From the very morning everything was going to hell, and I understood that better than anyone.
Not because I felt unwell—no.
But because overnight my life had cracked like a badly soldered pipe, and now a biting cold was seeping out of that crack.
“Are you getting ready?” Lera, my cousin, asked when I paced across the room by the window for what felt like the hundredth time. “Sonya, seriously—what’s going on with you? Your engagement party is in two hours, everyone’s already at the restaurant…”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said quietly—but so firmly it scared even me.
Lera froze.
“You… you’re joking?”
“No.”
And that was when something in me finally burst. I almost tossed my phone aside; the screen was lit up with endless notifications—messages from Maksim, his sister, his coworkers, even his boxing coach.
Everyone was waiting for me to show up. To glow and smile. To stand next to Max under the cameras, accept the ring, thank everyone for the congratulations, and then—later that evening—go to his mother’s place, where a “small family dinner” would be waiting for us.
Only I already knew what I knew. And after yesterday, I couldn’t smile or pretend.
Lera sat down across from me and grabbed my hands.
“Sonya. Please. Explain.”
I took a deep breath. Outside, February St. Petersburg was drowning in wet frost—heavy, clammy twilight merging with a low sky, courtyards melting into filthy slush. Everything was just as thick and unpleasant as the words I’d heard yesterday.
“I was going to their place,” I began. “I wanted to drop off a gift for his mom. She’s always anxious, always afraid I’m ‘ignoring’ her. I decided to make a gesture. I called—no one answered. And the door… it wasn’t locked.”
I saw that moment again: the dim light in the hallway, my steps on the creaky parquet, and voices from the kitchen.
“Are you sure?” Lera frowned. “You went in? Just like that?”
“Yes. And I heard everything.”
I stood in the entryway, frozen like an idiot. And I heard Marina Gennadyevna—Maksim’s mother—say:
“You need to hurry. While Sonya doesn’t know anything, while she still believes. Her father’s apartment is a perfect start. You asked for help yourself. Or have you forgotten?”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it in that tone,” Maksim muttered.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” she shot back. “The girl is good—quiet, easy. She’s in a hard phase right now: her father’s gone, she barely has any relatives… who’s going to help her? You are. You’re the one who should take the place beside her. And then everything will go the way it should.”
Then there was a pause. Too long not to understand—they weren’t discussing feelings or family, but property.
“I like her,” Maksim said. “I… I feel good about her.”
“Feel good about her?” Marina Gennadyevna snorted. “She’s twenty-seven. In a year you’ll have the legal right to take part in decisions about her apartment. You know what condition it’s in—money needs to be put into it. You said you wanted your own business. It’s stupid to refuse a decent start. Don’t be a child.”
And his answer became my point of no return:
“Yeah, I get it. It’s not like it’s for nothing…”
“Not like it’s for nothing.”
There it was—the truth. Bitter. Ugly.
After that they went on and on about details, amounts, plans. I didn’t listen to the end—I just left. My heart was pounding as if I’d run a marathon. I got home like in a dream. And that night I didn’t sleep for a single minute.
“And you’re sure you heard everything right?” Lera asked, though her face showed she believed me.
“Yes, damn it, I’m sure,” I snapped. “They talked about me like a profitable deal. Like an investment! And you know what the sickest part is? I nearly… I nearly believed he loved me.”
My throat tightened. I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears rising.
“Sonya…” Lera gently touched my shoulder. “What do you want to do?”
“Run,” I said. “But beautifully.”
Maksim showed up faster than I expected. He was probably already somewhere near the building, waiting for me to get back in touch. He came up the stairs without even being out of breath—athletic, confident, as always.
But the confidence vanished when he saw me.
“Sonya…” He stepped toward me, but I stepped back.
“Don’t come any closer.”
His lips twitched.
“Can you explain what’s going on?”
“I can.” I crossed my arms. “I heard your conversation with your mother.”
He went still. For a second. Then he tried to pull his mask back together.
“Which conversation?”
“The one where you discussed how you’d be handling my apartment. When it becomes a ‘family asset.’”
His cheeks went pale.
“That’s… not how it is.”
“Really?” I lifted an eyebrow. “Then tell me how it is.”
He took another step closer and lowered his voice.
“Sonya, my mom sometimes says too much. She just wanted you to know—we’re a family. That we should support each other. That…”
“That transferring the apartment to both of us is normal?” I cut in.
He dropped his gaze.
“I thought you and I were partners.”
“Partners?” I gave a bitter laugh. “That’s not what partners do. Partners ask. Discuss. Speak honestly.”
He said nothing.
“Did you ever once tell me you were having money problems? That you wanted a business? That you were counting on my apartment?”
“I didn’t want to pressure you,” he muttered.
“So you decided to quietly steer me toward ‘this is the right thing to do,’ yeah?”
He understood his excuses had failed. And then he played a familiar card:
“I love you.”
“No,” I said, exhausted. “You love how convenient I am.”
I held out the ring box that Lera had brought from the closet.
“Take it back. And tell your mom the ‘girl’ decided to think about herself.”
