The morning began with a lie.
It slipped into the house together with the first rays of sun, which were carelessly playing on the perfectly polished parquet floor. Mikhail, my husband, kissed me on the temple with that carefully measured tender care he had been honing for many years. This gesture, which once made my heart flutter and stop from happiness, now only stirred a quiet, cold smirk somewhere deep inside my soul, in that place where a beautiful garden had once bloomed, and where now there lay a scorched desert.
“Alright, my dear, I’d better get going. Don’t be too bored here without me,” he cooed, carefully straightening the collar of his perfectly ironed shirt. Ironed, by the way, by my hand. “This conference is for three days, you understand, important business, meetings, negotiations.”
I simply nodded in silence, skillfully portraying a sleepy and slightly sad wife who will be pining away alone. “Of course, my dear. May luck be with you. Be sure to call as soon as the plane lands.”
He deftly grabbed a small but stylish suitcase in which, as I knew perfectly well, there were three polo shirts, light shorts and new swim trunks. A rather strange set for a serious business conference in Sochi in the middle of cool November. But I obediently, and even with apparent diligence, packed these things for him, and at the very last moment placed at the very bottom a new, just-unboxed bottle of his favorite perfume. Let his new sweetheart fully enjoy this familiar, once so dear to me scent.
I stood at the window for a long time, watching blankly until his taxi disappeared behind the bend of our quiet street. Only then did I allow myself to exhale slowly, very deeply. The carefully created and rehearsed mask finally slipped from my face, revealing a steely, unshakable resolve. Conference. How ridiculous and disgusting that lie of his seemed to me. I knew the real name of his “conference.” Her name was Alisa, she was only twenty-five, and she worked as a junior analyst in his department.
I knew absolutely everything. I knew how he had started hiding his phone, going into another room for supposedly “urgent” calls. I knew about his endless “working late,” after which he smelled of someone else’s overly sweet perfume. I knew about the strange charges on our joint credit card at restaurants where we had never been, and in boutiques of expensive women’s lingerie. Naive man, he genuinely believed that I, buried in household chores and routine, noticed nothing. That I, a woman in the very prime of life, who had lived side by side with him for two decades, had grown so blind and deaf from habit that I had lost my vigilance.
But I didn’t just know everything. I was patiently and methodically preparing.
Two months ago, quite by accident, when I saw a tab with an airline’s website on the screen of his open laptop, I didn’t feel a sharp pain, but rather a strange, chilling stab of excitement. On the screen was a confirmation for two business-class tickets to the Maldives. In his name and in the name of Alisa Zaitseva. Departure was scheduled for the fourteenth of November. For exactly ten long days.
At that very moment something in me died irrevocably, and something else, new and unfamiliar, was born. The Maria who loved, believed, and trusted died. Another woman was born—cold, calculating, calm, not thirsting for blind, destructive revenge, but for restored justice. And, of course, for an impressive, memorable finale.
I didn’t start any scenes; I didn’t throw accusations in his face. I simply began to act like a true strategist planning her main operation. Through an old acquaintance who worked at a travel agency, I easily found out their flight number and the exact name of the hotel. “Anita Kirs,” one of the most luxurious and expensive resorts in the Maldives. An overwater villa with direct access to the ocean and a private pool. Very fancy. My husband had decided to squander our joint savings—long and carefully accumulated for a major renovation of our country house—on a truly heavenly vacation with a young employee.
My next step was simple, but required considerable self-control and composure. I dialed the airline’s customer service number. Claiming a severe, almost pathological fear of flying, I begged the agent to give me a seat in the cabin next to a certain passenger on that flight. I cried into the phone, recounting a heartbreaking story about how terrified I was of flying alone after a recent family tragedy. Of course, such a trick would never have worked in economy class. But in an almost empty business-class cabin, where every paying customer is valued, they unexpectedly agreed to help me. Especially after I immediately paid for the most expensive, flexible fare that allowed me to choose any available seat. Without hesitation, I chose an aisle seat. Next to seat 5B, which, according to the booking, belonged to my husband. His companion was supposed to sit by the window, in seat 5A. I took seat 5C. We were about to make a truly delightful trio.
