— “Where have you been wandering around until eleven, huh?” Maxim’s voice carried from the bathroom. It slid into her morning like a drop of ketchup on a white shirt: not a disaster, technically, but it ruined the mood.
Elena—already fully dressed to leave, keys in hand and a serious expression—froze in the kitchen doorway. She turned slowly, as if this weren’t a conversation with her husband but a scene from a detective show: any second a tense violin would start up and the credits would roll.
“At work. Where else? I’ve got a deadline. A project. We talked about this, Maxim. Not once. Twice. Or were you just nodding along like one of those dashboard bobbleheads?”
“Oh, don’t start…” The subject of the discussion emerged from the bathroom—towel around his waist, face set in that look of I don’t care, but I’m still going to talk. “I just asked. Why are you jumping down my throat right away?”
“Because you ‘ask’ like an investigator in some corruption series. I haven’t even had time to pour coffee and I’m already under suspicion.”
“Who’s even jealous, Lena?” he snorted, pretending he found it funny. But his eyes darted. A trained eye would’ve recognized the twitchy movement of a schoolkid caught with a phone during a test. “You’re always busy with your deadlines. I’m just worried. You never know.”
There it was. The classic symptoms of chronic manipulation. It always starts with “I’m worried.” Then it becomes “just a little money for Mom’s medicine,” and it ends with “let’s transfer the car to Mom—she has benefits, she’s a pensioner.”
She looked at Maxim with the kind of expression only women can afford—women who have fed you, warmed you, and then gotten disappointed. He was well-groomed, fit, with that smug little grin that used to seem sexy. Now it irritated her. Like the voice announcement in an elevator that glides right past your floor.
“Did you call your mother?” she asked, pouring herself coffee. “Or are you waiting again for me to transfer the money?”
“Len, you said yourself it wasn’t a big deal. Her blood pressure…” Maxim tried to put on a serious, compassionate face. It came out badly—like an actor who forgot his lines and decided to improvise.
“Of course. I just delivered a million-ruble project, but I’m the one who’s going to send your mother to intensive care. Not you—the guy who forgot her birthday and only remembered after her text: ‘Sonny, do you still remember me?’”
Maxim put on an offended expression and switched into I’m small, but proud mode.
“What, are you stingy now? It’s only five thousand.”
“It’s not the money I’m sorry about. I’m sorry I live with a man who starts the morning with an interrogation, then asks for money, then makes excuses—always served with ‘I’m just worried.’”
He turned away and buried himself in his phone, as if he might find a discount tutorial on how to become a decent husband. No investments. No obligations.
“Fine. Everything’s clear with you,” he muttered. “As always. You don’t care.”
As always. She didn’t even flinch. That “as always” contained the last four years of their life together. Him—touchy, convinced the whole world undervalued him. Her—tired, no longer believing he could be “fixed.” Their nightly show inevitably ended the same way: he marched off to the computer with a wounded dignity, and she went to the bathroom with a blanket and a mug.
Elena stood by the window and looked out at the street. Moscow in June was doing its usual routine: hot, dusty, and the asphalt smelled like it was sick of everyone. Everything felt familiar. Everything except her.
She was tired. Truly. Not the kind of tired you feel after work. The kind people feel when they realize: they’re not just unheard. They’re being used.
That evening she decided to take a walk. No goal. No route. Just walking. For half an hour, she wanted to stop being Maxim’s wife, a project manager, a grown-up. Just… someone. Maybe even a ghost.
And then—she saw a café. Nothing special. Plastic chairs, the smell of coffee and pastries. But she stopped short.
There, behind the window, sat Maxim.
Not alone.
With a woman. Young, bright, with those lips you only get by special order at a cosmetologist’s. They were laughing. She poked him in the shoulder, and he looked at her the way he once looked at Elena.
And then Elena heard it.
Not everything. Just one fragment. But sometimes one fragment is enough for your whole life to click together like a puzzle—or collapse like a house of cards.
“As soon as she signs the power of attorney, I’ll file for divorce. It’s basically in the bag.”
She didn’t remember how she got home. How she took off her shoes. How she ended up in the bathroom.
She stood in front of the mirror and whispered:
“In the bag, huh… So what kind of pocket have you been keeping me in, you bastard…?”
Maxim came back late, acting like nothing had happened. Smiling. He held out a bag.
“Bought you soap. The lavender one. You said it calms you down.”
She took the bag like it contained a snake wrapped in cellophane.
“And do you remember what you said this morning? That you were ‘worried’? About ‘Mom’? Or did you mean your new one from the café—the one who’s going to help you ‘divorce me’?”
