Vera sat in the corner of the small restaurant Basil, nervously twisting a napkin in her fingers. Outside the window, a thin April rain blurred the city’s evening lights into watery brushstrokes. She’d picked this place on purpose—three years earlier they’d celebrated their wedding anniversary here. It still smelled of cinnamon and freshly baked bread, and the head chef, Anatoly, still remembered them both. He’d gladly agreed to make his signature tiramisu for a “special guest.”
Konstantin was twenty minutes late. He swept in quickly, flicking raindrops off the shoulders of an expensive coat Vera had never seen before. He dropped into the seat across from her without even kissing her hello. Just a curt nod—and his attention went straight to his phone.
“Kostya,” Vera said quietly, “I ordered your favorite dessert. Anatoly специально—”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, eyes still on the screen.
The waitress brought the tiramisu in an elegant glass dish. Konstantin gave it a detached glance and pushed it toward the edge of the table. Vera’s fingers turned icy.
“Listen,” he said at last, finally putting the phone down and pulling a thin folder from his inner pocket. “Let’s do this without theatrics. Like adults. I’ve got the documents ready. We’ll file for divorce. And we need to talk about how we’ll split the house. And my new car should be included too.”
He spoke as if he were discussing a cost estimate for a construction job. Flat. Businesslike. Almost bored.
Vera opened her mouth, but no air came. Her breath stuck somewhere in her throat, hardening into a lump of ice. The folder lay between them—neat, slim, obviously prepared ahead of time.
“What…?” she finally whispered.
“You’re a smart woman,” Konstantin leaned back, and something unfamiliar crept into his voice—patronizing certainty. “Just understand this correctly. We’ve outgrown this relationship. I want more from life. And you… well, you’ve always been a домашняя.”
The tiramisu slowly softened in the dish. At the next table, a couple laughed and clinked glasses. Vera stared at her husband and didn’t recognize him.
Seven years earlier, Konstantin had first appeared in her life in the hallway of the construction firm GlavProekt, where Vera worked as a senior architect. He’d come for an interview—tall, slightly hunched, wearing a cheap suit, clutching a résumé folder to his chest like a shield.
They collided by the coffee machine. He spilled his coins, and she helped gather them. He flushed crimson and muttered apologies. There was such confusion in his eyes, such genuine vulnerability, that Vera smiled without meaning to.
“First day?” she asked.
“Interview,” he admitted. “I’m really nervous. I truly need this job.”
He got hired. Later Vera learned that her recommendation had tipped the decision—HR had asked her opinion, and she, without knowing why, said, “Take him. He has honest eyes.”
Konstantin was grateful. Too grateful. He brought her coffee in the mornings, asked for advice, admired her projects. “You’re so smart,” he’d tell her. “I never would’ve come up with that.” Vera wasn’t used to praise. She’d always been the “serious girl,” “head in the drawings,” “thinking more than feeling.”
And now someone was seeing her not just as a colleague, but as a woman. Interesting. Worth noticing.
They started dating three months later. They married a year after that.
Vera remembered their wedding—modest, only a small circle. Konstantin had whispered into her ear, “I’ll make you happy. I promise.” And she believed him. She believed so completely that when he asked her to help pay for sales management courses, she agreed without a second thought.
“It’s an investment in our future,” she told her friend Inna.
“Or in his future,” Inna said grimly, but Vera didn’t take it seriously back then.
Three years ago, they bought a house in the suburbs—warm and comfortable, with a terrace and a small garden Vera had dreamed about since childhood. The down payment, most of the mortgage, the renovation—she paid for all of it. By that time Konstantin had a manager position, but his paycheck disappeared into “important connections,” “necessary meetings,” “promising projects.”
“Let’s register the house as joint property,” he suggested one evening as they painted the living room walls. “That’s how it should be. We’re family.”
Vera, streaked with paint and happiness, nodded. “Of course. We’re family.”
Over the last six months, something changed. Konstantin started staying late at work. He enrolled in business trainings. A new circle formed around him—loud, self-assured people who talked about “personal efficiency” and “maximizing what life can give you.”
“You have to take everything from life,” Konstantin repeated as he flipped through books with loud titles. “You can’t settle for less. That’s for losers.”
Vera blamed it on stress. On a midlife crisis. On fatigue. She cooked his favorite food, suggested they go away somewhere, tried to talk. But he looked at her like an obstacle, like something slowing him down on his way to “bigger goals.”
