The red stripe on the envelope, almost screaming, was the first thing that caught the eye. “FINAL NOTICE.”
Margarita held the letter in a hand that did not tremble at all. At forty-seven, she had long since forgotten how to tremble. She, the financial director of a large holding company, was used to the idea that problems didn’t cause panic, they only created the need to solve them. But this… this was different.
The envelope wasn’t addressed to her.
It was addressed to him. To her husband. To Andrey.
She sat in the silence of their huge, empty living room, where the furniture seemed to have been bought for some other, happier life. Outside the window, a dull November rain was falling. She had just come home from work, kicked off her perfect pumps and hadn’t even had time to change out of her strict pantsuit.
The lock clicked.
He came in. Brought with him the smell of frost and that eternal, showy, completely unjustified cheerfulness of his. At fifty, Andrey looked great: fit, in an expensive tracksuit, coming back from a “very important meeting” (which, as Margarita knew, was just a hangout in the fitness bar with the same kind of “searching for themselves” former businessmen).
“Hi, Rish!” He pecked her on the cheek, not noticing her icy face or the letter in her hand. “You’re home early, what’s up?”
“They’ve been waiting for us, Andrey,” her voice sounded even, without a trace of emotion.
He finally focused. Saw the envelope. And his face changed instantly. The cheerfulness evaporated, replaced by a familiar, almost childish, petulant irritation.
“Were you snooping in my mail again?” That was his standard defense. Attack first.
“It was in the shared pile, Andrey. Addressed to us. Debt collection agency.”
He snorted, trying to regain his composure as he walked deeper into the room to drop his bag.
“Nonsense. Spam. Throw it out.”
“Three million rubles,” she said just as evenly. “That’s not spam.”
He froze by the sofa.
“What?”
“A loan. From a bank I’ve never even heard of. Taken six months ago. In your name. Three million. Which, judging by this letter, you haven’t paid a single installment on.”
She wasn’t asking. She was stating facts.
Their entire life was built on that. Fifteen years. Ever since his “brilliant” import project of something-or-other had crashed, leaving them with debt. She, Margarita, the “strong,” the “smart,” the “understanding” one, had put everything on her shoulders. She dragged them through. She covered his debts. She paid for this apartment. She paid for his “search for himself.” And he… he simply existed. A beautiful facade. A man who was “about to get back on his feet any day now.”
And she believed. Or rather, she forced herself to believe. Because admitting the truth—that she was living with a kept man, a parasite—was too frightening. It would mean admitting that fifteen years of her life, her youth, her money, had been thrown into a void.
“Ah, that loan,” he finally found the strength to turn around. And there was no shame in his eyes, no remorse. Only cold, angry boredom.
“Yeah. I took it.”
“For what?”
“For life, Riiita!” he almost shouted her name. “For life! Or do you think I enjoy begging you for gas money every time? I… I wanted to invest! Start a new business!”
“What business, Andrey?” She laid the letter on the glass coffee table. “Six months ago you took money from me ‘to pay the lawyers for a new fund.’ You didn’t invest a single kopeck. You just… took it.”
He stared at her. At his wife. At his fail-proof, endless resource that had suddenly dared to ask questions. And he got angry. He was angry the way people get angry when a convenient, familiar thing suddenly breaks.
“So what? What do you suggest now?”
“I’m suggesting you explain how we’re going to pay this back.”
“‘We’?” he smirked. The smirk came out twisted. “No, Rita. ‘We’ will not.”
She didn’t understand.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said.” He stepped closer. Looming. He was taller, stronger than she was. And he enjoyed that. “You’ll be the one paying.”
Her heart seemed to skip a beat.
“What?”
“Well, who else? You’re the ‘financial director’ around here. You’re the one with the job. You’re the strong one.” He said the word like an insult. “So you will.”
“You’ll work three jobs to pay off my loan,” Andrey said.
He was smiling. He was savoring it. At last, he had put her in her place. He, the “loser,” had just, with one sentence, turned her, the “successful one,” into his slave. He thought he had cornered her. He thought she’d burst into tears, start begging. He thought he’d won.
There was one thing he didn’t know.
He didn’t know that I had already filed for divorce and division of property.
She hadn’t just “filed.”
