn’t ready to throw a million at his newest hobby.
By the fourth year of marriage, they had turned into neighbors who politely greeted each other in the morning and shared meals.
Elena spent more and more time at work. Not out of desperation—she enjoyed it. She saw the results of her efforts, got returns, felt needed and valued. Her brand became recognizable; the products were sold not only in Russia but across the CIS. Her social-media following topped a million.
“You’ve become completely different,” Igor said when she refused yet another outing to a restaurant. “You used to be lively, interesting. And now you’re like a robot—work, work, work.”
“I used to have a reason to spend time away from the computer,” Elena said. “Now work gives me more pleasure than empty talk at home.”
“That’s not normal for a married woman.”
“What is normal? Supporting a healthy adult man who’s been ‘finding himself’ for four years?”
“I don’t just live off you! I support you emotionally, I create a cozy home…”
“What cozy home?” Elena laughed. “The housekeeper I pay is the one who creates cozy. You create line items in the budget.”
After such conversations they could go weeks without speaking. Igor would ostentatiously disappear from the house for entire days, return late, looking as if someone had offended him. Elena didn’t ask where he’d been—she didn’t care.
She started noticing the little things. Expensive shirts she hadn’t bought. A new watch. A fragrance that didn’t smell like the one she’d given him. When he showered, unfamiliar tunes drifted from the bathroom—songs he didn’t listen to at home.
“Are you seeing someone?” she asked bluntly one evening.
“What are you talking about?” Igor didn’t even flinch. “Seriously?”
“Quite.”
“Lena, you know as well as I do—there’s been nothing between us for a long time. We live like brother and sister. I’m a normal man, I need intimacy.”
“All right. Then let’s get a divorce.”
“Why such extremes? We’re adults. We can agree on… freedom.”
“What kind of freedom?”
“Well… not controlling each other. You live your life, I live mine.”
Elena looked at him and thought he was proposing to legitimize what was already happening, while leaving the financial side unchanged. His freedom was to be funded by her money.
“No,” she said. “Either marriage or divorce. There’s no third option.”
“You’re giving me ultimatums?”
“I’m proposing honesty.”
Igor chose the middle route—he started lying more skillfully. Photoshoots now lasted till morning, trips for plein-air shoots turned into week-long business trips, meetings with colleagues became late-night clubbing.
Elena knew but kept silent. She was busy launching a new line—children’s cosmetics, a project that required special attention to quality and safety. There was so much work that she simply had no time left for jealousy or showdowns.
Besides, she was curious how far he would go. How much brazenness he had in him, what explanations he would invent. It was like observing a social-psychology experiment.
The first photos arrived a couple of months later. Anonymous, at first—just a link to a cloud drive sent to the brand account’s DMs. Igor in a restaurant with a blonde about twenty-five. Igor kissing the same girl at the entrance to a nightclub. Igor leading her by the arm to an expensive car—the very one Elena had given him for his last birthday.
“Ms. Elena, I’m a waitress at the Metropol,” a girl wrote the next day. “I didn’t want to interfere, but you’re such a role model, you help women, and this… Your husband keeps coming in with different girls. The latest one is especially brazen—brags to her friends that she’s about to swap the rich fool for a young and pretty one. I thought you should know.”
Then others wrote. An administrator from the fitness club—Igor had brought that same blonde and introduced her as his fiancée. A hostess from a Rublyovka club—he booked a table in his wife’s name but came with his lover. A saleswoman from a boutique—he bought the same girl jewelry with Elena’s corporate card.
“Why are you writing to me?” Elena asked one follower.
“Because you helped my sister. She divorced her alcoholic husband after watching your video about toxic relationships. She says it was like a veil lifted from her eyes. And it hurts to watch someone make a fool of you.”
Elena didn’t think she was being made a fool of. More that she was being deceived—so clumsily it wasn’t even hurtful, just shameful. Shameful for an adult man who thought his wife was so stupid she would believe fairy tales about midnight photoshoots and business trips to the wilderness.
She began collecting evidence. Not for the divorce—there it was already clear; they had a prenuptial agreement with separate property. Just out of curiosity. She wanted to see how far a person would go when he thought he couldn’t be caught.
Very far, as it turned out. Igor wasn’t just cheating—he was planning a new life. He rented an apartment for his lover—with Elena’s money. He bought her gifts—with the same funds. He promised a divorce and hefty alimony.
“So, did you snag the rich sucker?” the blonde asked in an audio recording a bartender sent from one of the clubs. “How long are you going to milk her?”
“Until I find a better job. Or until I get tired of her completely.” Igor’s voice was lazy, satisfied. “She’s got delusions of grandeur, thinks the world will collapse without her. Meanwhile I’ll live it up.”
“And if she finds out?”
“She won’t. She’s buried in work; she’s got no time for me. And anyway, we’re legally married. What difference does it make?”
That was when Elena felt anger. Not pain, not hurt—anger. At the nerve, the stupidity, the notion that she was so pitiful she would put up with anything just to avoid being alone.
The next day she went to her lawyer. She filed for divorce. She blocked all the cards Igor had access to. She changed the safe codes. She drew up an inventory of property—the little he could claim by law.
And then she waited.
She didn’t wait long. Three days later, on Thursday, she was recording a podcast with psychologist Oksana Petrovna—a woman who specialized in family crises. The topic was timely: “How to Know It’s Time to End a Relationship.”