Now, sitting across from a stranger wearing her husband’s face, Vera understood: he’d been preparing for this conversation for a long time. Carefully. Thoroughly. Maybe for months.
Konstantin left half an hour later, abandoning the folder of documents on the table and tossing a final line over his shoulder: “I’ll call a lawyer so everything stays civilized.” Vera remained sitting, staring at the untouched tiramisu. The waitress asked timidly if she wanted anything else. Vera shook her head and paid, leaving an absurdly generous tip with trembling hands.
The house met her with silence—heavy, sticky silence that rang in her ears. Vera wandered through rooms that suddenly felt чужими, as if they belonged to someone else. There was the armchair they’d chosen at IKEA, arguing about the fabric color. There was the bookcase—her architecture books beside his glossy success manuals. There was the photo in the frame: on the terrace, Konstantin’s arm around her shoulders, both smiling.
Vera lifted the frame and looked closer. Her smile was open, happy. His smile… When was that taken? A year ago? Why hadn’t she noticed the emptiness on his face?
She opened the dresser drawer on his side of the bedroom. Half his things were gone. So he’d been taking them little by little, preparing. Among the socks he’d left, she found a receipt from a jewelry store dated two weeks earlier. A gold bracelet. Expensive.
Vera hadn’t received any bracelet.
Her phone buzzed. Inna.
“So, how did it go?” her friend asked without preamble.
Vera couldn’t stop the tears. Everything poured out at once—the restaurant, the folder, the papers, the receipt, the half-empty drawer. Inna listened silently, only sighing now and then.
“Meet me tomorrow,” she said at last. “The café near your place. Ten o’clock. I need to tell you something.”
The next morning Vera arrived first. She ordered a strong coffee that burned her tongue but didn’t warm her. Inna came in with a determined expression, sat across from her, and took Vera’s hands.
“Listen to me,” Inna began. “I stayed quiet because you didn’t want to hear it. But now I’ll say it plainly—he’s been looking for a way to cash in on you for a long time. You just didn’t want to see it.”
“Inna…”
“No, listen. Remember how he pushed you to put the house in both your names? How he always asked to ‘borrow’ money for his projects that never paid off? How he persuaded you to insure his life and health, but not yours? That was all part of a plan. He was getting ready to leave—but he wanted to take as much as possible with him.”
Vera stared into her cup. Somewhere deep inside, in the place she’d smothered with excuses and hope, something cold and crystal-clear began to move.
She had been used.
Not loved—used. Like a resource. Like an investment.
And in that moment, something in Vera broke. Or maybe, for the first time, it snapped into place. She raised her eyes to Inna—and for the first time in a long while, there were no tears in them. Only an angry, clean-edged determination.
“I’m not going to let him do this,” she said quietly, but firmly. “Not ever.”
Konstantin resurfaced three days later. He called in the evening, sounding upbeat, almost friendly.
“Ver, let’s meet at the house. We need to talk through the details. I’ll come tomorrow around seven. Want me to order something for dinner?”
Vera agreed, surprised by how calm she felt. After the call, she dialed her brother.
“Yegor—remember you offered to help? I need a lawyer. Now.”
“I’m already on it,” her brother replied, steel in his voice. “I’ll be at your place tomorrow at six. We’ll have everything ready.”
The next night Konstantin showed up exactly at seven. The new coat, an expensive watch, the scent of an unfamiliar cologne. He entered like he owned the place, scanned the living room, and smiled with patronizing ease.
“So, Verочка, let’s handle this like civilized people,” he began, sinking into his favorite chair. “Half the house—that’s fair. The car has to be included in the division too, it’s not cheap. And then—”
“Hello, Kostya,” a voice came from the office.
Konstantin turned. In the doorway stood Yegor—tall, holding a folder of documents, looking at him in a way that made you want to shrink back.
“Yegor? Why are you here?”
“I’m Vera’s attorney,” her brother said dryly, walking into the room and laying papers on the table. “And I have some news for you. Interesting news.”
Konstantin frowned, but kept his confidence.
“What news? Vera and I will figure this out ourselves.”
“I’m afraid you won’t,” Yegor said, pulling out several documents. “First—the house. It belongs entirely to Vera. A year ago, when your behavior started looking suspicious, we re-registered the ownership. I have the official property extracts. Your name isn’t there.”
Konstantin’s face began to change.