She, as a financial director, had done it quietly, competently, without emotion. Three weeks ago. She had documented all his “searching for himself.” Every transfer. Every bill. And tomorrow… tomorrow was the date of the first hearing, which he, of course, knew nothing about.
Margarita looked at his triumphant, nasty, self-satisfied face. And she felt neither fear nor pain.
She felt only… disgust. And a huge, icy, intoxicating sense of freedom.
He had just, with his own hands, signed his own sentence.
He was smiling. That signature disarming smile of his, the one that, fifteen years ago, had made her—Margarita—believe that he was “just a misunderstood genius.” A smile that now looked like a snarl. He was reveling in this moment. He, the “loser,” the “kept man,” the man living off someone else’s dime, had just, with this short, cruel verdict, put her—the “financial director”—in her place.
He hadn’t just shifted his shameful, secret three-million debt onto her.
He had punished her.
Punished her for her strength. Punished her for her competence. Punished her for the fact that, unlike him, she had actually made something of herself. He had envied her his whole life—her career, her income, her steel character. And now he’d found a way to break her. A way to turn her strength into her own slavery.
His words, “You’ll work three jobs to pay off my loan,” weren’t just a threat.
They were his program. His vision of her future. He, her husband, no longer saw a partner in her. He saw a resource. A draft horse to be driven into the ground, and when she finally collapsed from exhaustion at work, he’d probably just find himself another.
All of her fifteen-year life, built on the illusion of “understanding,” collapsed in that second. All her pride in being “strong,” in “carrying the load,” in “saving” him—turned out to be a lie.
She remembered how, so proud of herself, ten years ago she had brought him a check that wiped out his first big debt after his “failure.” He had hugged her then, cried on her shoulder, called her his “savior.” She had been so proud of herself. What a colossal fool she’d been.
She wasn’t a savior. She had been creating this monster.
With her endless “understanding,” her “Rita will fix it,” her fear of being alone—she had weaned him off responsibility. She had let him atrophy, turn into this petulant, cruel, charming growth on her body. She herself, with her own hands, had grown this parasite, and now that he’d grown strong, he had decided to devour her entirely.
And he was still standing there, waiting. Waiting for her reaction. Waiting for tears. Waiting for a meltdown. Waiting for her to collapse onto the sofa, onto that expensive sofa bought with her money, and sob: “Andrey, how could you? What are we going to do now?”
Margarita slowly, very slowly, lowered her eyes. She looked at her hands resting on her knees. At her flawless, expensive, matte manicure. The hands of a financial director. Hands he had just so casually sentenced to three jobs, to mopping floors, to… poverty.
He didn’t know that I had already filed for divorce and division of property.
He not only didn’t know. In his narcissistic fog, he couldn’t even imagine it.
He didn’t know that “tomorrow” wasn’t just “Tuesday.” “Tomorrow” was the day of the first court hearing, and of course, he hadn’t been notified at his registered address, because she, like a good lawyer, had correctly listed his “last known place of residence” as the address of his fitness club.
He didn’t know that her “financial genius” had, for the past three weeks, been working not only for him but also against him. That while he was “finding himself” at the bar, her lawyers, the best in the city, had been methodically preparing the “division.” They had pulled everything. Every one of his “projects.” Every transfer she’d made to cover his “personal needs.” Every payment of his old debts that she had made.
They weren’t just preparing a divorce. They were preparing a financial audit of their marriage.
And the balance sheet they had drawn up for him was monstrous.
He was still standing there, smiling, waiting for her surrender.
“You…” He seemed to be losing his patience at her prolonged silence. “Did you go deaf? I said—”
“I heard you, Andrey,” her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. But there was no fear, no hysteria in it. Only that new, terrible, icy emptiness. “Three jobs. Your loan. I heard you.”
She lifted her eyes to him. A look he had never seen on her face. The look of an auditor staring at a thief caught in the act.
“And now…” She picked up that very red envelope from the table. “Sit down.”
“What?” He didn’t understand.
“Sit down,” she repeated, no longer as a wife, but as a director calling in a guilty employee for a dressing-down. “It seems we have a subject for a very serious conversation.”
He didn’t sit.
First he let out a short, barking laugh, still desperately trying to keep up appearances in what he was already starting to understand was a disgusting game.
“Sit? Rita, what’s this? You decided to play ‘boss’ now?” He tried to sound condescending, to pull on that mask again of the charming but misunderstood husband. “I already explained everything to you. It’s simple. You work, you—”
“Sit down, Andrey.”