He froze. One moment—and everything hung in the air.
“You’re imagining things, Lena.”
But she was already walking into the bathroom. No shouting. No hysteria. She simply closed the door.
She didn’t lock it.
Because she knew: the worst storms don’t start with thunder.
They start with silence.
Night fell over the apartment like a heavy blanket. Maxim came into the bedroom carefully, like a cat that knows the curtains have already been ripped down and it’s better not to make noise now.
Elena lay on her side. The light was off, but the window let in a dull orange streetlamp glow. In the half-dark, the room felt like an interrogation zone. Only this time, she was the one asking questions.
“Lena…” he began softly, as if testing bathwater with a toe. “Are you serious right now?”
She didn’t answer. Pretending to sleep was pointless—her shoulder trembled even under the blanket. Not from cold— from rage. The kind that accumulates for years and then breaks free when you’re standing at a mirror whispering: “in the bag…”
Maxim sat on the edge of the bed, carefully. He switched on his “quiet kitty” voice, though the usual inner arrogance still slipped through.
“You’re making things up. Maybe someone said something. You’re like that—you overthink, you complicate—”
“I saw you,” she cut in. No tremor. No emotion. Just a fact, like “it’s raining outside.” “And I heard you. You were sitting with her. In a café. She was laughing and you said it was almost ‘in the bag.’”
He went still. His face turned into frozen pizza—only not the tasty kind.
“That’s not what you think…”
She flared up.
“Oh, is that your favorite line when you get caught? ‘It’s not what you think,’ ‘You misunderstood,’ ‘It fell by itself’! You got any more excuses, or did you rehearse them all with your new actress?”
Maxim snapped.
“Why are you yelling, huh?! You think you’re perfect?! And what am I—some dog in your rich life?”
“A dog?!” She sat up. “You’ve been living in my apartment for four years! Driving my car! Your mother, by the way, drinks my medicines!”
He got up too. His voice sharpened into metal.
“And what would you have achieved without me, huh? Our little genius! Businesswoman! You think you carried me? You were just convenient. Convenient! You had everything—connections, money, friends. And me? I’m a shadow!”
“A shadow doesn’t ask to register the car in his mother’s name,” she said. “You’re not a shadow. You’re a project—one I should’ve closed a long time ago. Unprofitable.”
He turned away like he was holding himself back, but she could see it: curtain down. Masks off. No more “good husband” performance. This was the real one.
“So you won’t give me a cent, huh? Even if I leave nicely?”
She laughed—dry and hoarse.
“I’ll give you something. A toothbrush. And slippers. So you don’t walk barefoot into your new life.”
Maxim gave a short, bitter chuckle.
“You’re cruel, Lena. You’ve become cruel.”
“Because of you. Thanks, by the way.”
She turned and went to the kitchen. No dramatic door slams, no screaming—just like someone making tea, because the only thing that could calm her was old green jasmine tea.
He stayed in the bedroom. Then moved to the couch in the living room. Remote, chips, a shadow of resentment. He lay down like a temporary tenant. Like a man still believing she might come to her senses.
Morning was quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
She packed a bag: documents, laptop. Everything—like always. Except her heart. Where it used to be, there was something cold, like a safe door. And only she knew the code.
Before leaving, she stopped by the couch. His mouth was slightly open, his breathing heavy. On the table: the remote, an empty cup, a candy wrapper. A painfully domestic sight.
“I blocked the account,” she said calmly. “The apartment is in my name. The car too. You can go. To your mother. To court. Or… wherever you want.”
He didn’t move. Only his lips twitched. Maybe he wasn’t asleep. Maybe he didn’t want to wake up.
When the door closed behind her, the sky was overcast. The rain hadn’t started yet, but it promised it would. So did she—ready. For the first time. For a fight.
At the office she went straight to the lawyer. He, as always, with coffee and a steel smile.
“Viktor Igorevich, file it. Divorce. No division of property. Everything like we discussed.”
He nodded.
“No problem. Everything’s prepared. If he doesn’t resist, it’ll be simple.”
“Perfect,” Elena said. “File it today. Before I change my mind.”
The whole day ran on autopilot. She stared at an Excel sheet with the project budget and thought about the spreadsheet of her own life: before him, with him, after. The last column was blank, but it already had a name: “Freedom.”
Maxim showed up that evening. Right at the door. Theatrical.
“Have you lost your mind?! I’m not your enemy! Lena, you’re destroying everything!”
“No, Maxim. You destroyed it. All these years. I’m only seeing it now. Next time come with a lawyer. Or with your mom. Actually, better with your mom—at least she’s worth pitying.”
