— “Sveta, do you have your own apartment?”
I was holding my glass and looking at Sergey. We’d met a week ago at dance night in the Rhythm club on Presnya. He’d walked me to the metro, paid me compliments, remembered that I like semi-sweet white wine.
And now he was asking about an apartment. On the second date.
— “I do,” I said. “A two-room place in Fily.”
He nodded. Took a napkin and wiped his fingers—too carefully.
— “Lucky you. I rent a corner at some acquaintances’. It’s cramped, of course.”
I finished my drink and looked at his hands. Well-groomed, fresh manicure. An expensive suit, a decent watch. Fifty-two years old.
And he lives “in a corner”?
— “Housing is tough right now,” I said evenly.
— “Yeah,” he caught the waitress’s eye. “Another glass?”
I refused. We said goodbye by the café; he kissed my hand. I walked toward the metro replaying it in my head: the suit, the watch, the manicure… and “a corner at acquaintances’.”
Something didn’t add up.
The check
At home, the first thing I did was open my laptop. Online “people check” services had appeared about three years ago—semi-legal, but they work. You type in a name, surname, year of birth, and it spits out court cases, marriages, divorces, even alimony debts.
Open databases. Formally available to everyone.
Lomov Sergey Viktorovich. Born 1973.
Four marriages.
I clicked the first: 1998–2000. Wife: Kovalyova Irina. Registered address: Moscow, Veshnyakovskaya Street. His residence registration.
Second marriage: 2003–2005. Wife: Semyonova Tatyana. Address: Moscow, Leningradsky Prospekt. His registration again.
Third: 2008–2010. Fourth: 2015–2017.
Same pattern every time: marry, get registered at the wife’s apartment, divorce a year or two later.
I leaned back in my chair. Something tightened in my chest—not fear, more like excitement.
A pro. A hunter.
I grabbed my phone and called Marina.
— “Marin, remember that guy from dancing I told you about?”
— “The attentive one?”
— “He asked about my apartment. On the second date,” I said, pulling up Sergey’s record. “I checked him through the online databases. Four marriages. Every time he got registered at the wife’s place.”
My sister went quiet.
— “Sveta, run from him. Now.”
— “No.” I narrowed my eyes at the screen. “I’m not running. I’m curious.”
— “Curious about what?”
— “I’ll play the trusting one. I want to see how far he’ll go.”
— “You’ve lost your mind!”
— “I’ve never been more clear-headed,” I said. “I just want to see how the system works.”
Marina sighed.
— “Just be careful, Svetka.”
— “I will,” I promised, and looked at Sergey’s profile photo in the court database.
A confident smile. Used to winning.
We’ll see.
The game
We kept seeing each other. October turned into November. Then into December. Sergey was attentive: flowers on Wednesdays, calls every evening at exactly eight. He talked about work—sales manager at a construction company, driving between sites, tired.
He spoke about his ex-wives reluctantly, but if I asked, he answered.
— “I caught the first one with another man,” he said over tea in my kitchen in January. “The second… the second loved the bottle. Hid it, but I noticed.”
— “And the third?” I poured tea into the cups.
He paused.
— “The third was a psycho. Scandals every day. I couldn’t take it.”
I set the kettle down, thinking: interesting—what will he say about me later? That I’m greedy? Cold?
— “And the fourth?” I asked.
— “The fourth…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We just didn’t match. She wanted kids, but I was already pushing fifty.”
I nodded. Poured him tea with sugar the way he liked it. And noticed: he was scanning my apartment again. The windows—plastic, recently replaced. The furniture—solid, not cheap. The walls—fresh renovation.
Evaluating.
— “You’ve got it good here,” he said. “Cozy.”
— “Thanks.” I sat opposite him. “I did the renovation myself three years ago, after my divorce.”
— “Alone?”
— “With workers, of course. But I chose everything.”
He nodded, took a cookie, chewed slowly, thoughtfully.
In February he asked to stay the night.
— “It’s late, Sveta. The metro’s closed, taxis are expensive.”
I checked the time. Half past midnight.
— “Stay,” I said. “I’ll make up the couch.”
— “Thanks,” he hugged me. “You’re understanding.”
In the morning he left for work. From my apartment. In the evening he came back with a grocery bag.
— “I’ll cook dinner,” he said, unloading the food. “You rest.”
I sat on the couch with a book and watched. He moved around the kitchen confidently—knew where the knives were, where the pans were. Opened the fridge without asking.
Like he lived there.
A week later he brought a toothbrush in a blue case. Put it in the bathroom next to mine. Then a razor. Then a spare shirt.
— “Sveta, can I stay over sometimes?” he asked in March, when the snow melted outside. “That corner is unbearable. The owners make noise at night.”
