“Do you remember this document? You were the one who insisted we sign it five years ago. You said it would protect our interests,” she said calmly, looking her husband straight in the eyes.
“Clause Seven is particularly interesting. In the event of marital infidelity, everything acquired during the marriage goes to the wronged party,” Irina continued.
“And Clause Seven is even more interesting in plain language: CHEATING — and everything you own becomes mine,” she added, never once breaking her stare.
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Irina sat in an armchair, quietly studying the glow of her phone screen. Another message from Sergey—another routine excuse that he’d be staying late at work—no longer triggered anxiety or surprise. It only left behind a dull, empty irritation.
Fourth time in one week.
That wasn’t bad luck. That was a system.
“Late again… of course,” Irina murmured, setting the phone down on the table.
She walked to the window. Outside, the street stretched into the night, threaded with headlights and neon. And in her mind, as if on repeat, she saw the past—those days when she and Sergey used to wander along the riverside for hours, talking nonstop, laughing, feeling like nothing could ever change. Now… it felt like he existed anywhere but at home.
She returned to the couch and opened her laptop. Work usually helped her switch off. But every new vibration from her phone pulled her in like a magnet, stealing her focus.
Sorry, sweetheart. Important meeting tonight. I’ll be late.
Irina’s lips curled into a crooked smile. Sweetheart. The word sounded wrong coming from him. She couldn’t remember him ever using it before. Too sugary. Too artificial. Too чужое—like someone else’s voice slipping through his.
At 10:30, just like always, there was a soft knock. Sergey came in, trying to be quiet, but Irina recognized his footsteps instantly. She had known them for years.
“Sorry it’s so late,” he muttered as he headed to the kitchen. “The client was really demanding.”
Irina watched him carefully. A faint scent clung to him—subtle, but unmistakable. Women’s perfume. Not hers.
“Right. Clients can be… very different,” she replied evenly, noticing how he flinched at her tone.
“Are you trying to say something?” His voice tightened.
“No. I’m just interested in your work,” Irina answered, without changing her expression.
Sergey turned away too quickly and began rummaging in the fridge, as if he could hide inside it.
“Everything’s normal—lots of tasks, new projects…” he started, explaining too much, too fast. And Irina already knew: there was nothing “normal” in the way he spoke.
“And new perfume?” she asked casually, like she was commenting on the weather.
For a split second, Sergey froze. Then he forced himself to move again.
“What perfume? That’s… probably the new employee at the office. She must have overdone it.”
Irina simply nodded, watching the panic flicker behind his eyes. She saw his fingers tremble as he hurriedly made himself a sandwich.
After dinner, when Sergey went to shower, Irina did what she’d done more than once lately—she reached for his phone. He’d left it on the table. Normally he never let it out of his sight, never relaxed his guard. But tonight… he was distracted.
The screen lit up. A message appeared.
Irina leaned in—then the display went black.
Dead battery.
At breakfast the next morning, Sergey barely spoke. He’d put his phone on charge and kept checking it every few seconds, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. His nervousness leaked out of every movement.
“Everything okay?” Irina asked, watching him.
“Yeah. Yeah. Just a lot at work,” he said absentmindedly, eyes still glued to the screen.
“Maybe we could go somewhere tonight? We haven’t gone out in ages.”
“Sorry, I can’t. Big presentation coming up.”
Irina set down her half-eaten sandwich. Her appetite disappeared without a trace.
That evening, alone in the quiet apartment, she opened her planner. It held everything—dates, meetings, deadlines, presentations. And every time: the same story, the same “late nights.”
Too many coincidences.
Too many excuses.
Her phone vibrated. Marina.
“How are you? Want to meet?”
Irina hesitated—then made a decision that surprised even her.
“Marin… can you do me a favor? If Sergey asks, tell him I’m with you this weekend.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know yet,” Irina said quietly. “But I want to know the truth.”
Later that night, as if it were just casual conversation, she told her husband her weekend plan.
“Marina invited me to her dacha. I think I’ll go—get some air,” Irina said, eyes lowered to her tea cup.