All that remained was to pack my own suitcase. There wasn’t a single business suit or strict blouse inside. Only light, airy dresses, a few elegant swimsuits, and new, incredibly expensive silk lingerie. I withdrew a very decent sum from my personal account, which Mikhail always condescendingly called “the rainy-day piggy bank.” That very rainy day had come.
At the airport I felt like the main heroine of some fascinating spy movie. Large dark sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat hiding half my face, and a long, inconspicuous beige trench coat. I sat in a secluded corner of a café with a wonderful view of the check-in counters and simply watched.
And finally, they appeared. Mikhail, glowing with anticipation like a freshly polished brass samovar, was pushing two expensive suitcases. Beside him trotted Alisa, giggling carelessly and coquettishly fluffing her golden, wavy curls. She was beautiful with that fresh, youthful, healthily radiant beauty that so often blinds middle-aged men. There was nothing particularly special or outstanding about her—just youth. And, of course, brazen confidence. She clung to his arm so naturally and assuredly, as if it were her lawful, inalienable right.
I slowly took the last sip of my now-cold coffee. Not a single drop of pain, not a trace of jealousy. Only a cold, almost ringing curiosity. Just how far was he prepared to go in this lie? How deeply had he sunk into his own deception?
I boarded almost last. My heart was beating evenly and calmly, like a well-tuned metronome. I was absolutely ready for the performance ahead. I walked unhurriedly down the narrow aisle of the plane, letting my gaze slide over the seat numbers. They were already in their places, cooing quietly like two tame doves. Alisa was gazing at the window in delight, and Mikhail was telling her something animatedly and passionately, gesticulating with enthusiasm.
I came right up to them and stopped politely.
“Excuse me, I believe you’re in seat 5B? My seat, if I’m not mistaken, is next to it.”
Mikhail turned at the sound of my voice. And then he froze, as if turned into a pillar of salt. His radiant, smug smile slid from his face with astonishing speed, like a watercolor painting under a downpour. His eyes widened in pure, genuine terror and complete incomprehension of what was happening. He looked at me as if he were seeing a real ghost from his past. He opened and closed his mouth several times in convulsive attempts, like a fish thrown onto the sand.
“Masha?.. What… what are you doing here? How did you even end up here?”
I just smiled sweetly and casually, with my kindest smile. The very one he once loved more than anything in the world.
“Hello, my dear. Now this really is a surprise! I’m flying to a conference. For professional development. Imagine, there were no tickets left to Sochi, so I had to fly with a connection. Through Malé. What an amazing coincidence, don’t you think?”
I deliberately shifted my gaze with mild curiosity to his young companion, who had shrunk into her seat and tried to pull her head into her shoulders to become invisible. Her delicate face instantly turned a deep crimson with embarrassment.
“Oh, it seems we haven’t been introduced? Maria. Mikhail’s wife.”
The girl muttered something incoherent and unintelligible in response. Mikhail still couldn’t pull himself together and take control of the situation.
“Masha, listen, I… I can explain everything, just hear me out.”
“Not now, dear,” I interrupted him gently but firmly. “We’re just about to take off. You know perfectly well I don’t like talking during takeoff, it distracts the pilots. Let’s rather order ourselves a glass of good champagne? We simply must celebrate our so unexpected and touching reunion.”
I settled comfortably into my seat, took off my coat and coquettishly adjusted my hair. A flight attendant passed by, and I caught her knowing look.
“Yes, would you be so kind as to bring us three glasses of your best champagne,” I said loudly, distinctly, and so that the neighbors could hear. “My husband and his… colleague,” I paused meaningfully, glancing at Alisa again, “are beginning our unforgettable vacation.”
The rest of the flight passed in an almost tomb-like, oppressive silence, broken only by my polite and absolutely calm requests to pass me a napkin or some magazine. With visible pleasure I leafed through a glossy travel magazine, occasionally commenting aloud on especially vivid photographs: “Oh, look, Mikhail, what a magnificent overwater villa. Isn’t that exactly where you were planning to stay? I seem to recall seeing very similar pictures in your browser history.”
Mikhail sat pale as a sheet, motionless and unblinking, like a statue, staring at the back of the seat in front of him. Alisa cried the entire flight, not taking her eyes off the window and sobbing quietly. The other business-class passengers watched our strange, tense little group with undisguised curiosity and interest. I caught their furtive glances and responded with a mysterious, slightly sorrowful smile. I knew perfectly well—the show was only beginning, and the climax was still ahead.