— “Of course,” I said. “Come whenever you want.”
He pulled me close, kissed the top of my head.
— “You’re not like the others. You’re kind.”
I hugged him back and thought: just a bit more. Just a little more.
Control
Every Saturday I opened the online databases. Checked whether he’d filed anything. Not yet. Patient. Waiting.
Marina called on Sundays.
— “So how’s your hunter?”
— “He practically lives with me,” I said, looking at the closet where his shirts hung. “He’s brought half a wardrobe.”
— “Sveta, I’m scared for you.”
— “Don’t be,” I said calmly. “I’m controlling the situation.”
— “And what if he’s dangerous? What if he—”
— “He’s not dangerous, Marin. He’s an ordinary manipulator. Used to women falling for attention.”
She fell silent.
— “What are you even planning?”
— “You’ll see soon.” I opened my calendar. “In about a month and a half. Be ready to sign a couple of papers.”
— “What papers?”
— “A purchase-and-sale agreement,” I said. “I’ll explain later.”
Marina sighed, but didn’t argue.
The confession
April was warm. Sergey came over very drunk on a Wednesday—brought vodka, said it was a coworker’s birthday. We sat in the kitchen; I fried potatoes; he drank. His face flushed, his eyes swam.
— “Svetka,” he suddenly said. “You know…”
I didn’t turn around. Flipped the potatoes with a spatula, salted them.
— “I’m listening.”
— “At first I dated you for the registration.”
My hand didn’t shake. I added dill to the pan.
— “Really?”
— “Yeah.” He hiccuped and poured himself another shot. “I needed Moscow registration. It matters for work, you get it? Without it they don’t sign some contracts. But then… then I fell in love. Seriously fell in love, Svetka.”
I turned off the stove. Plated the potatoes—more for him, less for me. Sat opposite and looked him in the eyes.
— “Marry me,” I said evenly.
He froze with the shot glass in his hand.
— “What?”
— “Marry me. Let’s file next week.”
He set the glass down without drinking. Stared at me, blinking.
— “Seriously? You… seriously?”
— “Seriously.” I picked up my fork and started eating. “No big wedding. Just the registry office. Quiet.”
He got up, came around the table, hugged me so hard my ribs creaked.
— “You have no idea how happy I am! I thought you weren’t ready yet, and you—”
— “I’m ready,” I said into his shoulder. “Very ready.”
He kissed my hands. Said something about happiness, about home, about how long he’d dreamed of this.
And I thought: I can imagine. I can absolutely imagine how happy you are.
The plan
We filed the application five days later. The ceremony was set for mid-May. Sergey glowed—told colleagues, called friends, bought a new suit. I smiled and counted the days.
At the end of April I met Marina at a café on Arbat.
— “Did you bring your passport?” I asked.
— “I did.” She pulled it from her bag. “Sveta, explain already.”
I put printed pages in front of her.
— “Look. After the marriage Sergey gets registered at the address. The next day I sell the apartment to you.”
Marina read, frowning.
— “But then…”
— “Then you’re the new owner. And you file in court to have him evicted,” I said, finishing my cappuccino. “Registration doesn’t give ownership rights. It’s Article 292 of the Civil Code. The court will rule in two to three months.”
— “And then?”
— “Then you sell it back to me. I’ll pay you fifty thousand rubles for the help and stress.”
Marina set the papers down and looked at me for a long time.
— “You calculated all this from day one?”
— “From the moment he asked about the apartment on the second date,” I said, gathering the papers. “Too fast. Pros usually wait a month or two.”
Marina smirked.
— “He picked the wrong woman.”
— “Exactly,” I said. “On the fifth try, he picked the wrong one.”
The wedding
On May 15 we got married. A small registry office on Kutuzovsky, two witnesses from Sergey’s job. He wore his new suit; I wore a simple beige dress. We signed, took photos at the entrance, drank champagne in a nearby café.
That evening he lay on the couch flipping channels.
— “Happy,” he said. “Finally a normal family. Our own home.”
I washed dishes and stayed silent. Outside it grew dark; the courtyard lights came on.
The next day Sergey went to the passport office to arrange the registration stamp.
And I went to a lawyer.
The consultation
A waiting room on the third floor of a business center. The lawyer was a woman around forty-five in a strict gray suit, tired eyes. Moscow is full of them—know the law, don’t ask extra questions.
— “Can I sell an apartment if my husband is registered there?” I asked right away.
She looked up from her computer.
— “Yes. Registration doesn’t give ownership rights. If the apartment is in your name from before marriage, it’s your personal property.”
— “And can the new owner evict him?”
