“Kostya, why does the app say ‘passenger validation error’? Are you sure you entered the passport details correctly when I asked you to check?”
Arina spoke without lifting her eyes from the laptop, her fingers tapping nervously against the touchpad.
The room was filled with that particular restless chaos that always comes before a major trip. An open suitcase lay on the wide bed, yawning like the gutted belly of a huge animal. Around it, colorful mounds of T-shirts, swimsuits, and sunscreen were piled carelessly. The air smelled of hot iron and the faintly sweet scent of fabric spray. Arina, drained after closing a quarterly report, was dreaming of only one thing: lowering her feet into salty seawater exactly twenty-four hours from now.
Kostya stood by the hallway mirror, trying on brand-new sunglasses he’d bought barely an hour earlier. He tilted his head from side to side, studying his reflection, looking unusually lively—almost exhilarated.
“It’s probably the site glitching, Arish,” he said lightly without turning around. “You know tour operators—servers always crash the day before departure. Don’t stress. We’ll check in at the airport. Who cares where we sit as long as we’re flying?”
“It does matter, Kostya. I want the window seat. I’ve been staring at office walls for six months,” Arina frowned.
Her intuition—honed by years in audit—scratched painfully under her ribs. Something was off. It wasn’t the website.
She refreshed the page. The system flashed red again, refusing to select a seat for passenger number two. Arina took a slow breath and opened the itinerary instead. The file loaded maddeningly slowly, the spinning circle hypnotic and ominous.
Finally, it opened.
She skimmed the lines. Departure date—correct. Hotel—the same five-star resort she had spent her entire annual bonus on. Flight—unchanged.
Passenger one: Konstantin Voronov.
She dropped her gaze to the second line—where her own name should have been.
The letters blurred, then snapped into focus, forming something impossible.
There was no Arina Voronova.
Printed neatly in official black type was:
Valentina Ivanovna Voronova.
Arina froze. A thin, piercing ring filled her ears. She blinked, hoping exhaustion was playing tricks on her—but the name didn’t disappear. It stared back at her, stamped Paid and Issued.
“Kostya,” she said quietly, her voice unnaturally calm. “Come here.”
“What is it now?” he asked, walking in with the sunglasses still in his hand. The easy smile vanished the moment their eyes met. He stopped short, as if hitting an invisible wall.
“Can you explain this?” Arina turned the laptop toward him. “Why does my ticket—paid for with my card—have your mother’s information?”
Kostya exhaled loudly, scratched his head, and instead of panicking, visibly relaxed. He looked like a man finally admitting something he considered brilliant, not criminal.
He walked past Arina and sat on the edge of the bed—right on top of her folded summer dresses—and looked at her with indulgent patience.
“Arish, don’t stare like that,” he said gently. “I wanted it to be a surprise. Well—more like presenting a done deal, so you wouldn’t argue beforehand. You like controlling everything. It’s hard for you to relax.”
“A surprise?” she repeated as cold crept down her spine. “You call replacing me without my knowledge a surprise?”
“Let’s be logical,” Kostya leaned forward, slipping into his familiar reasonable man tone—the same one he used to justify not doing the dishes. “You’ve been working like a beast for three months. You said yourself you’ve had migraines, that you don’t want to see anyone. Flying is stress. Heat. Acclimatization. Doctors recommend rest, silence, sleep. And Mom—you know her joints, her blood pressure. Sea air is essential right now. The clinic doctor said it clearly: ‘Valentina Ivanovna needs iodine and warmth.’”
Arina stared at him, barely recognizing the man she’d lived with for seven years. He was sitting on her clothes, seriously arguing that stealing her vacation was an act of care.
“So you decided it would be healthier for me to stay in a dusty city, while your mother flies to the sea on two hundred thousand rubles that I earned?” she asked slowly.
“Why bring money into it?” Kostya grimaced. “We’re family. Shared budget. Who cares whose card it came from? Today you, tomorrow me. I just reissued the ticket. Not easy, by the way—I had to pay a fee. I chipped in. And look at you—dark circles under your eyes. You should rest at home. Get the kids ready for school, sleep, watch shows. We’ll be gone ten days. I’ll take care of Mom—she’s afraid to fly alone.”
He spoke so smoothly, so confidently, as if rehearsed in front of the mirror along with those sunglasses.
Arina looked at the suitcase.
Only now did she notice what she’d missed earlier. Lying on top of her silk pareo was a plastic-wrapped bundle. Inside—a garish oversized robe and blood-pressure medication.
