Larisa heard those words while she stood at the stove. She was stirring risotto—the dish Igor had requested for dinner because, as he liked to say, “that Italian restaurant makes it disgusting, but at least you actually try.” The wooden spoon stopped mid-circle in her hand.
“What a sad excuse for a woman,” Igor repeated, still glued to his phone. He sat at the kitchen table in his perfectly pressed suit, not even changed after work yet. “Four years messing around with your tiny little jobs. Business cards, brochures… it’s like arts-and-crafts hour.”
Larisa didn’t turn around. She knew that if she did, he’d notice her hands trembling. Trembling meant weakness, and ever since he’d been promoted to senior corporate sales manager, Igor had made it clear he had no patience for weakness.
“I closed a contract with Northern Logistics today,” he went on, and his voice took on that particular tone Larisa had learned to recognize instantly—the tone of someone who’s just won a chess match and now enjoys pointing out the other player’s mistakes. “Largest transport company in the region. And you? Printed brochures for some random hairdresser?”
“For a salon chain,” Larisa corrected softly. “Five locations across the city.”
“Oh—five locations!” Igor laughed out loud. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. So now you’re working with empires.”
She counted to ten. Then to twenty. Then she turned off the burner and walked into the bathroom without looking at him. She closed the door, turned on the tap, and only then let herself clench her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms.
Her print shop really was small. A modest team—herself, Marina doing design, and a few guys handling the machines. They rented a space on the edge of town and worked with local clients: business cards, flyers, brochures, occasionally catalogs. But they were her clients, her projects, her choices. No one hovered over her shoulder. No one lectured her about what she was doing wrong. No one looked at her like she was playing at business the way a child plays with dolls.
And Igor… Igor had climbed from an ordinary manager to almost executive level in three years. With every promotion, something in him shifted. Or maybe it had always been there—he just hadn’t felt the need to show it before.
Larisa wiped her face and stared at herself in the mirror. Thirty-two. Tired eyes. Hair pulled into a careless ponytail. No makeup—what was the point when you spend all day in a print shop and then come home to cook risotto?
“Pathetic,” the word echoed in her head.
She took a deep breath and stepped back into the kitchen. Igor was already serving himself. He hadn’t even waited.
“It’s cold,” he declared after tasting it. “You shouldn’t have run off.”
Larisa sat across from him and put a small portion on her plate. She wasn’t hungry, but she needed to keep her expression steady.
“By the way,” Igor said while chewing, “they’re offering me a move to Atlant Group. You know that company?”
Larisa nodded. She did. Atlant Group was one of the biggest construction corporations in the city.
“Salary’s a third higher, plus an annual bonus. I’ve practically agreed.” He looked at her as if waiting for applause. “So your print shop will be completely unnecessary soon. I’ll earn enough on my own—you can finally focus on the house the way you should.”
“I don’t want to close the print shop,” Larisa said evenly.
“Don’t want to, or afraid to admit it’s going nowhere?” Igor leaned back in his chair. “Lar, be realistic. Four years—where are the results? You work twelve hours a day for pennies. That’s not a business. That’s a hobby you pay for with your health and your time.”
“My time,” she corrected.
“Ours,” Igor corrected. “Or did you forget we’re a family? When was the last time you cooked a proper dinner before ten at night? When was the last time we went anywhere? You live at work.”
He wasn’t completely wrong, and Larisa knew it. The print shop did consume her days. But it was her time—her choice. And at home… at home she was just the wife of a successful man, expected to produce dinner on schedule and admire his triumphs on command.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, though there was nothing to think about.
The next morning Larisa arrived at the print shop at seven. She had a meeting with a potential client—a company looking for a vendor for corporate printing. Marina looked doubtful when she read the brief.
“They usually work with big print houses,” she said. “Why would they choose us?”
“Because we do good work, and we do it fast,” Larisa answered, even though she didn’t fully believe it herself.
The client arrived exactly at nine. Larisa expected a slick manager in an expensive suit. Instead, a woman in her mid-forties walked in wearing jeans and a simple blouse. She glanced around with curiosity and smiled.
“Anna Sergeyevna Kovalyova,” she introduced herself. “Procurement Director at Atlant Group. Are you Larisa?”
Atlant Group—the very company Igor was about to join. Larisa stiffened inside, but her smile stayed put.
“Yes. Nice to meet you. Please, come in.”
They spent two hours talking through capabilities. Anna Sergeyevna was unexpectedly down-to-earth—she asked precise questions, studied the samples carefully, and focused on deadlines and pricing. No snobbery. No arrogance.
“You see, Larisa,” she said as they wrapped up, “we’re tired of the large print houses. They take the order, nod, promise everything—and then disappear. If you need an urgent correction, you wait weeks. But here…” She swept her gaze over the modest space. “Here it feels like people, not a conveyor belt. You can sense it in how you treat clients.”
