“You look great, Marina. You’ve lost weight. Changed your hairstyle. Good for you, pulling yourself together after our breakup.”
Igor leaned back lazily in the velvet armchair, playing with the keys to his financed Hyundai Solaris. We were sitting in a restaurant near Patriarch’s Ponds. He ordered himself an espresso and ordered me a glass of still water without even asking what I wanted.
A year ago, I would have burst into tears right there.
A year ago, when he was packing his suitcases, throwing words in my face:
“You’re boring, Marina. Just an ordinary manager with no ambition. I need a woman on my level — a muse, not a weight dragging me down.”
Back then, I had crawled after him on my knees, begging him to stay.
But over that year, the “weight” had dropped the dead load, gone through therapy, changed jobs, and changed her surname — I took my mother’s maiden name.
Igor, judging by the worn cuffs of his jacket and his restless eyes, had never quite reached “his level.”
“I called you because I’ve rethought a lot of things,” Igor said, taking a sip of coffee and looking at me with the expression of a benefactor. “That Milana I left you for… turned out to be empty. A mercenary bitch. But you’re reliable. I’m ready to forgive you for your old grievances and give our relationship a second chance. Move your things to my place this weekend.”
I almost choked on my water.
That holy, unbreakable male confidence that a woman is like Hachiko — loyally sitting on the mat, waiting for her master to finish wandering around.
“How generous of you,” I said, raising an eyebrow and not hiding my faint smile. “And what are we going to live on? You opened your advertising agency, didn’t you?”
Igor’s eyes lit up with a fanatical gleam. That was exactly why he had started this conversation.
“Oh, the agency is on the verge of triumph!” He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tomorrow we’re signing a contract with the Avalon holding company. Heard of them? Market giants! They’re handing us all their PR for a whole year. Millions, Marina. I’ll be swimming in money. So consider yourself lucky — you’re coming back to a successful businessman.”
“Avalon?” I pretended to frown thoughtfully. “And they’re just giving the contract to a young agency so easily?”
“There’s some new marketing director there. A woman, you know?” Igor waved his hand dismissively. “My partner has been emailing her, sent over the estimate. Judging by everything, she doesn’t understand numbers at all if she let our markups pass. Tomorrow is the final meeting. I’ll show up, smile, throw some dust in her eyes, and she’ll melt. Women love with their ears.”
He smirked smugly and looked at his watch.
“All right, I need to go prepare for my triumph. You’ll pay the bill? I’m low on cash — everything’s tied up in the business. And I’ll expect you tomorrow evening with your things.”
Igor began to rise from the table, adjusting his cheap tie.
“Wait, Igorek,” I said softly.
At the sound of that forgotten nickname, he froze.
“I was reading some documents while I waited for you. Could you take a look? As an expert.”
I slowly opened my Yves Saint Laurent bag — the very one he had refused to buy me for my birthday a year earlier, calling it “nonsense” — and took out a thick folder. I clicked open the clasp, pulled out the stapled pages, and placed them in front of him.
Igor glanced over the text condescendingly.
Then his eyes stopped.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
It was the estimate from his advertising agency for the Avalon holding company. The very same one, with shameless 300% markups on every item.
But the most interesting part was what had been written diagonally across the numbers in red marker:
“Cooperation refused. Contractor incompetent.”
At the bottom was a broad signature and a stamp:
“Director of Marketing and PR, Avalon Holding — M. A. Vlasova.”
Vlasova Marina Alexandrovna.
My new surname.
My new position — the one I had fought for with my teeth over the past eight months, working sixteen-hour days.
“W-what is this?” Igor’s voice cracked. He went pale so quickly he looked like a piece of chalk. “Where did you get this?”
“Well, I am just ‘the woman who doesn’t understand numbers,’” I said, gracefully resting my chin on my interlaced fingers. My perfect French manicure gleamed in the muted lamplight. “Your partner, Igor, is a rare idiot. He sent me the estimate without even bothering to hide the subcontractors’ hidden commissions. Tomorrow, I was planning to tear your agency apart at the board meeting.”
Igor sank heavily back into the chair.
His mouth opened and closed like a fish thrown onto the shore. All his polish, all his arrogance evaporated in three seconds.
“Marina… Marish…” he babbled, breaking into a sweat. “What are you doing? It’s me! We’re family! We can work something out! I’ll give a discount! Fifty percent! Help me for old times’ sake. I have loans. If we don’t win this tender, I’m bankrupt!”
“Family?” I laughed sincerely — brightly and easily. For the first time in a long while, I felt completely free. “You’re mistaken, Igor. Your level is Milana and a financed Solaris. And I, as you correctly noted a year ago, am just an ordinary manager with no ambition. Why would you need such a weight dragging down your successful business?”
I raised my hand and called the waiter.
“The bill, please. Split it. I’ll pay for the water. The young man will pay for his espresso.”
I stood up and draped my cashmere coat over my shoulders.
Igor sat there, his pale fingers clutching the edge of the table, staring at the red writing on the contract that had just crossed out his life.
“Oh, yes,” I said over my shoulder as I headed toward the exit. “Don’t wait for me this weekend. I’m flying to Dubai. Corporate forum. Good luck with bankruptcy, Igorek.”
Outside, I took a deep breath.
A black company Maybach silently rolled up to the curb. The driver politely opened the door for me.
I sat in the back seat and took out my phone.
There was one old, unnecessary number I needed to delete from my contacts.
Forever.