“You already packed her things?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Kostya shrugged. “She stopped by yesterday while you were at work. Brought the essentials. I was going to take your things out later—just didn’t get the chance.”
Something inside Arina snapped—dry and loud, like a breaking branch.
“Take my things out?” she repeated. “So this was planned. Yesterday. Behind my back.”
“Not planned—organized!” he snapped. “Why are you making a tragedy out of nothing? She’s seventy, Arina. Have some decency. You’re young—you’ll earn again. This could be her last chance to see the sea. Don’t be selfish.”
Arina closed the laptop.
The click sounded like a starting gun.
“Don’t be selfish,” she repeated, tasting the words. They felt hard and tasteless, like pebbles she’d dreamed of collecting on a beach in Kemer.
She stood and walked to the mirror. A tired thirty-two-year-old woman stared back—dark shadows under her eyes, not from illness, but from three months of relentless work to earn that bonus. The bonus now turned into Valentina Ivanovna’s vacation.
Mistaking her silence for surrender, Kostya perked up and began rummaging through the suitcase.
“See? You understand,” he said confidently. “You’re smart. What would you do there anyway? Heat, screaming kids, drunk tourists, greasy buffet food. Your stomach acts up. Mom needs warmth—arthritis. She cries at night. Says she won’t survive another winter.”
He pulled out her brand-new turquoise swimsuit—still with the tag—and tossed it onto a chair. In its place, he carefully stacked oversized cotton underwear.
“And we couldn’t leave the kids alone,” he continued. “I thought of asking Grandma, but since she’s flying to heal, it makes sense for you to stay. Sasha’s been coughing for two weeks. He needs inhalations. Who’ll do that in Turkey—me? Here you are, comfortable. Rest for you, supervision for them.”
Nausea rose in Arina’s throat.
So that was it. He hadn’t just stolen her vacation—he’d assigned her ten days of unpaid childcare and housework while he treated his mother with poolside cocktails.
She stepped closer and grabbed his hand as he reached for her linen suit.
“Take your hands off,” she said quietly.
He flinched, dropping the hanger.
“Arin, don’t start,” he winced. “Mom needs it more. She raised me. Worked herself to death. I owe her. Family doesn’t divide ‘yours’ and ‘mine.’ Family helps the one who needs it most.”
“They help at their own expense,” Arina said evenly. “You’re not helping. You’re taking. You’re pulling my dreams out of the suitcase and stuffing it with your mother’s underwear.”
“Oh please,” he scoffed. “Drama. ‘My dreams.’ Petty bookkeeping. Shared pot. I paid for car repairs last month—did I complain? This is a holy cause—taking Mom to the sea. And you’re counting pennies.”
“A holy cause,” Arina repeated coldly. “Then why does it require my money? Why didn’t you take a loan? Save up? Why did you log into my account and change the ticket without asking?”
“Because I knew you’d do this!” he snapped. “Whine about money. I made a decision. Like a man. Mom is going. Period.”
He shoved past her and threw her cosmetic bag to the floor.
“Take this out too. Too heavy. Mom has lighter creams.”
The dull thud sounded like a slap.
In that moment, everything became clear. She wasn’t a partner. She was a resource.
“You really think I’ll stay?” she asked flatly.
“Where would you go?” he smirked. “The ticket’s reissued. Money won’t be refunded. No seat. You’ll stay.”
Arina inhaled slowly. The room smelled of betrayal and cheap arrogance. She picked up her phone and dialed the tour operator.
“Who are you calling?” Kostya scoffed.
“Good afternoon,” Arina said calmly. “My name is Arina Voronova. I have a tour booked to Kemer. Booking number—”
Kostya froze.
“I do not confirm the passenger changes,” Arina continued. “I request full cancellation. Reason: fraudulent modification without the payer’s consent.”
“You’re insane!” Kostya shouted, lunging for the phone.
“I have travel insurance,” Arina said calmly. “Refund to my card.”
She ended the call.
The room fell silent.
“You killed my mother,” he whispered.
“She’ll survive,” Arina said evenly. “Unlike our marriage.”
She shoved the suitcase toward him.
“Take it. Yours and hers.”
He left cursing. The door closed. The lock turned.
Arina slid down the door. No tears came—only an overwhelming sense of freedom.
The swimsuit lay on the floor.
She picked it up, dusted it off, and for the first time that evening, smiled.