“We try,” Larisa said, catching herself blushing at the praise.
“Good. Let’s start with a test order. Nothing huge—corporate catalogs, presentation folders, letterheads. If everything works out, we’ll move to a yearly contract.” Anna Sergeyevna held out her hand. “Deal?”
Larisa shook it, her heart thudding in her throat.
“Deal.”
That evening, when she came home, Igor was already there—looking pleased, as if his day had been a victory lap.
“I signed all the paperwork today,” he announced, pouring himself whiskey. “Officially leaving Meridian. In two weeks I’m at Atlant.”
“Congratulations,” Larisa said, slipping off her shoes.
“You’re not even going to ask details?” he said, disappointed.
“You’ll tell me anyway.”
And he did—lavishly. He described how they’d greet him, what his office would look like, what his prospects were. Larisa listened with half an ear, nodding at the right moments. In her head, numbers spun—paper orders, print time, staffing, schedules.
“Are you even listening?” Igor snapped.
“I am,” Larisa looked up. “You’ll be in corporate sales.”
“Not just in it. I’ll be leading the department.” He set his glass down louder than necessary. “See? You can’t even focus on what I’m saying. You’re probably thinking about your little business cards again.”
“No,” Larisa lied. “I’m just tired.”
“You’re always tired,” Igor sighed. “Maybe it really is time to stop. I earn enough so you can—”
“Igor, please,” she cut him off, and for the first time in a long while her voice carried a steady edge. “Don’t.”
He stared, surprised, then waved a dismissive hand.
“Fine. Do whatever you want. Just don’t complain later that I didn’t warn you.”
The next two weeks went by in a furious sprint. Larisa and her team worked on the Atlant order, and it was nothing like their usual projects. The standards were high, the deadlines brutal—and that was exactly what made it thrilling. It wasn’t just work; it was a real professional test.
Marina grumbled that they’d taken on too much. The senior printer worked overtime without complaint, recalibrating the machine over and over until the colors landed perfectly. And Larisa felt alive for the first time in ages.
She barely appeared at home. Igor called, complained, demanded explanations. She kept it short: “Working. Sorry.” And kept going.
When everything was finished, the three of them stood over the final stacks. The catalogs looked polished and premium. The presentation folders were sleek and practical. Even the plain letterheads looked expensive.
“We’re good,” Marina said, smiling for the first time in two weeks.
“We’re very good,” Larisa agreed.
Anna Sergeyevna accepted the order without a single correction.
“Excellent,” she said, flipping through the catalog. “Exactly what we need. Larisa, I’d like to discuss long-term cooperation. We have constant printing needs—for all our construction sites, offices, and investor presentations. If you’re ready to become our primary supplier…”
“I am,” Larisa answered immediately.
“Wonderful. I’ll pass your details to our supply department; they’ll contact you to finalize everything.” Anna Sergeyevna hesitated, then added, “And one more thing. I heard your husband recently joined us?”
Larisa went still.
“Yes. He’s transferring to Atlant.”
“Igor Sokolov, right? Corporate sales,” Anna Sergeyevna nodded. “Excellent specialist, by all accounts. You must be proud.”
“I am,” Larisa replied automatically, though her chest tightened.
A week later, Atlant called. A man’s voice—dry, official—introduced himself as a procurement manager and said they wanted to sign a one-year contract. The number made Larisa ask him to repeat it twice.
“You heard correctly,” he confirmed. “This covers all our needs—marketing materials, corporate documents, promotional merchandise. If you agree to our terms, send your commercial proposal.”
Larisa hung up and just sat there, staring at the wall. This was the contract that would change everything. The print shop would stop being “small.” They could expand, hire staff, buy new equipment—maybe even move to a real facility.
“What happened?” Marina asked, hurrying into the office. “You look like you’re in shock.”
“A one-year contract with Atlant Group,” Larisa said, her voice shaking. “For an enormous amount.”
Marina sank into a chair.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
They hugged, laughing and nearly crying at the same time. The rest of the day passed in a bright, unreal kind of joy.
Larisa decided not to tell Igor yet. Not yet. She wanted everything signed, sealed, official. And if she was honest—she wanted to see his face when he found out.
Igor started at Atlant full of energy. Every evening he talked about new projects, building relationships, plans for the future. Larisa listened, nodded, asked a question now and then. She still cooked dinner, still kept the apartment in order. But something inside her had shifted—she didn’t feel small anymore.
The signing was scheduled for Friday. Larisa put on her best business suit and spent half an hour on makeup and styling. Marina whistled when she saw her.
“Wow. Negotiations or a date?”
“War,” Larisa smirked.
She arrived at Atlant Group fifteen minutes early. The building was striking—glass, concrete, minimalist lines. Reception checked her in, issued a pass, and escorted her to a conference room.
