The gravel crunched uneasily beneath my car’s tires as I turned onto the familiar dirt road. I was smiling. Igor thought I was meeting friends in the city — but I was rushing to him instead. Surprise.
He said there was an emergency at the dacha — a critical project that required total focus. Our “work” dacha, as he called it. A place where no one could disturb him.
Strangely, the gate was ajar. Igor always locked it twice, even if he just went to the store for five minutes. It was one of his quirks.
I left the car by the road to avoid alerting him and slipped quietly onto the property. The air was filled with smoke — rich, spicy, but not the kind that came from Igor’s grill. He had a whole ritual for that, perfected over the years. This smell was… different. Foreign.
My heart started beating a little faster. Silly. I was probably just excited to surprise him.
I crept along the narrow path, hiding behind the lush lilac bushes. Voices drifted from the veranda.
One was Igor’s — tense and strained. The other, a man’s — deep, smooth, with the lazy authority of someone used to being in control.
“You understand this isn’t a request, Igor,” that voice said. “It’s just a fact. We’re back in the game.”
I froze, peering through the leaves.
There, at our table on the veranda, sat my husband. He looked like someone pulled out of icy water — pale, hunched.
Beside him sat a woman in a sharp business suit, her face as unreadable as a mask.
And at the grill — the wrought-iron one Igor and I spent six months choosing — stood the man with the velvet voice.
Tall, in an expensive shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he turned the skewers with effortless precision. Everything about him radiated calm and confidence, like he belonged here.
He didn’t look like a friend of Igor’s. He looked like a predator who’d walked into someone else’s house and was already figuring out where he’d sleep.
I stepped out from my hiding spot. The conversation stopped mid-sentence. Three pairs of eyes locked on me.
“Lena?” Igor jumped up, knocking over his chair. “What… what are you doing here?”
His voice cracked. No joy. Only panic.
The man at the grill slowly turned his head. His cold, gray eyes scanned me from head to toe. He smirked.
“Well, well. The lady of the manor. Igor, you didn’t mention your charming wife would be joining our… meeting.”
I ignored him, staring directly at my husband.
“You said you were working. Reports.”
“This is work,” the woman at the table cut in. Her voice was dry, like brittle leaves. “We’re just discussing some old projects.”
And that’s when it clicked.
It was him.
The man whose name Igor had begged me to forget. The man who nearly cost us everything five years ago.
A ghost from the past. One Igor swore would never return to our lives.
“Vadim?” I whispered, and the air thickened around me.
The man took a skewer of perfectly grilled meat from the fire and offered it to me.
“Vadim Andreyevich,” he corrected with a smile that sent a chill down my spine. “For you, Elena. Enjoy. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other from now on.”
I stared at the steaming skewer in his hand. The smell hit me, making my stomach churn. I took a step back, shaking my head.
“I’m not hungry. Igor, I want an explanation.”
My voice was firmer than I expected. The confusion was gone — replaced by cold fury.
“Lenochka, please—” Igor stepped toward me, arms out, but froze at my look. “It’s… it’s complicated.”
“Then try,” Vadim said, clearly enjoying the drama. He set the skewer down. “Your husband is just reestablishing old business ties. Very lucrative ones.”
He glanced around — our house, our garden, our gazebo.
“Lovely place. Cozy. Anna and I—” he nodded toward the woman, “—have been looking for a retreat like this. To escape the city noise.”
I turned from Vadim to Igor. My husband stood with his head down, staring at a crack in the veranda tiles. Silent. And that silence was louder than any scream.
“What does he mean?” I asked, eyes still on Vadim.
“He means your husband is in debt,” Vadim answered lazily. “Not money, Elena. That’s dust. A debt of honor. Five years ago, I pulled him out of a hole so deep he still wakes up sweating. Now it’s time to pay.”
Anna opened a slim leather folder and pulled out several papers.
“Everything is legally airtight,” she said flatly. “Your husband granted us rights to use this property as collateral for future deals. Here’s his signature.”
She handed me the document. I saw it immediately — Igor’s bold signature, unmistakable.
My ears rang. I looked at my husband. He finally met my eyes, and in them I saw pain. Desperation. For a split second, I pitied him.
Then the pity burned away, drowned in fury.
“You swore to me,” I hissed. “You looked me in the eyes and promised that part of your life was over. You lied.”
“Lena, I had no choice!” he shouted. “He would’ve destroyed me! Us!”
Vadim chuckled. Quietly, without malice. And that made it worse. My hands trembled.
“There’s always a choice, Igor. You just chose your own skin. Again.”
He stepped closer, and I smelled the mix of expensive cologne and smoke.
“Don’t blame him. He’s weak. And weak men need strong patrons. I’m his patron now. Which means I’m yours, too. Get used to it.”
That phrase — “get used to it” — snapped something in me. All the fear, all the confusion vanished. What remained was a ringing, icy calm. And one thought: Enough.
I looked Vadim straight in the eye. Then at Anna’s papers. Then at Igor.
“Get used to it? No, Vadim Andreyevich. You’ll be the one adjusting. To a new reality.”
I pulled out my phone.
“Anna, I assume you’re a lawyer?” She nodded, curious. “Then you should know: contracts signed under duress are invalid.”
“And,” I added, “this house — all our assets, actually — were bought during the marriage. But they’re in my name.”
For the first time, Anna’s mask cracked. Her gaze darted to Igor.
Vadim stopped smiling.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. This house is mine. That grill is mine. The ground under your feet? Mine. And my husband’s signature —” I struggled with the word, “—is worthless.”
I turned to Igor. His face had gone chalk white. He stared at me like he didn’t recognize me.
“You… you put everything in your name? When?”
