Marina first sensed that something was wrong the moment she noticed Igor hiding his phone. He did it subtly, almost reflexively—the screen would go dark instantly the second she walked into the room. Five years earlier, when they had just gotten married, he left his phone anywhere: on the kitchen table, on the couch, in the bathroom. Back then he had nothing to hide. Or rather, back then he still hadn’t learned how to hide.
Their wedding had been lavish. Marina’s father, who owned a chain of construction-supply stores, didn’t spare any expense. Three hundred guests, a restaurant on the bank of the Moscow River, live music, fireworks. At the time Igor worked as a mid-level manager at one of her father’s companies and smiled so widely it looked like his face might split in two. Marina remembered that day in detail—the white dress, the happy sparkle in the groom’s eyes, guests’ congratulations. She believed he loved her. Just loved her. Not her father’s money, not the connections, not the career prospects. Her.
The first cracks in the illusion appeared a year later. As promised, her father opened several accounts for the young couple—one for everyday expenses, one for vacations, one for emergencies. A generous gesture, driven by his desire to ensure his daughter lived comfortably. Igor was given access to those accounts. “You’re family now,” her father told him, patting his son-in-law on the shoulder. “Manage it together.”
Marina handled the finances carefully, like a proper homemaker. She kept expense spreadsheets, planned purchases, saved for the future. Igor, however, started spending big. At first it was small things—expensive dinners with friends, new gadgets, a premium sports club membership. Then the sums grew. Marina noticed strange charges, but Igor explained them away as business meetings, the need to maintain an image, investments in the future. She believed him. She wanted to believe.
And then the business trips began. Once a month, then twice, then every week. St. Petersburg, Kazan, Yekaterinburg, Sochi. Igor would leave for three or four days and come back tired but pleased with himself. He talked about meetings, negotiations, new contracts. Marina cooked dinners, washed his shirts, waited. She worked remotely as a designer—her own income was modest but steady. She didn’t need her father’s money for herself; she was used to earning on her own. But Igor had gotten used to something else.
One evening, while Igor was in the shower, his phone vibrated on the coffee table. Marina glanced at it automatically—and froze. A message flashed on the screen: “Baby, I already picked the hotel in Antalya! With a sea view, just like you wanted. I can’t wait for our trip.”
Her heart dropped. Her hands started shaking. Marina unlocked the phone—she knew the passcode; Igor had never changed it. The chat opened, and with every line Marina’s world collapsed. “Kristina”—that was the other woman’s name. A twenty-four-year-old blonde with plump lips and gym selfies. The affair had been going on for more than a year: compliments, photos, plans. “I can’t wait until we can finally be together without hiding,” “You’re the best, thank you for dinner yesterday,” “This bracelet is absolutely gorgeous!”
Marina put the phone back. The water kept running in the bathroom. She sat on the couch, staring into nothing. No tears—just a strange numbness inside, a mix of rage, pain, and icy calm. When Igor came out, wrapped in a towel, hair wet, smiling carefree, Marina looked at him with new eyes. This man had been lying to her for over a year. Spending her family’s money on his mistress. Planning a vacation while his wife waited at home.
“Everything okay?” Igor asked, noticing her gaze.
“Yes,” Marina replied quietly. “Just tired.”
She didn’t start a scandal. She didn’t scream, smash dishes, demand explanations. Instead, she began to plan—coldly, methodically, with a surgeon’s precision.
For the next two weeks Marina behaved as usual. She made breakfast, asked about work, smiled. Igor suspected nothing. He bought tickets for a flight to Istanbul with a connection—July twenty-first, a week after her own birthday, which he clearly planned to ignore. Marina found out by checking the purchase history on their family account. Two tickets. Business class. A five-star hotel on the Mediterranean coast.
She contacted the bank and her father’s lawyer. She filed all the paperwork. Moved the money. Prepared everything. And waited.
On the morning of July twenty-first, Igor got up at six. He packed his suitcase with theatrical haste, mumbling about a sudden business trip to Turkey, an important meeting, how he’d be back in a week. Marina drank coffee in the kitchen, watching his fuss.
“Have a good trip,” she said evenly.
He pecked her on the cheek without looking her in the eye and hurried out the door. Marina counted to ten, then picked up her phone. One call—and every account Igor had access to was blocked. Completely. No restoration without her personal presence and signature.
She pictured him riding in a taxi to Kristina, the two of them heading to Domodedovo Airport, checking in, boarding. Istanbul. Connection. That’s where it would start.
The phone rang around three in the afternoon. Igor. Marina didn’t answer. A minute later—another call. And another. Then messages. At first calm: “Marina, I’m having issues with the card, I can’t withdraw cash. Call the bank.” Then more alarmed: “This must be a mistake, all the accounts are blocked. Fix it urgently!” Then desperate: “Marina, this isn’t funny! We’re in Istanbul, I don’t even have money for coffee! Call me immediately!”
Marina sipped wine on the balcony of her apartment. The sunset painted the sky orange and pink. She turned on Do Not Disturb and opened a book.
The next day, new messages appeared in Igor and Kristina’s chat—Marina now had access because his messengers were synced to a tablet (he never checked the settings). Igor was desperately trying to explain. Kristina didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t—why would she want a man who couldn’t even pay for a taxi?