He slammed the door—for real—and left. No pause. No intrigue.
The apartment went quiet. Not empty—quiet. Spacious. And for the first time in a long while—free.
Three weeks passed.
Elena lived alone. And every day felt like a long-awaited vacation she’d never been able to afford. No “Where were you till nine?” No whining about WhatsApp messages from Sasha-the-accountant. No чужие socks in the bathroom, no empty “I’ll do it myself” promises.
The divorce went surprisingly fast. Even the lawyer raised an eyebrow.
“He didn’t file a single objection. Almost like he was glad.”
“He’s not glad,” Elena said evenly. “He’s just looking for somewhere else to latch on. A snake, when it’s wounded, doesn’t strike. It saves its venom.”
And she knew: this wasn’t the end. Just intermission.
He came back suddenly. As always—no call. No “May I?”, “Is it a good time?”, “Hello.”
Elena had just closed her laptop and was about to make tea when the doorbell rang—short, insolent. Exactly like Maxim’s whole manner of living in her house and lying to her face.
She opened the door—and there they were: Maxim, with his trademark smirk of “well, we’re just here,” and beside him—Olga.
Olga looked like she’d stepped off a poster titled “Dream Woman”: hair like a shampoo commercial, lips in “berry mousse,” a fragile porcelain smile—one you want to carefully put back in the box.
“Elena Nikolaevna?” she sang out brightly, like she’d rehearsed it in the car.
“Me, of course,” Elena said calmly, leaning on the door handle. “And who are you? The new one? A direct replacement, or did you just pass the casting call?”
Maxim laughed like it was adorable. And without asking, walked into the kitchen. Like he still lived there. Like it was his apartment. Like he had a shred of shame.
“We just wanted to talk,” Olga began, following him in. “Maxim said you’re a mature person. You’ll understand…”
“He said that?” Elena closed the door and folded her arms. “Well. Talk. Since you’ve barged in.”
Maxim had already settled at the table, pulling a pizza box from a bag like it was some grand diplomatic gesture.
“Len, we want to offer you a deal.”
“How lovely. You’re a couple now—and I’m what? The sponsor? The venture idiot?”
“Don’t be like that,” Olga cut in. “We’re not enemies. It’s just… the situation is complicated.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Maxim owes money. Not only to me. He has obligations. We thought maybe you…”
“Maybe I’ll give you money?” Elena repeated, staring at them like two lost tour guides from a different universe. “Wait. You can’t be serious…”
Maxim shrugged and scratched the back of his head.
“You’re well-off. I invested years in you. And now you just want to cut everything off like that?”
“Invested?!” Elena’s voice wavered. “What did you invest, Maxim? Your laziness? Or your socks in my bathroom?”
He stood up. His eyes hardened—his face like an actor who didn’t get the role and came to demand an explanation.
“I invested myself. My best years. I supported you when you cried after meetings. I was there!”
“You were there when I ordered sushi and you got half. When it was truly bad for me—you disappeared. Or got drunk. Or went to your mom to discuss what a ‘difficult woman’ I am.”
“Go to hell, Lena!” he barked. “You think I put up with you for love? I thought you were smart! But you’re just a bitch in a business suit!”
Then Olga stood up. Her voice was bright. Too bright.
“Enough! We’re having a baby!”
Silence.
For that second, the whole world froze. The air, the tea in the cup, the raindrops on the windowsill. Only that “we” rang out like a gunshot. Or a bankruptcy declaration.
Elena looked at her as if she’d just seen a detour sign. She didn’t believe it—neither the baby nor the idea of Maxim as a father.
“A baby,” she repeated. “Well, congratulations. Maxim’s the dad? Hang on tight. You’ll learn fast how much diapers cost. And how often he ‘can’t handle it.’”
“We want to start from zero,” Olga whispered. “We just need help.”
Elena walked silently to the cabinet. Took out an envelope. Held it out.
“Here. Help. The last help. A gift, you could say.”
Olga took it and opened it. Inside was a copy of the lawsuit. All the transfers. Documents. Receipts. His debt IOUs—neatly retyped, stitched, and filed.
Maxim went pale.
“You have no right…”
“I do. Everything’s legal. And now—out. Both of you. Good luck. I sincerely hope the baby is from someone else. Because if it’s yours, Maxim—he doesn’t stand a chance.”
They left. Olga in tears. Maxim with the face of someone thinking, they’re underestimating us again.
Elena sat down. Looked at the blank TV screen. Then she picked up her phone and booked tickets.
Bora Bora. A hotel with an ocean view and breakfasts without whining.
She wasn’t smiling.
But she could breathe freely.
It wasn’t emptiness