Sergey looked up from his phone, and Irina caught it—something that looked a lot like relief flashed across his face.
“Of course. Go. You’ve needed a break,” he said. And she couldn’t ignore how easily he agreed.
Too easily.
Friday. Irina packed her bag deliberately, almost theatrically. Sergey didn’t even stand up from the couch. He didn’t walk her out. He was too busy—whispering into the phone in the other room.
But Irina didn’t go to Marina’s dacha.
Instead, she checked into a small hotel near their building. From there, she could watch what happened—without being seen.
Friday night stayed calm. Sergey returned home at his usual time. The light in their apartment went out around eleven.
But Saturday changed everything.
Around seven in the evening, a taxi pulled up. A woman stepped out in a bright red dress. Irina lifted her phone and took several photos. About ten minutes later, the light came on in Irina’s apartment.
Irina drew a deep breath. The suspicions she’d been feeding for weeks finally hardened into certainty.
It didn’t make the pain any lighter.
The woman walked up to the door with keys in her hand.
Irina calmly put her phone away—because now it was time to move. She wasn’t going to scream or throw a scene. That wasn’t her style.
She had a different plan.
She went up the stairs quietly. From behind the door came muffled voices… laughter. Irina’s hand tightened around her own key and paused.
One turn—and the life she knew would end.
She slid the key into the lock. Before turning it, she switched on the camera.
Everything had to be thought through. Years of working with documents had taught her to be systematic—and to gather proof.
The door opened almost silently. A dim light glowed in the hallway. Soft music drifted from the living room. Irina took several shots: a set table, a bottle of wine, two glasses…
“And now we can dance,” a woman’s voice floated in from the living room.
Irina moved toward the sound, filming as she went. Her hands shook slightly, but the pictures were clear.
Sergey and his guest stood in the middle of the room, swaying slowly to the music. The woman in the red dress pressed herself against him as if she belonged there.
“It’s been so long since we spent an evening like this,” she purred.
“We’ll have plenty more evenings like this,” Sergey replied. “Especially now, when—”
The click of the camera cut him off.
Sergey spun around—and went rigid when he saw Irina in the doorway. The color drained from his face in an instant.
“Don’t stop,” Irina said evenly. “Especially now… when what?”
The woman in red jerked away from Sergey, hastily smoothing her dress.
“I… I should go,” she muttered, grabbing her purse.
“Yes. That would be wise,” Irina said, never taking her eyes off her husband.
“And just so we’re clear,” Irina added, her voice steady as steel, “Clause Seven is very simple: CHEATING — and now everything you own is mine.”
When the door closed behind the woman, a heavy silence fell over the apartment. Sergey took a step forward, trembling with nerves.
“Ira… I can explain everything.”
“Sure,” Irina said. “But first let’s remember something important from our life together.”
She sat down in the armchair and pulled a folder of papers from her bag.
Sergey frowned. He still didn’t understand where this was going.
Irina opened the folder and took out their prenuptial agreement.
“Do you remember this? You were the one who insisted we sign it five years ago. You said it would protect our interests,” she repeated calmly, meeting his eyes.
Sergey’s expression changed. He understood now.
“Clause Seven is particularly interesting,” Irina continued. “If there’s infidelity, everything acquired during the marriage goes to the wronged party.”
“Ira, listen—”
“I have evidence,” Irina cut in, holding up her phone. “Photos. Video. And witnesses. The concierge has seen your ‘guest’ come here before.”
Sergey sank heavily onto the couch.
“You planned this? The trip to your friend…”
“I wanted the truth,” Irina said, standing. “Now I have it.”
She walked into the bedroom. A bag was already waiting there, packed with the essentials. She’d put it together that morning.
“Where are you going?” Panic cracked through Sergey’s voice.
“To Marina’s. And tomorrow morning I’m meeting my lawyer.”
“But… the apartment? The car? The business?” Sergey followed her, helpless, as if chasing her could undo what he’d done.
