“Where’s the money?! The card won’t work!”
Marina held the phone a little away from her ear. Dmitry’s voice slammed through the speaker—sharp, demanding.
She was sitting in her office on the twelfth floor. Outside the window: a construction site—cranes, concrete blocks.
“It works. Just not for you anymore.”
Silence. She pictured him at a restaurant register with that girl standing beside him. Pictured him going pale.
“Marina, what the hell are you doing?! I’m coming over right now!”
She ended the call. Her hands weren’t shaking. Strange—usually they shook when he raised his voice.
Maxim’s phone lay on the desk. Her son had left it yesterday, silently turning the screen toward her. A video. A nightclub, lights. Dmitry kissing a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty. His hands on her waist, that smile Marina had thought belonged to her.
She watched it three times. She didn’t cry. She just watched.
Dmitry had appeared a year and a half earlier, after Viktor died. A heart attack at fifty-six. Marina was left alone—with her father’s company, an apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, and emptiness.
Dmitry came to a meeting. Twenty-eight years old, a manager, a smile that made you want to smile back.
“Marina Olegovna, may I clarify something?”
Polite. Attentive. Then coffee after work.
“You explain things so interestingly.”
Marina understood he was twenty-four years younger. Understood how it looked. But when he said, you’re beautiful, she wanted to believe him.
Her father said it plainly:
“Marina, he doesn’t need you. Not you yourself.”
Her son Maxim stopped answering her calls after the wedding. He was a year older than Dmitry—twenty-nine. It was ridiculous. But Marina married him anyway.
The first month Dmitry was flawless. Breakfast on the table, a massage after work.
“You’re so tired—lie down, I’ll handle everything.”
Marina melted. Then he asked for her card.
“Give me the card. It’s inconvenient to ask every time. I’m not a stranger.”
She gave it to him. A week later—her car keys.
“I’ve got a meeting. You don’t need it anyway.”
She handed them over. He started coming home later, replying more curtly, looking past her.
“What kind of dinner is this? I don’t eat heavy food at night.”
Marina would redo it.
“You’re a director, and you dress like… well, you know.”
She bought new dresses. Expensive ones. He nodded without looking.
One day she opened the closet—six new suits were hanging there. She hadn’t bought them. But the card was shared.
Last night the doorbell rang. Maxim. He held out his phone without a word.
“Watch.”
The video. Dmitry with a girl. Dancing, kissing. His hand on her waist—the same gesture Marina remembered on herself.
Maxim expected tears. But Marina only handed the phone back.
“Thank you.”
“Mum, let me handle him myself—”
“No. Go home.”
She closed the door. Sat on the couch. In her chest—nothing. Just cold.
She called the bank.
“Good evening. Block the additional card.”
Five minutes later it was done. Then she called her father.
“Dad, check one employee’s finances. Dmitry.”
Her father didn’t ask why.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
She went to bed fully dressed. Dmitry came back near dawn, smelling of someone else’s perfume. Lay down beside her. Marina didn’t move.
In the morning he left, slamming the door. At lunch her father called.
“We found it. He’s been taking kickbacks from contractors for the past six months. We can fire him.”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Why not today?”
“Because today he still doesn’t know anything.”
A pause.
“Got it, sweetheart.”
That evening Dmitry called.
“Where’s the money?! The card won’t work!”
“It works. Just not for you anymore.”
She hung up. Packed his things. Suits into a suitcase, shoes into a bag. Carried it all to the entryway. Sat down to wait.
He burst in half an hour later, face red.
“What do you think you’re doing?! I was standing at the register like an idiot! In front of people!”
Marina stayed silent.
“Explain what’s going on! I’m your husband!”
“Was. Here are your things.”
He saw the suitcases. Went pale.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Because of what?! The card broke, I’ll call the bank—”
“Don’t. I blocked it myself.”
He froze, stepped closer.
“What right do you have?!”
“Every right. It’s my card. My money. My apartment. And tomorrow you’ll be fired. For kickbacks from contractors. The documents are with the lawyers.”
Dmitry’s face twisted. He tried to smile.