Her voice hadn’t risen by even a decibel. It wasn’t louder. It had just become… dead. And in that dead, icy note there was so much steel, so much unbending authority, that he instinctively obeyed. His smile slid off his face. He slowly, almost awkwardly, lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa—the same one she had bought last month with her quarterly bonus. He no longer sprawled on it like the master of the house. He sat on the very edge, like a guilty student in the dean’s office.
Margarita didn’t honor him with even a nod. She didn’t sit down herself. She remained standing over him, and her still, composed stance was more terrifying than any scream.
“You said I’ll work three jobs to pay off your loan. That wasn’t a suggestion. That was an order,” she stated, not asking.
“Rita, I… I lost my temper!” he instantly tried to backpedal. “I was just mad! You know how those collectors are…”
“I’m glad you finally managed to be honest,” she cut him off. “You finally voiced the rules we’ve been living by for the last fifteen years. I’m the pack mule. And you’re the one driving it. And the one who, if needed, will shoot it without hesitation with another batch of debts.”
“Stop it!” He jumped up, unable to bear her tone. “That’s… that’s not true! I—”
“It’s exactly true.” She took a barely noticeable step toward him, and to his own horror, he stepped back. “And now, Andrey, as you requested, I’m going to ‘work.’”
Without another word, she walked over to her desk in the corner of the living room. Andrey watched her with growing confusion, not understanding what was happening. Her hand did not tremble as she slid a small silver key into a drawer he had never seen opened before and took out a thick, black leather folder, as black as her suit.
“What’s that?” he croaked. “What… what did you put together?”
“It’s not what I put together.” Margarita returned to the coffee table and placed the folder between them like a barricade. “It’s what you generated. This is an audit. An audit of our marriage, Andrey.”
She opened the folder.
“You said I’m going to pay three million. Fine. Let’s look at the balance.”
She pulled out the first sheet.
“Eight hundred thousand rubles. 2017. A loan from Alfa-Bank in your name. ‘For business development.’ The business folded in a month. Who paid it off? I did. From my personal savings.”
She pulled out the second sheet.
“One million two hundred thousand. 2020. ‘Investments in a crypto farm.’ The farm turned out to be a scam. The debt remained. Who paid it off? I did. By selling my grandmother’s earrings and taking out a consumer loan in my name.”
She pulled out a third.
“Six hundred and fifty thousand. 2022. A so-called ‘debt of honor’ to some friend of yours. Who paid it off? I did. With my year-end bonus.”
She laid these sheets out on the glass coffee table like tarot cards predicting his inevitable downfall. He stared at the papers, at his old, forgotten sins that she had quietly paid for, and his face grew paler and paler. He had no idea she was keeping track. He had thought she just “forgave” and “forgot.”
“You… you… what, all this time you…”
“…were keeping records?” she finished for him. “Yes. I’m a financial director, Andrey. I don’t know how to ‘just forget’ million-ruble losses. I record them.”
He stared at her in horror. This was not his Rita. Not “Risha.” This was a merciless stranger standing in his living room.
“So what?” he whispered. “What do you… what do you want?”
“Me?” She looked at him the way she looked at a hopeless debtor. “I don’t want anything anymore. I’m just drawing up the final statement.”
She pulled out the last, most important document from the folder. Not a printout. Heavy paper with a blue seal.
“The three million you took six months ago,” she said, “were the last straw. You’re too toxic an asset, Andrey. It’s time to get rid of you.”
“What… what… what is that?”
“This,” she placed the document on top of all his debts, “is a copy of the statement of claim. He didn’t know that I had already filed for divorce and division of property.”
He stared at the words. “Dissolution of marriage.” “Division of joint property.”
“Divorce?” he whispered. “You… you…”
“Tomorrow at ten in the morning is the first hearing,” she informed him in an icy tone. “I didn’t want to upset you. I thought we’d settle everything quietly. But since you decided to hang another three million on me and send me off to three jobs…”
She smiled. A terrible, dead smile.
“…I’m afraid your little plan is a bit outdated.”
“Divorce?”
He whispered the word, unable to believe it. It seemed to hit him harder than the collectors, harder than his own failure.
“Rita… you… is this a joke?”