“Are you serious? You thought I’d fly with you with no money? Do you take me for an idiot?” she wrote.
“Kris, it’s a misunderstanding, I’ll sort it out, I swear!” Igor replied.
“You know what? I met a guy here. He offered to fly with me to Antalya. And his cards work, by the way. Good luck.”
Marina smirked. Perfect justice. Kristina dumped Igor right in the transit zone of Istanbul Airport and flew off with some other man. Igor was left alone in a foreign country, without money, with a blocked phone (roaming was paid from that same account), and growing panic.
He started calling friends. Marina knew because his friends started calling her. “Marina, what happened? Igor’s asking to borrow money for a ticket home. Says you two fought.” She answered calmly: “We’re dealing with it. It’s nothing serious.” No details. No emotion.
Igor came back three days later—dirty, furious, exhausted. His friends had pooled money for an economy ticket, not without sarcastic comments. His reputation had cracked. He burst into the apartment around midnight, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled.
“Marina!” he shouted. “Have you lost your mind?! What do you think you’re doing?!”
She sat in the living room in a soft armchair, holding a glass of wine. Beside her were three suitcases—Igor’s things packed neatly. Passport, documents, everything that belonged to him. On the coffee table lay printed bank statements—every expense, every dinner with Kristina, every gift, every hotel. Everything he’d paid for using the family accounts.
Igor froze in the doorway. His face was red with rage, but his eyes darted around, taking in the scene.
“What is this?” he rasped.
“Your things,” Marina answered calmly. “And a report on how you spent my family’s money. One hundred and twenty-three thousand rubles over the past year. On your mistress.”
“I can explain…”
“No need.”
“Marina, it was a mistake! I didn’t mean it… It doesn’t mean anything!”
She set the glass down and stood up. Her voice was quiet, but firm:
“You married me not because you loved me. You married my father’s money. I understood that a long time ago—I just didn’t want to admit it. You used me. You used our family. You spent our money on another woman, lied to me every day, planned a vacation that was supposed to be ours. But you know what? I’m not going to be your ATM anymore.”
“Marina, please…”
“That’s it, dear,” she said with a small, cold smile, looking at his frantic posture, his twitching hands, the desperation in his eyes. “You don’t have accounts anymore.”
Igor tried to step toward her, but she raised a hand.
“The divorce papers have already been filed. The apartment belongs to me—my father’s wedding gift, registered in my name. The accounts are closed. You have no access anymore. My father already knows everything, so I don’t think they’ll be expecting you at work either. Take your things and go.”
“You can’t do this to me!”
“I can. And I already did.”
He stood there, breathing heavily, fists clenched. Marina could see the options racing through his mind—make a scene, try to guilt her, threaten her. But she was ready for anything. The apartment cameras recorded everything. The neighbors would hear if he tried to use force. She had thought through every detail.
“Get out,” she repeated.
Igor grabbed one suitcase, then another. His face twisted—rage, humiliation, helplessness. He turned to the door, but on the threshold he looked back.
“You’ll regret this.”
“No,” Marina said. “But I do regret not doing it sooner.”
The door slammed shut. Marina sank back into the chair and exhaled. Tears finally rolled down her cheeks—not from pity, not from pain. From relief. For five years she’d lived in an illusion, but now it had dissolved. Freedom lay ahead.
A message came from her father: “Proud of you, sweetheart. Come for dinner—we’ll talk.”
Marina smiled through tears. She stood, went to the window, and flung it open. Warm July air rushed into the room. Somewhere down below, Igor was dragging his suitcases to a taxi. Somewhere in a parallel reality, he’d be sitting in a Turkish hotel with Kristina, ordering champagne and making plans. But in this reality, he got what he deserved.
And Marina could finally start living again—without lies, without betrayal, without a man who saw her only as a source of income.
She poured herself more wine, raised her glass toward the open window, and whispered:
“To freedom.”
The city below glittered with lights, and in that shimmer Marina saw not an end, but a beginning—her own beginning.
A week later Igor tried to reach her through mutual acquaintances. He apologized, promised to change, swore everything would be different. Marina didn’t reply. A month later he found a new job—an ordinary manager, without connections or protection. She learned it by accident, from a friend. She didn’t care.
She changed her phone number, deleted his contacts, put away the photos. She repainted the apartment—from cold gray to warm beige. New curtains, new plants on the windowsill, a new life. Her father helped with the lawyers; the divorce went quickly and quietly. Igor didn’t fight it—he had neither money for a lawyer, nor any desire to air dirty laundry in public.
Marina came back to herself: to design, to creativity, to what brought her joy. She signed up for that same expensive fitness club her ex could no longer afford and began traveling—alone or with friends. China, Thailand, the Maldives. She rediscovered the world, without worrying about anyone’s opinion, without needing to adapt to someone else.
One day, sitting in a small café, she received a message from an unknown number: “Hi. It’s Igor. Just wanted to say you were right. Sorry about everything.”
Marina read it, deleted it, and ordered tiramisu. The past stayed where it belonged—behind her. Ahead was a life full of meaning, freedom, and happiness that depended only on her.
And it was the best thing that had ever happened to her