“Marina, wait. Let’s talk calmly—”
“Sit down.”
He sat. Marina stayed standing.
“You were in a club with a girl. Maxim filmed it. You kissed her.”
Silence. He licked his lips.
“She’s just an acquaintance. We drank, she came onto me! I swear, nothing happened!”
“Leave.”
“Marina, listen—”
“Leave your keys on the table.”
He jumped up. His voice cracked.
“Who do you think you are?! You think because you’ve got money you can twist people around?! I gave you a year and a half!”
Marina looked at him. Inside—quiet.
“It wasn’t you who was giving. Leave.”
He breathed hard. Then he finally snapped.
“You’re nothing without money! You hear me?! Who needs you?! At least I pretended!”
Marina stepped toward him. He backed off—and she saw it: he was scared. Not of her. Of the fact that she wasn’t afraid of him anymore.
“Get out of my home. Now.”
He grabbed one suitcase, dragged it into the hallway. Came back for the second. Threw the keys onto the floor—missing the table. Slammed the door.
Marina picked up the keys, placed them on the dresser, locked the door and latched the chain. Went to the kitchen. Sat down. Her hands were shaking. Finally shaking.
She dialed Maxim.
“Mum?”
“Come over, if you can.”
“I’m already on my way.”
Maxim arrived twenty minutes later. He came in quietly. Marina was sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window.
“Mum.”
She turned.
“Sit.”
He sat across from her. They were silent. Then Maxim said:
“I’m sorry I showed you the video. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“You should have. Thank you.”
“He’s gone?”
“Yes. For good.”
Maxim reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
“Mum, I wasn’t angry at you. I just didn’t understand. I thought… I thought you betrayed me.”
His voice wavered. Marina squeezed his fingers.
“I did betray someone. Myself. But I won’t anymore.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“I already am.”
He stayed for another hour. They hardly talked. It didn’t matter.
Three days later Dmitry rang the doorbell. Marina opened it, leaving the chain on.
“Let’s talk. I get it now. Give me a chance.”
“No.”
“Marina, please. I’ll change. Honestly. I love you.”
“No.”
He stood there, fidgeting. His voice hardened.
“You’ll regret it. I’ll find a better job, I’ll earn more. And you’ll regret it.”
“Maybe. But without you.”
She shut the door. He didn’t call again.
Two months passed. Marina signed the divorce papers. The prenup protected everything—Dmitry got nothing. He tried to sue, but backed off quickly.
One day she was driving home from work and saw him at a bus stop. Dmitry stood there in an old jacket, staring at his phone. Grey-faced, shoulders hunched.
Marina slowed down. Looked through the glass. She waited to feel pity or anger. But there was nothing. Just a man at a bus stop.
She pressed the gas and drove on.
That evening Maxim came by with a girlfriend. Young, laughing, intelligent eyes. They sat in the kitchen talking. Marina watched her son—how happy he was.
“Mum, how about you?” Maxim asked when the girl stepped out.
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He hugged her. Marina closed her eyes.
The next day a new employee showed up at work—young, hardworking.
“Marina Olegovna, can I ask a question?”
She looked at him and remembered Dmitry—just as diligent once.
“Ask. But only business.”
The young man nodded, opened a folder. He talked about the project, the numbers. He didn’t stare into her eyes. Didn’t smile too widely. He just worked.
Marina listened and thought: this is how it should be. Clean.
That evening she came home. The apartment greeted her with silence. Marina took a shower, brewed coffee, sat by the window.
The city below lived its own life—lights, cars, people. Somewhere out there Dmitry was starting over. Somewhere Maxim was building a family. Somewhere her father was working late.
And she was here. Alone. And that was okay.
Marina took out her phone and opened the gallery. Old photos—her wedding with Dmitry, trips, smiles. She paused on one: him holding her, kissing her cheek.
She tapped “delete.” Then another. And another. Slowly. In the gallery, only photos with Maxim, with her father, and from work remained.
Marina finished her coffee and looked out the window.
Tomorrow there would be construction again. Documents. Meetings. Life.
But now it was hers. Only hers.