When we finally landed in the scorching airport of Malé, Mikhail suddenly regained the power of speech. He grabbed my hand as soon as we found ourselves inside the spacious terminal building. Alisa trudged unwillingly behind us, her head down, trying not to look around.
“Masha, I beg you, listen to me, this is not at all what you might think!” he hissed, trying to speak as quietly as possible.
“Really?” I raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “And I thought my lawful husband had blatantly lied to me about an urgent conference and flown off to the heavenly Maldives with his young mistress. What exactly here, pray tell, is not as it seems?”
“I’ll explain everything to you, I promise! Just give me one chance, just one! This… this was a huge, unforgivable mistake! I only realized it just now!”
“A mistake?” I laughed a short, dry laugh. “Buying two business-class tickets, booking the most expensive overwater villa for ten thousand dollars—that’s just a mistake? Mikhail, please, don’t take me for a complete idiot. It’s insulting at this point.”
We had just approached the counter where smiling representatives of our hotel were greeting guests. A pretty girl in a bright sarong with a fresh flower in her hair beamed at us with her professional smile.
“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Orlov? Welcome to the Maldives! Your villa is already fully prepared for your arrival.”
Mikhail nodded, still gripping my hand in a vise. I, however, addressed the girl absolutely calmly and politely.
“I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a small misunderstanding. I am Orlova. And this,” I gestured gracefully toward Alisa standing a bit apart, “is Miss Zaitseva. Did my husband happen to book three separate rooms for the three of us?”
The girl looked at Mikhail with obvious confusion, then at me, then back at him.
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. We have a confirmed reservation for one premium-class villa for two. It’s booked in the name of Mikhail and Alisa Orlov.”
I laughed loudly and genuinely. The entire luxurious hotel lobby turned to my laughter.
“Oh, Mikhail! You even gave her our shared last name—for the duration of the trip at least? How touching and sweet! The absolute height of romance. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to seriously disappoint your newly minted ‘wife.’”
I turned again to the hotel representative, completely ignoring my husband’s pale face distorted by horror.
“You see, there’ve been some changes in our plans. My husband’s reservation can probably be canceled, don’t you think? I’m well aware that under your rules this is impossible without a penalty. I’m prepared to pay it in full.”
Mikhail looked at me as if I had just sentenced him to the highest possible punishment.
“Masha, what are you doing? Everything’s already paid for!”
“It was paid for, my dear. With our joint credit card. Which I, for your information, blocked exactly an hour ago, as soon as our plane entered stable coverage. So I’m afraid the final payment to the hotel never went through.”
With a light, elegant smile I took my personal platinum card out of my clutch.
“And now I’d like to book for myself the very best villa you have available. In a single name only. Maria Orlova.”
Mikhail’s eyes literally became the size of saucers. They reflected the full realization of the disaster. He finally understood that I hadn’t just accidentally uncovered his deceit. I had deliberately, brick by brick, destroyed his carefully constructed plan, his long-awaited vacation, his reputation as a respectable man. He stood in the middle of the luxurious lobby filled with happy people, confused and humiliated, with his young mistress who was now looking at him not with adoration, but with open contempt. Her beautiful little fairy tale about a rich prince on a white horse had crumbled to dust in a matter of minutes.
I was escorted with every courtesy to a small private seaplane that was to take me directly to the island. Mikhail and Alisa remained in the noisy airport, talking loudly and confusedly about something. They had no cash, no working credit card, and no confirmed hotel reservation. They did have their return tickets, but the flight wasn’t for another ten long days.
I settled comfortably by the window and watched with relish as the turquoise expanse of the ocean stretched beneath me, scattered with tiny islands like pearls. For the first time in the long months of lies and pain, I felt not sorrow or bitterness, but a heady, all-encompassing sense of true freedom. This was not just cruel revenge. This was my real, long-awaited rebirth from the ashes.
My villa turned out to be truly magnificent. It stood directly over crystal clear water, with a transparent glass floor in the living room through which schools of brightly colored tropical fish were perfectly visible. I had my own private pool, a personal butler who fulfilled any wish, and a stunning view of the sunset that literally took my breath away.