Anna Sergeyevna was already there with a lawyer and two other employees.
“Larisa, so happy to see you!” she stood to greet her. “Please, sit down. We’ll also have someone from our sales department join us—they’ll generate the main volume of orders.”
The door opened, and Igor walked in.
Larisa watched his expression change—from a routine professional smile to confusion, then to poorly hidden shock. He stopped in the doorway, staring at her.
“Larisa? What… what are you doing here?”
“Igor Sergeyevich, you know each other?” Anna Sergeyevna asked in surprise. “Perfect—no introductions needed. This is Larisa Sokolova, director of Spectrum Print, the company we’re signing a one-year service contract with to handle all our printing needs.”
Igor moved slowly to the table and sat down. Larisa could see him trying to process it, emotions flickering in his eyes.
“A one-year contract,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes,” Anna Sergeyevna confirmed, opening the folder. “Your wife impressed us—quality, responsibility, reliability. We’re happy to work together.”
The next hour was spent discussing contract details. Igor barely spoke, only occasionally adding a remark. Larisa felt his gaze on her but didn’t turn. She stayed focused, professional, confident.
When the signatures were done, Anna Sergeyevna shook Larisa’s hand.
“Welcome to our supplier team. Igor Sergeyevich will be one of your main contacts for ongoing orders, so you’ll get to work as a family tandem,” she smiled. “That should be convenient.”
“Very,” Larisa agreed, finally allowing herself to look at her husband.
They drove home in the same car, in silence. Igor stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. Larisa watched the city slide past the window, feeling a strange mix of triumph and… maybe even pity.
At home, he finally spoke.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?” Larisa turned to him. “If I’d come home and said, ‘I’m negotiating a one-year contract with Atlant Group,’ what would you have said?”
Igor didn’t answer.
“You would’ve said I was fantasizing,” she continued quietly. “That it was another one of my games. That I didn’t understand reality.”
“Larisa…”
“You called me pathetic, Igor,” she said calmly, without drama, simply stating the fact. “Because I worked on my business. Because it didn’t explode into success instantly, the way yours did.”
“That’s not what I meant…”
“It’s exactly what you meant.” Larisa walked to the window. “And you know what’s funny? I almost believed you. I almost agreed my print shop was childish, pointless, a hobby. That I was wasting my life.”
“I wanted what was best,” Igor said, rubbing his face. “I just didn’t want you killing yourself for nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. It was my path.” She turned back. “And that path brought me to a place where we’re business partners now, Igor. Equal partners. And if you want your department to get every order on time and at the right quality, you’ll have to work with me.”
Igor sank onto the couch, exhausted, his head falling back.
“I was wrong. I admit it. I was an arrogant idiot.”
“You were,” Larisa agreed.
“So what happens now?”
She paused, choosing her words.
“Now we both work. We both build our careers. And maybe we finally learn to respect each other’s work.”
“I do respect you,” Igor said quickly. “I just… didn’t understand how serious it was.”
“You will now,” Larisa allowed herself a small smile. “By the way, I’ll need the first batch of layouts approved by Monday. You’re my point of contact now, right?”
“Yes,” Igor gave a weak smile too. “I’ll try to keep up.”
Three months passed. The print shop expanded—two more designers, several more press operators, a space twice the size. Atlant’s orders came nonstop, and other big clients followed.
Igor truly tried. He was attentive, responsive, always reachable. Sometimes they argued—Larisa could be demanding, and Igor couldn’t always deliver everything at the speed she wanted. But those were work disputes, professional disagreements. Not the contempt he’d once used when he talked about her “little efforts.”
One evening they sat in the kitchen, both exhausted, both with laptops open, finishing tasks. Igor looked up from his screen.
“You know, I ran into Anna Sergeyevna today. She said you’re their best supplier in the last five years.”
“Really?” Larisa looked up from the contract she was reviewing.
“Really. And they’re planning to increase volumes next quarter.” He hesitated. “I’m proud of you.”
They were simple words, but for the first time in a long time, they sounded sincere. Larisa felt warmth spread inside her.
“Thank you.”
“And I’m sorry,” Igor added. “For real. For not seeing it. Not understanding it. Not valuing it. For everything.”
Larisa stood, walked over, and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“I accepted your apology the moment I signed that contract,” she said softly. “But it’s still nice to hear it again.”
They hugged—awkward, tired, but genuine. And in that moment Larisa understood they would never go back to what they were before. But maybe they could build something new. Something more honest. More equal.
“By the way,” she said, pulling back, “I need to approve the technical brief for a new project tomorrow. A big one. Are you free at ten?”
“For my most important client?” Igor smiled. “Always.”
Larisa smiled back—because in that smile there was no mockery, no superiority. Only the quiet understanding that they were on the same side now. Partners. And maybe—finally—equals.