— “The new owner files a claim. The court reviews it in two to three months and issues an eviction decision. Standard procedure,” she typed something. “Consultation is three thousand.”
I paid cash. Walked outside—May, warm, chestnut trees blooming on the Garden Ring. Sat on a bench near the metro and called Marina.
— “The lawyer confirmed it. It’s clean.”
— “When do we do it?”
— “In a week. Sergey gets the stamp—and we start immediately.”
Marina went quiet.
— “What if he figures it out early?”
— “He won’t,” I said, watching people walk by with ice cream. “He’s sure he won. He relaxed.”
The stamp
Ten days later Sergey came back with his passport. Showed me the stamp—my address, his information.
— “There. Now I’m officially registered.”
I looked at the page. His surname in black letters.
— “Now you’re a Muscovite,” I said.
— “Now I have a home,” he hugged me. “Thank you, Svetka.”
— “You’re welcome,” I said, slipping out of his arms. “I’ll run to the store. Get something for dinner.”
I left and went straight to Marina.
The deal
The purchase-and-sale contract was drafted in a day.
We signed at the multifunctional center on Preobrazhenskaya Square. Marina was nervous, fidgeting with her bag strap. I wasn’t. The clerk checked passports, apartment documents, accepted the application.
— “Ownership transfer will be registered in seven business days. You’ll get an email notification.”
— “Thank you,” I said.
We walked out. Marina pulled out a cigarette—she’d quit two years ago.
— “I can’t believe this will actually work.”
— “It will,” I said, checking the time. “Now we just wait. As soon as you have the registration—file in court.”
— “And what are you doing this week?”
— “Living as usual. Cooking dinner, watching series. He suspects nothing.”
Settling in
For seven days Sergey walked around pleased with himself. Bought a new TV—said the old one had a bad picture. Hung different curtains in the bedroom—white, airy. Brought a tool kit—wanted to fix the kitchen faucet.
He was nesting.
I watched and thought: he’s so sure it worked. He doesn’t even allow the possibility that it might not.
On the eighth day an email came from Rosreestr: ownership transfer registered. New owner: Krylova Marina Nikolayevna.
I forwarded the scan to Marina. An hour later she replied:
“Filed the claim. Accepted. First hearing in a month.”
I texted back: “Perfect. Waiting.”
Then I looked at the clock. Half past six. Sergey would be home soon.
Time.
The talk
He came in at exactly seven. Hung his jacket, took off his shoes, walked into the kitchen.
— “Svetka, what are you cooking?”
I was sitting on the couch. On the coffee table in front of me were documents laid out.
— “Sergey, we need to talk.”
He stopped in the kitchen doorway and turned.
— “About what?”
— “I sold the apartment.”
Silence. He blinked once, twice.
— “What?”
— “I sold it to my sister. A week ago. The transfer was registered the day before yesterday.”
He walked into the room slowly. His face went pale.
— “You’re joking.”
— “No.” I handed him the ownership registration document. “Here. New owner is Krylova Marina Nikolayevna. Yesterday she filed to have you evicted.”
He grabbed the paper. Read it. Traced lines with his finger, lips moving.
— “But I’m registered! I’m your husband!”
— “Registration doesn’t give ownership rights,” I said calmly. “I was the owner. I sold it to my sister. Legally. Article 292 of the Civil Code.”
— “You can’t! We’re married!”
— “I bought the apartment in 2002. Before our marriage. My personal property. I can dispose of it,” I took the paper back. “The court will rule in two months. You’ll be evicted.”
He sank onto the couch. The papers slipped from his hands onto the floor.
— “You… tricked me.”
I stood, gathered the papers, stacked them neatly.
— “No. You tried to trick me. Four previous marriages, remember? Every time: registration. You thought I wouldn’t find out?”
He jerked his head up. His eyes widened.
— “How did you—”
— “Online background-check services. I entered your data the very first evening you asked about the apartment. On the second date, Sergey. Too early.”
“Pros usually wait at least a month,” I sat in the armchair across from him. “Interesting biography. Four wives, four registrations, four divorces. A polished scheme.”
He stayed silent, staring at the floor.
— “The court will rule in two months,” I continued. “You’ll get a notice. You can take your things today or tomorrow.”
— “But I…” his voice broke. “I loved you. I really loved you.”
— “No,” I put on the cardigan draped over the chair. “You loved my apartment. Fifty-two square meters in Fily. That’s what you fell in love with.”
The court
He left an hour later. Packed his things into two bags—shirts, razor, phone charger. Didn’t look at me. The door slammed.
I stayed alone.
Sat in the kitchen, made tea. Outside it was getting dark; lights flickered on in neighboring buildings. Quiet. For the first time in half a year—truly quiet.
I called Marina.
— “He knows.”