“You should have thought about that earlier,” Irina said, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “By the way, the documents are with me. The evidence too. Don’t even think about trying anything.”
Sergey grabbed her wrist, as if he could physically hold her life in place. Irina pulled away—gently, but firmly.
“Ira, I’m sorry! I’ll fix it! It was a mistake…” His voice broke, desperate. But Irina heard only noise.
“No,” she said, looking at him with calm clarity. “A mistake is accidental. What you did was a choice. Every lie. Every time you brought her into our home.”
Irina didn’t waste another minute. She opened the door.
“Tomorrow my lawyer will contact you,” she said. “And don’t do anything stupid—you know I always finish what I start.”
In the taxi, Irina took out her phone and called her attorney, Elena Sergeyevna.
“Good evening, Elena Sergeyevna. Remember how we once talked about divorce? I think it’s time to act.”
A week later, Sergey received a court summons. He sat staring at it for a long time, as if his brain refused to accept what his eyes were reading. His phone wouldn’t stop ringing—but Irina was unreachable. Every number was blocked.
“This has to be a misunderstanding… Ira, please, pick up!” he muttered, dialing again and again.
Only ring tones answered him. Irina followed Elena Sergeyevna’s instructions: no personal contact until court.
“We’ve collected everything,” Elena Sergeyevna said, going through the file. “Photos, video, witness statements. And the prenuptial agreement is drafted perfectly.”
“He keeps trying to call,” Irina said, looking out at the city skyline through the window. “Says he wants to explain.”
“Let him explain in court,” Elena Sergeyevna replied sharply. “Until then—no contact.”
On the day of the hearing, Irina looked impeccable. A строгий, tailored suit emphasized her composure, her certainty, her resolve. Sergey sat with his head lowered, his face growing paler as every attempt to justify himself shattered against the cold logic of documents and evidence.
“Your Honor,” Elena Sergeyevna said confidently, “the fact of infidelity has been fully proven. Under Clause Seven of the prenuptial agreement…”
Sergey sat as if he couldn’t hear her. He simply stared at the floor.
The judge reviewed the materials carefully.
“The court rules,” the judge announced, “that due to violation of the prenuptial agreement, all jointly acquired marital property is awarded to the plaintiff, Irina Aleksandrovna…”
After the hearing, Sergey tried to catch up to her outside.
“Ira, wait! Can’t we talk? Can’t we discuss this?”
“We can’t,” Irina replied calmly. “All discussions ended the night I came home.”
“But you left me with nothing!” Sergey’s voice cracked with desperation.
“No,” Irina said, turning to face him. “You left yourself with nothing. With every lie. Every meeting. Every time you chose her over us. That was your decision.”
That same evening, Irina sat in a café with Marina.
“How are you?” Marina asked, studying her closely.
“It’s strange,” Irina admitted. “But… lighter. Like I finally set down something heavy I’ve been carrying for years.”
“And now?” Marina asked. “What’s next?”
“Now?” Irina took a sip of coffee and lifted her eyes. “Now I’m going to live for myself. I’ve always wanted to start my own business. Maybe it’s finally time.”
Six months passed. Irina’s consulting firm grew steadily, and her apartment became something entirely new. A renovation erased the fingerprints of her old life.
Sometimes, she saw Sergey in the city. He looked exhausted, lost. People said the woman in red left him the moment she realized the money—and the property—were gone.
The next day, Irina met with a realtor. She decided to buy a small house outside the city, far from the noise, far from the tangled story she’d survived.
Walking through the garden, she murmured to herself:
“Sometimes you have to lose something… to find yourself.”
That evening, she sat on the veranda of her new home, watching the sunset. Peace settled inside her. She had lived through it, learned from it, and no longer feared hard choices. Irina believed in herself again.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Marina:
“How are you? Want to meet this weekend?”
Irina smiled and began typing her reply.
Life went on.
Now it looked the way Irina wanted it to look—honest, free, and full of possibility.
The hardest decision had already been made. After that, every obstacle felt beatable.