“Many women are afraid of being alone,” Oksana Petrovna said, looking into the camera. “They think bad relationships are better than none. But that’s not true. Loneliness isn’t a sentence, it’s an opportunity…”
The front door slammed so hard the glass in the sideboard rattled. Hurried footsteps pounded down the corridor, the click of heels—Igor was wearing the expensive shoes Elena had bought him.
“Excuse me,” she said to the camera, without losing her composure. “A brief technical pause.”
The office door flew open. Igor stood on the threshold—disheveled, red with fury, his shirt wrinkled. He smelled of a cologne that wasn’t the one she’d given him.
“Sveta!” he roared, not noticing the camera was on. “What are you doing?! The cards are blocked! The bank says the account is frozen!”
Elena slowly turned to him. Not a muscle in her face moved.
“Oksana Petrovna, shall we move our conversation to tomorrow?” she said calmly. “We have a small family matter.”
The psychologist quickly agreed and disconnected. Elena closed the laptop, turned off the camera, and only then rose from her office chair.
“What’s the matter, Igor Vitalyevich?” she asked with polite detachment, as if addressing a casual acquaintance.
“Don’t play dumb! You blocked my cards! The ATM won’t take them!”
“Your cards?” Elena tilted her head, as if trying to understand. “Which cards of yours, exactly?”
“Don’t pretend! You know perfectly well!”
Elena went to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a tablet. A few taps—and she turned the screen toward her husband.
“These photos look familiar?”
On the screen was a set of shots: Igor with the blonde at a restaurant; Igor kissing the same girl at the bar; Igor buying her jewelry at a jeweler’s.
“My followers are very observant,” Elena said, flipping through the images. “Especially those who work in service. They recognize faces. And they remember stories.”
Igor didn’t even blush. He shrugged with a certain cynical calm.
“So what?” he said, sinking into the chair opposite her desk. “Yes, I have a girlfriend. And? I’m a man; I need a woman’s attention. And you…”—he swept his hand around the office with professional lighting and stands for filming—“you’re always working. When’s the last time you were interested in me as a woman?”
Elena sat back down. There was a new lightness to her movements, as if a heavy load had slid from her shoulders.
“You’re right,” she said thoughtfully. “I do work a lot. I like it. I like seeing the results of my efforts, helping other women, creating something useful.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Igor ran a nervous hand through his hair.
“It has to do with the fact that work gives me what I don’t get at home.” Steel entered Elena’s voice. “Respect. Gratitude. Return. Reciprocity.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That if you need a woman who will do nothing but focus on you—go find her. Just not on my dime.”
Igor sprang from the chair. His face turned crimson.
“Unblock my accounts!” shouted the husband—who didn’t yet know he was already the ex.
Elena looked at him with the same calm attention she gave to financial reports.
“What accounts of yours?” she asked. “There isn’t a single account in your name. There are my accounts, to which I gave you access. That access has been revoked.”
“You can’t do that! We’re husband and wife!”
“We were,” Elena corrected. “I filed for divorce on Monday. The lawyer says it’ll take a month.”
Igor froze. Silence settled over the office, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock.
“What did you say?”
“That we’re getting divorced.” Elena opened the safe and took out a folder of documents. “We have a prenup, remember? Separate property. So I don’t owe you anything.”
She set the papers on the desk. Igor looked at them as if they were an announcement of the end of the world.
“And your… girlfriend?” Elena asked with mild curiosity. “By the way, she found out yesterday that you’re married. And that you have no job, no property, no income. Her interest evaporated instantly.”
“How do you…?”
“You know, she turned out to be smart, too. She told my assistant: ‘I’m a fool, but not enough to get mixed up with a man who’s been mooching off his wife for four years.’ That’s exactly what she said.”
Igor sank back into the chair. For the first time during the conversation, confusion flickered in his eyes.
“Len… we can talk this through… I’ll find a job, we’ll start over…”
“No,” Elena shook her head. “We can’t. In half an hour I have an interview for a national channel; tomorrow—talks with new investors; the day after—board of directors. And you…” She looked at him carefully, as if seeing him for the first time. “And you have time to think about what to do next.”
“You’re throwing me out on the street?”
“I’m ending a relationship that ended a long time ago. I just wasn’t ready to admit it then.”
Elena stood, went to the mirror, and adjusted her hair. In the reflection she could see Igor sitting hunched, staring blankly at the documents.
“And you know what’s most interesting?” she said without turning. “I don’t feel pain or anger. Only relief. As if I’d been carrying someone else’s load for four years and finally dropped it.”
“So you never loved me,” Igor said in a low voice.
Elena turned. Genuine sadness flickered in her eyes.
“I did. But I loved the person I had invented for myself. And you… you just happened to fit my fantasy. For a while.”
She returned to the desk and opened her laptop.
“I need to prepare for the broadcast. Please close the door.”
Igor stood, walked to the threshold, and turned.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Elena replied without looking up from the screen. “That’s no longer my problem.”
He left without slamming the door. Elena heard him moving around the apartment, packing something, calling someone. Then the front door banged, and the apartment fell quiet.
Elena leaned back in her chair and, for the first time in four years, felt truly tired. Tomorrow on air she would talk about how important it is to end relationships in time—those that drain you instead of giving you energy. It would be an honest story—without unnecessary emotion, but with important conclusions.
It’s better to live alone than to be convenient.
And in a month, when the divorce was officially finalized, she would open a bottle of champagne and celebrate not the end of a marriage, but the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A chapter in which she would belong only to herself