His face, which a second ago had been smug and cruel, turned into a mask—the mask of a frightened, cornered child. All his bluster, all his “manly” swagger peeled off like cheap gilt, revealing what Margarita had refused to see for fifteen years: blind, sticky panic.
“This isn’t a joke, Andrey. This is a consequence.” Calmly, as if simply straightening a stray paper, she slid the statement of claim to the center of the table. “Tomorrow at ten.”
He lurched up from the sofa. Not in anger. In pleading. His whole posture, his body, which a moment ago had been “looming” over her, was now hunched, begging.
“No! No! Rita, wait!” He tried to grab her hands, but she stepped back, and he froze awkwardly in place. “Rishenka, sweetheart! I… I didn’t mean it like that! I was angry! You know me, I… I just snapped!”
He tried to talk. He tried to switch on that old, fail-safe charm. He tried to drag her back into her usual, comfortable role for him—as the “understanding” wife, the “savior.”
“I… I love you! You… you’re not really going to leave me, are you? Fifteen years! We’re… we’re a family! You can’t just—”
“Fifteen years, Andrey,” her voice was level, with not a drop of warmth or resentment left. Only a cold, accountant’s statement. “Fifteen years that, as you can see, I have accounted for. You thought I ‘forgave’ and ‘forgot’? No. I’m a finance professional. I ‘archived.’”
He stared at her, uncomprehending. He was still clinging to the word “divorce,” but he had missed the second word, the far more terrible one.
“But… but… division…” he stammered, trying to find some loophole. “This apartment! It’s… it’s ours! We’ll… we’ll sell it! We’ll… we’ll pay everything off…”
He was saying “we” again. He still thought they were one team.
“You’re right,” Margarita nodded. “Everything acquired in marriage is ‘ours.’ And debts, Andrey, are also ‘ours.’ Especially those incurred during the marriage.”
For a second, he seemed to perk up. He saw her “helping.” That she would, as always, “fix everything.”
“So… so you… you’ll help me? We—”
“Oh no,” she stopped him. Her smile was so icy he flinched. “You’ve misunderstood me again. My lawyers are very good. The best in the city. And they attached this to the claim for division of property.”
She tapped her expensive nail lightly on the stack of his old debts that she had paid off.
“They attached full proof that I alone paid off all your previous ‘business projects.’ That I alone paid the mortgage on ‘our’ apartment. That I alone supported ‘our’ family while you spent fifteen years ‘finding yourself.’”
He still didn’t get it.
“And?”
“And therefore, we will not be dividing things fifty-fifty, Andrey. We will be dividing them fairly. We will be restoring the balance.”
“What… what does that mean?” His voice had shrunk to a whisper.
“It means,” she said, each word a nail in the lid of his coffin, “that this home, bought and paid for by me, will remain with me, as repayment of your share for the debts I paid for you. It means that the car, bought by me, will remain with me.”
She paused, letting it sink in.
“And your lovely new loan… this three-million debt you took out behind my back… that will remain with you.”
“No…” He stumbled backward. “No… under the law… the court…”
“The court,” she cut him off, “will take into account that you are a competent, able-bodied man who for fifteen years consciously contributed nothing to the family budget, while generating million-ruble losses that were covered by the second spouse. The court will take into account that just half an hour ago, in this very room, you tried to force me into a slave contract.”
She walked up to him, no longer afraid. He was broken.
“You told me, ‘You’ll work three jobs to pay off my loan,’ didn’t you?” she asked softly.
He stared at her as if at a ghost.
“It seems you miscalculated, Andrey. It seems you’re the one who’ll have to finally find at least one job.”
He collapsed onto the sofa. Stared into nothing. His world, built on her money, his “brilliance,” his “status”—all of it had crumbled. He was naked. He was broke. And he was drowning in debt.
Margarita picked up her handbag. She took her car keys.
“Where… where are you going?!” he croaked, watching her.
“To a hotel,” she said, already standing in the hallway. “I need a good night’s sleep. I have court tomorrow.”
She turned for just a second.
“And you… you can stay. For now. My lawyers will contact you about the eviction. You can… ‘find yourself.’ You can ‘think.’ But if I were you, Andrey, I’d start looking for a lawyer. And a job.”
She walked out without even closing the door behind her. She left him alone. In her apartment. With his debts. And with the final results of her merciless—but fair—audit.