“Sonya… wait. We can fix everything. Talk. I really did want to be with you. It’s just Mom… she pushes, you don’t know her…”
“I know enough.”
He tried to keep talking—fast, stumbling over words, clinging to every phrase. But I wasn’t listening anymore. I closed the door in his face without letting myself flinch.
And only when his footsteps faded down the hallway did I press my forehead to the cold door and breathe out as if I’d been holding my breath for a whole year.
Two days later I went to the realtor my parents had once used to buy the apartment. A heavyset, slightly awkward, but honest man named Arkady Platonovich.
“So,” he said after listening to everything. “Your problem isn’t the apartment. Your problem is people. Your property is a normal asset, but it’s not a gold mine. The real issue is some people’s urge to grab everything they can—that’s the problem.”
“I don’t want to sell,” I said.
“And you shouldn’t. But leaving things as they are would be stupid.”
He rummaged in his desk and pulled out a folder.
“Here,” he said. “You’ll formalize the apartment under your sole ownership through a notary, lock down any third-party involvement in any transactions. Then we’ll draw up a power of attorney for me—so no ‘future fiancé’s relatives’ can talk you into playing their games.”
“That sounds… reliable.”
“My girl,” Arkady Platonovich said, taking off his glasses and smiling. “Yeah, something unpleasant happened to you. But it’s not the end. People like you—life tests them earlier than most, before they have time to make big mistakes. Believe me, that’s even a плюс.”
Everything started spinning quickly: documents, applications, notarized copies. For the first time, I felt I could control my life. Not be an object. Not be someone else’s plan—be myself.
But the real climax came about two weeks later.
A call.
His mother’s number.
I answered—on purpose.
“Sofya,” her voice was cold and arrogant. “We need to meet.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I insist.”
We met at a café near Chernaya Rechka metro station. The tables creaked, the coffee smelled burnt, and the eternal February wind slapped at the windows.
Marina Gennadyevna sat perfectly straight, as if there were a metal rod in her spine.
“I want to know why you ruined my son’s life.”
“I didn’t ruin it,” I said calmly. “He did.”
“Nonsense. You simply misunderstood everything. Maksim is a good boy. He wanted to offer you stability. A family.”
“A family doesn’t start with secret plans about someone else’s property.”
Her face twitched.
“You’re young. Naive. You don’t understand how life works. In marriage everything is shared.”
“Only honesty doesn’t get shared,” I replied. “And neither does trust.”
She was about to say something sharp, but I didn’t let her.
“And one more thing. Tell your son I wish him happiness. Just not with me.”
I stood up. She stayed sitting, lips pressed tight, her posture sagging just a little.
And for the first time I saw her not strong, not powerful—but broken.
But that was her responsibility, not mine.
Time passed. I took my life back—bit by bit, in small steps.
I changed jobs: left the endless accounting hell and got a position at a small publishing house, where for the first time in a long while I felt my skills actually mattered.
I renovated the apartment: threw out old furniture, repainted the walls, restored the floors.
On weekends I started going to Komarovo, just to look at the gray gulf.
One day Lera said:
“Listen… you’ve become different.”
“In what sense?”
“Before, you were like… someone who’s always apologizing. And now you’re not. Now you carry yourself like you know what you want.”
I thought about it.
And she was right.
Something inside me had become firmer.
And one person found a place in this new life too—Arkady Platonovich.
After all the paperwork was done, he called a couple of times “just to check how things were.” Then he invited me for coffee—“to talk about city renovations and market news.” Then a couple more times—without any reason at all.
And we grew closer—not quickly, but honestly.
Without schemes.
Without plans.
Without someone else’s voices in the kitchen.
And one evening he said:
“Sonya, you know, sometimes bad meetings lead to good ones. If that guy had done everything differently, you and I wouldn’t have met at all.”
I smiled.
“Maybe.”
“And one more thing,” he said, placing his hand over mine. “I saw how they tried to break you. But you put yourself back together. Not everyone can do that. It’s worth a lot.”
I felt warm. Quiet.
And for the first time in a long time—calm.
At the end of February, when I was riding through the ночной city in a taxi—past wet neon signs, frozen kiosks, glittering bridges—I suddenly realized: everything that happened, happened in time.
If I’d married Maksim and found out the truth later, it would have been a different kind of pain. Much deeper. Much more destructive.
But now…
I didn’t lose. I kept myself.
Sometimes I think about what it would have been like if I’d written Maksim a letter.
Like this:
“You know, Max…
You said you wanted stability.
And I wanted honesty.
But honesty is always more expensive.
Stability can break from one lying word, from one wrong conversation in the kitchen.
You wanted me to become part of your plans.
But I became part of my own life.
And that’s the best choice I could have made.”
I will never send him that letter.
And that’s right.
Now, when I step out onto the balcony of my renovated apartment, look down into the courtyard, hear cars sloshing through the melting snow, I understand: everything is only just beginning.
Yes, the world is imperfect.
People are different.
Some will see convenience in you, some will see profit, and some will see a living person.
The important thing is what I see myself.
And I see a road. Not straight and not smooth—but mine.
The end