For the first two days I simply enjoyed the peace: I slept a lot, ate fresh, juicy fruit, and swam for long stretches in the warm ocean waves. I deliberately switched off my phone and allowed only the ocean, with its eternal whisper, to wash the remnants of my past, unnecessary life from my soul. I no longer thought about Mikhail. He became nothing more than part of a turned page in the book of my life, a dull and uninteresting chapter.
On the third day I decided to start actively exploring the island. I signed up for diving at the coral reefs, a sunrise yoga class on a deserted beach, and a fascinating cooking workshop on local cuisine. I met new people—happy couples from sunny Australia, a friendly family from Germany, a solitary but wonderfully interesting artist from France. I spoke quite openly about my story, and instead of pity or condemnation, I saw in their eyes genuine admiration and support.
In the warm evenings I liked to sit in a cozy bar right on the sand, drink exquisite cocktails and listen to live, melodic music. I began to feel beautiful, desired, full of life and energy again. The men, guests of the hotel, paid me sincere compliments, but I only smiled back politely and with dignity. I no longer needed anyone in order to feel truly happy. I was perfectly content with my own company—rediscovered and full of hope.
About a week later I ran into them quite by accident in the only souvenir shop on the whole atoll. They looked absolutely terrible. Mikhail had noticeably lost weight, become gaunt; dark, deep circles lay under his eyes. Alisa was pale, without makeup, with a dull, empty look and her hair carelessly pulled back in a messy knot. Judging by everything, they had somehow managed to find the cheapest accommodation on a nearby local island and had arrived here by ferry in a futile search for at least some entertainment.
When Mikhail saw me, he rushed toward me across the shop.
“Masha, forgive me! Forgive me, I beg you! I was a complete idiot, I didn’t understand anything! I only realized everything now. I love only you.”
Alisa stood behind him in silence. In her once radiant eyes there was not a trace of her former fire, only fatigue, disappointment, and emptiness.
I looked at Mikhail calmly. At the man with whom I had once shared joys and sorrows for twenty years. And I didn’t feel anything at all. Only a quiet, indifferent emptiness.
“Mikhail, it’s far too late for apologies. You made your conscious choice. Now live with the consequences.”
“But what are we supposed to do now? We’ve completely run out of money! We can’t get off this place!” He was on the verge of a full-blown hysterical fit, his voice slipping into falsetto.
“That is now your personal problem,” I replied absolutely calmly. “You’re an adult, independent man. You managed to organize this whole trip somehow, so now try to organize your return home. You can, for example, call your friends. Or your parents. Although I’m afraid they’ll have to come up with some kind of explanation as to why their son ended up in the Maldives with a young girl instead of at an important conference in Sochi.”
I chose a beautiful silk scarf with a local pattern, calmly paid at the register, and walked out of the shop without looking back once. I only caught how Alisa screamed at Mikhail in a voice breaking from tears: “I hate you! You’ve ruined my whole life!” Their loud, inappropriate quarrel echoed across the quiet, heavenly island, but it had nothing to do with me anymore.
On the day of my departure home I was sitting in the cozy hotel lobby, waiting for my seaplane. My butler approached almost soundlessly.
“Madam Orlova, a gentleman has been asking about you several times. He left this note for you.”
I took from his hand a simple sheet of paper folded several times. It was a printed bill from some cheap guesthouse in the name of Mikhail Orlov and an insistent request to pay it immediately, as their last cash had been stolen during the night. And at the bottom there was a shaky, anxious postscript: “Masha, I beg you for mercy. Please save me.”
I just laughed quietly, crumpled that pathetic note and threw it into the nearest trash bin.
“Please tell this gentleman that I have not the honor of being acquainted with any person by the name of Mikhail Orlov.”
I boarded the plane and took one last look at the little island that had forever become my place of strength and spiritual rebirth. Ahead of me, of course, lay some difficult formalities: divorce, division of jointly acquired property, and the beginning of a new, completely free and independent life. And I was absolutely certain I would cope with everything. Because a woman who has managed to turn the hell of someone else’s betrayal and lies into her own real paradise can do absolutely anything. Her heart, having passed through fire and ice, had not hardened, but had learned to beat in rhythm with the ocean—eternal, wise, and infinitely free. And in that rhythm lay her new path