“Second—the car. It was purchased with Vera’s money, confirmed by bank statements and by a written acknowledgment you signed two years ago. Remember? ‘Temporary loan for the purchase of a vehicle.’ Vera has the original.”
“This… this is some kind of setup,” Konstantin muttered, getting to his feet.
“Third,” Yegor continued, unbothered, “every major purchase over the last five years was made with Vera’s money. We have receipts, transfers, supporting records. There is no jointly owned property, Konstantin. None. Not a single thing.”
Silence fell. Konstantin stood in the middle of a living room he’d assumed was half his, and realization spread across his face. His certainty drained away, replaced by confusion—and then panic.
“Vera,” he turned to his wife, and his voice took on new, pathetic notes. “Why would you do this? We can talk. I… I didn’t want to hurt you. I was under stress, понимаешь? Let’s try again. I love you. Really.”
Vera looked at him and saw straight through every word. The calculation, the manipulation, the desperation of a man realizing his plan had failed.
“No, Kostya,” she said quietly, but firmly. “You don’t love me. You just lost your income source.”
Konstantin opened his mouth, but Yegor was already sliding another document across the table.
“This is the divorce petition. You can sign voluntarily, or we’ll file in court. Your choice.”
Konstantin took the paper with trembling fingers. His expensive watch flashed under the lamp.
He looked at his wife one last time, hoping to find even a trace of the old softness. But Vera stood beside her brother—calm, distant, чужая.
“I’ll call,” he muttered, heading for the door.
“No need,” Vera replied.
The door closed. Vera sank onto the sofa and, for the first time in days, felt something heavy slip off her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispered to her brother.
“You did great,” Yegor said, sitting beside her. “You finally saw him.”
Yes. She saw him.
And she wasn’t going to close her eyes again.
The court hearing took less than an hour. Konstantin tried to drag things out—demanded additional assessments, insisted he’d “made a significant contribution to the family budget.” But the documents were relentless: every receipt, every transfer, every IOU said the same thing—Vera had been the sole source of funding for their shared life.
The judge reviewed the case file and issued a clear, swift decision: divorce with no property division, since there was no jointly acquired property.
Vera signed the papers with a steady hand. Konstantin sat across from her, hunched, suddenly older—aged by the weeks. When their eyes met, she felt no triumph, no gloating. Only quiet relief.
Outside the courthouse, Vera paused on the steps and lifted her face to the spring sun. April was ending; May was ahead—her favorite month, when the city exploded into green and light.
“So where to now?” Yegor asked beside her.
“To find an apartment,” Vera answered. “A new one. Mine. In the city center. I’ll sell the house.”
She found a studio a week later—seventh floor of an old building with a view of the park. High ceilings, huge windows, minimalist lines—everything she’d wanted but never dared to create while Konstantin was around with his taste for dark furniture and heavy curtains.
She furnished the new place slowly, enjoying every choice. A pale sofa. A glass table. Shelves of architecture books. On the wall—a black-and-white cityscape photo she bought from a street artist.
Six months after the divorce, on a Saturday, Vera wandered between the bookstore shelves, looking for something light for the evening—maybe a detective novel, maybe essays on urban architecture.
She stopped at the coffee counter for an Americano and, by chance, glanced toward the back of the shop.
Konstantin.
He stood by the self-help section, leafing through something from a series like “Success in 30 Days.” His jacket was cheap, clearly bought on sale. His hair needed a cut. He looked lost and small—nothing like the smug man who’d demanded half the property in that restaurant.
Their eyes met.
Konstantin froze, the book stiff in his hands. Vera could see him searching for words, trying to read her face—anger? contempt? pity?
But she simply nodded. Calmly. Without bitterness. Without regret.
Then she turned and walked out.
Outside, streetlights were flickering on. The city settled into the soft dusk of a May evening. Vera pulled bright blue bicycle keys from her pocket—a bike she’d bought herself a week earlier simply because she wanted to.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Denis, a photographer she’d met at an exhibition last month: “I’m waiting by the fountain. Brought a thermos of tea and blankets—it’s chilly tonight.”
Vera smiled as she swung onto the bike.
A cool wind lifted her hair, city lights shimmered in storefront glass, and ahead stretched the wide path leading to the park—to new meetings, new chances.
Her new life had already begun: free, vivid, full of light.
And she wasn’t going to share it with anyone until she met someone truly worthy of standing beside her.
Until then—she was perfectly happy on her own.