— “How did he take it?”
— “Shock at first. Then he tried to push pity—said he loved me. Didn’t work.”
— “Sveta… aren’t you scared?”
— “No,” I said, looking at my cup. “I’m calm. For the first time in a long time—really calm.”
The case lasted two and a half months. Sergey hired a lawyer—tried to claim he’d been deceived, that as a spouse he had the right to live in the apartment. The lawyer talked about good faith, family values.
The judge—a woman around sixty with glasses on a chain—heard both sides. Marina presented everything: the sale contract, the ownership registration, the history of the purchase in 2002.
— “The apartment was acquired by citizen Morozova in 2002 with personal funds,” the judge read. “Before the marriage to the defendant. It is personal property. The sale was executed in accordance with the law. Registration does not confer ownership rights under Article 292 of the Civil Code of the Russian Federation.”
She took off her glasses and set them on the desk.
— “Claim granted. Evict Lomov Sergey Viktorovich within ten days.”
Sergey sat pale, gripping the armrests. I stood by the window next to Marina. My sister squeezed my hand.
— “That’s it,” she whispered.
— “Yes,” I said softly. “It’s over.”
Returning it
All that was left was to wait until we could resell the apartment back. I paid Marina fifty thousand rubles for her help.
— “Sveta, you’re some kind of genius,” Marina said, counting the bills at the café.
— “No.” I finished my latte. “I’m just not stupid. I checked in time.”
— “What if he’d figured you out earlier?”
— “He couldn’t,” I said. “He’s used to women falling for attention. Flowers, calls, compliments—and that’s it, you’re his. He relaxed. Thought I was the same.”
Marina twirled her spoon in her cup, thoughtful.
— “You know… I almost feel sorry for him.”
— “Don’t,” I said. “He did it four times before me. The fifth time he just met the wrong woman.”
Messages
Sergey wrote for a month and a half. Messages came at night.
“Why did you do this to me?”
“But I loved you, Sveta.”
“I have nowhere to live now.”
I didn’t reply. I just read and deleted. Then the last one came:
“You ruined my whole life.”
I stared at the screen for a long time. Then I wrote:
“You tried to ruin mine. Didn’t work. Good luck, Sergey.”
Hit Send. Blocked the number.
Warning
Half a year passed. November. First snow outside. I ran into Lena from the dance club in a mall on Arbat.
— “Svetka!” she hurried over with shopping bags. “We haven’t seen each other in forever!”
We drank coffee in the food court on the third floor. Lena shared updates: a new trainer at the club, her daughter got married, a promotion at work. Then she leaned closer, conspiratorial.
— “Listen—I’ve got a man! So attentive! Brings flowers, calls every evening.”
I took a sip of Americano.
— “What’s his name?”
— “Sergey. We’ve been together a month. He’s renting a room for now, but he says it’s temporary.”
I set my cup down.
— “Lena… did he happen to ask whether you have your own apartment?”
She froze with a cookie in her hand.
— “How do you know?”
I pulled out my phone and found the saved photo of the eviction court decision for Lomov Sergey Viktorovich.
— “That’s how. Check him through the online services. Surname Lomov, born 1973. You’ll see five marriages. Every time registration, every time divorce.”
Lena took my phone. Read—her face getting paler by the second.
— “I didn’t know… he seemed so… decent.”
— “They always do,” I said, taking my phone back. “That’s why it works. Check men, Lena. The databases are open. Three clicks—and you know who you’re dealing with.”
We said goodbye by the escalator. Three days later Lena texted:
“Dumped him. Thanks for the truth.”
Epilogue
A year passed since that October when Sergey asked about my apartment. May again, chestnuts blooming on the Garden Ring again.
A message came from an unknown number:
“You’re the only one who turned out to be smarter than me.”
I looked at the screen. Recognized the style. Sergey had found a way to write.
I thought—delete or answer? I answered. One last time.
“No, Sergey. I’m the only one who checked you on day one. Online services are a great thing. Use them.”
Sent it. He read it two minutes later. Never wrote again.
I’m sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. Outside, sparrows are squabbling on a branch, the birch is turning green with young leaves.
My apartment. My fifty-two meters. My world.
Maybe I’ll get a dog. Or a cat. Or just live like this—alone, calm, free.
The main thing I learned: if a man asks about your apartment too early—don’t get angry, don’t get offended. Just open a browser. Three clicks. And you’ll see the truth.
Better to know from day one than discover it a year later.
And love… love can be different. Love for a person. For an apartment. For registration.
You just have to understand in time what, exactly, you’re being loved for.
And if it’s not really you—don’t grieve. Just leave quietly.
Or quietly show him the door.
If you own the apartment—you have the choice