“Right after you ‘cut ties’ with Vadim five years ago. I’m not stupid, Igor. I saw how scared you were. I knew he’d be back. I gave you a chance to handle it. You didn’t.”
Silence. The coals in the grill crackled.
Vadim slowly turned to Igor. The lazy charm was gone. His eyes were cold, calculating.
“So you brought me here, knowing it wasn’t yours? You set me up?”
“I… I didn’t know!” Igor stammered, backing away. “Lena, tell him! I swear I didn’t know!”
But I looked at Vadim.
“You have five minutes to pack up and leave my property. Or I call the police and report trespassing. And believe me, my lawyer will gladly dig into your shared past with Igor to add more.”
Anna silently began packing her documents, shooting Vadim a warning look.
Vadim gave me one last look, then turned to Igor. A cruel smile curled his lips.
“You’ll pay for this, Igor. Dearly.”
He walked out. Anna followed.
Igor and I were alone. He stood on the veranda, defeated and pathetic, looking at me like a scolded child.
“You could’ve told me…”
“Told you what?” I cut in. “That I don’t trust you anymore? That I’m done mothering you, covering your cowardice? You already knew.”
I picked up the plate of kebabs Vadim had made and tossed it into the trash.
“Leave.”
“Lena… where will I go?”
“To a place where men handle their problems. The door’s open.”
He hesitated, then turned and trudged after his “patrons.”
I was alone.
I looked at my house, my garden, my grill — and for the first time in years, I could breathe. The air was clean.
The next few days were eerily peaceful. I changed the locks.
Filed for divorce. My lawyer, calm and elderly Boris Markovich, listened to my story, nodded, and said, “You did the right thing, Elena Sergeyevna. Long overdue.”
I thought Vadim wouldn’t let it go. But the weeks passed in silence.
I began to hope he’d simply taken out his anger on Igor and forgotten about me.
Foolish hope.
The first red flag came at work. My department head — a cautious, polite man — called me in.
“Elena Sergeyevna, we received a request… from the tax office. Regarding your past five years’ filings. I’m sure it’s just routine, but…”
But I knew. Vadim wasn’t using threats. He was smarter than that. He was trying to strangle me with bureaucracy.
A few days later, my personal bank account was blocked. “Technical error,” they said.
Then the police flagged irregularities in my car’s registration.
Every day, some new, petty nightmare. He was trying to prove that without his “protection,” my life would be hell.
I held on. Boris Markovich fended off the attacks — but it was a war of attrition. I felt the noose tightening.
Then, one late evening, I saw him.
Igor. Sitting on a bench near my building. He looked thinner, exhausted. Still in that same wrinkled suit.
“Lena,” he stood as I approached. “Please. Just two minutes.”
I kept my distance.
“What do you want, Igor?”
“I have to warn you. It’s Vadim. He won’t stop.”
“I figured,” I said coldly.
“No, you don’t understand!” Panic edged into his voice. “This is just the beginning. He… he found something.”
Five years ago, when he saved me, I signed more than just debt notes. I signed a confession. For things I didn’t do. Financial fraud. At his company.
He pinned it on me. Kept the confession as insurance. And now he’s using it — to frame you, too. He wants to destroy you.
My blood ran cold.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whispered.
Igor looked at me, and for the first time in years, I saw no fear, no bitterness. Just exhaustion.
“Because I should’ve told you five years ago. Gone to the police. But I was afraid. Now I have nothing left. You still have your life.”
He handed me a small flash drive.
“He told me to give you this. Said it’s his final offer. It has a copy of the confession. His demands.
But there’s something else. In a hidden folder. I found it by accident. His real books. Proof against him. He doesn’t know it’s there.”
He placed the cold metal in my hand.
“Forgive me, Lena. If you can. And run.”
He turned and vanished into the evening shadows.
I stood there, clutching the flash drive — both a death sentence and a lifeline.
And I knew I wouldn’t run.
The game had changed. My move now.
Two years later
I sat on the same veranda, in the same chair. A cup of fragrant herbal tea in hand. The air now smelled of freshly cut grass and roses I planted last spring — not foreign, threatening smoke.
Next to me sat Boris Markovich. He visited every couple of months, no longer just a lawyer, but a friend. We sipped tea and talked of nothing in particular.
“Do you remember when you brought me that flash drive?” he asked, gazing at the garden. “Your hands were shaking. But your eyes… they burned like a tigress.”
I smiled. I remembered. That night was the longest of my life.
The evidence against Vadim was explosive. The authorities leapt on it.
The trial was long and dirty. Vadim threatened, bribed, schemed. But the legal machine we’d set in motion kept rolling.
His empire, built on fear and blackmail, collapsed like a house of cards.
He got a long sentence. Anna, his loyal lawyer, got probation as an accomplice.
“And Igor?” I asked, though I already knew. I asked every time, like checking if something had changed.
“Served his probation,” Boris sighed. “Works in sales now. Quiet as a mouse. He signed the divorce papers without a word. I think… he’s grateful. You pulled him out of that swamp, even if it hurt.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t his savior. Or his executioner. I was saving myself.
Igor tried calling at first. Said he understood everything now. Wanted a fresh start.
I never answered. You can’t build something new on rotten ruins.
I finished my tea and stood. Walked barefoot across the warm wooden veranda to the grill.
It still stood in its old place, polished to a shine. Now I cooked on it myself — for me and the friends who filled my home with laughter and warmth.
I looked at the gate. It was tightly locked with a new, secure latch. Not out of fear.
But because now I decided who I let into my life.
The sun was setting, painting the sky soft peach. And in that calm, golden light, I felt truly free.
The story had ended.
Mine was just beginning.
