“I’m pregnant,” I said, and a smile spread across my face on its own.
Kirill, standing by the window, froze. He didn’t even turn around, but I saw his shoulders tense in the reflection.
I expected hugs, joyful shouting—anything but this strange, frozen posture.
“I am too,” came Lena’s quiet voice.
My sister stepped out of our bedroom. She was wearing Kirill’s T-shirt—the one I loved most, the one he slept in.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and the gesture was so casual, so intimate, that my mind blurred for a moment.
Flashes of memories I had once brushed off flickered in my mind.
There was Kirill, “in a late meeting,” while Lena would “drop by just to chat,” glancing nervously at her phone.
There they were, laughing at a joke only they understood, while I stood beside them, feeling like a stranger at my own celebration.
“You’ve got a spare key, right, Lena?” he asked her before we left for vacation. “Please water the plants. There’s no one else I trust.”
And I had been so happy about how close we all were as a family.
“What?” I asked, though I’d heard it perfectly. My voice sounded foreign, wooden.
“Anya, I can explain,” Kirill finally turned. His face was as white as a hospital wall. “It’s not what you think. It was… a mistake.”
Lena looked me straight in the eye. There was no remorse in her gaze—only fatigue and a bitter, stubborn resolve.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” she said firmly, looking at Kirill. “Stop lying. At least now.”
He shot her a furious look.
“Shut up!”
I looked back and forth between my husband and my sister. The man I’d spent five years building a future with. The woman I’d shared childhood secrets with.
They were only two meters away, but it felt like a chasm stretched between us.
And in that chasm drowned all our us—our plans, our tenderness, our future child.
“A mistake, huh?” I repeated, lips twisting into a smirk. “Is it a joint mistake? Or do you each get your own?”
Kirill stepped toward me, arms outstretched.
“Anechka, sweetheart, let’s talk. Just not now. Lena, leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Lena said calmly, crossing her arms. “We’re expecting a child. And I won’t let you pretend I don’t exist anymore.”
I backed away from Kirill until my spine hit the cold hallway wall.
“Out,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Out. Both of you.”
They didn’t move. My word, which had held such weight minutes ago, had become meaningless.
“Anya, don’t be rash,” Kirill said in the conciliatory tone I’d come to hate—the one he used when trying to make me “understand the situation.”
“You’re a smart woman. We’re both adults. Yes, I made a mistake. But we need to think beyond emotions—think about the children. Our children.”
He stressed the last words, trying to link us again, to create the illusion of a shared future.
“What ‘our’ children are you talking about?” I asked coldly. “The one who’ll grow up with a single mother, or the one born to Daddy’s mistress?”
Lena flinched and sniffled.
“Don’t call me that. You don’t know anything.”
“Oh really?” I turned to her, my shock giving way to cold fury. “Then enlighten me. What should I know? That you slept with my husband in my bed? Is that not enough?”
“It wasn’t like that!” her voice grew stronger. “We love each other. This isn’t just a fling.”
Kirill clutched his head.
“Lena, I begged you—”
“I’m tired of hiding!” she shouted. “Tired of being a secret, a mistake to be erased!”
“You always got everything, Anya. The perfect husband, the perfect home. And me? I was always in the background. Just ‘Anya’s sister.’”
Her words were so full of long-held resentment, I was stunned. She wasn’t apologizing—she was accusing.
I remembered how Mom used to say, “Anya’s the smart one, Lena’s the pretty one. Each her own gift.” Apparently, Lena never accepted hers.
“So you decided to take what was mine?” I asked quietly.
“I took what belonged to no one!” she snapped. “He wasn’t happy with you. You just refused to see it.”
I looked at Kirill. He avoided my eyes. And in that moment, I realized Lena was right—not about love, but about the fact that he had made her believe it. He complained to her about me, forming a bond fueled by his weakness and her jealousy.
“Fine,” I said, and my calm made them both tense. “What do you propose? That we all live together? Set up a schedule?”
Kirill lifted his head.
“Enough. That’s not constructive. I suggest we live separately for now. I’ll rent Lena an apartment. Help you both. We need time to think.”
He sounded like he was discussing a business deal. Asset management. Risk mitigation.
“So I’m supposed to sit here, pregnant, while you ‘think’ about which of your pregnant women to return to?” I laughed, a chilling, grating sound.
“Anya, you’re being difficult.”
“No, Kirill. You made this simple—brutally simple. Like an animal. Get out. Take her with you. You can come back for your things when I’m not home.”
I picked up my phone and dialed.
“Hello, security? I have intruders in my apartment. Yes, they refuse to leave.”
Lena looked at me with hatred. Kirill—stunned. He hadn’t expected this. He was used to “good girl Anya” who always understood and forgave. That girl had just died.
The call was a bluff. Our building didn’t have real security, just a sleepy concierge. But they didn’t know that. The word security was enough to shake Kirill.
“You’ll regret this, Anya,” he hissed, grabbing Lena’s arm. “You’re kicking out a pregnant woman. Your own sister.”
“I’m kicking out my husband’s mistress,” I said, meeting his gaze. “And you? You’re just a traitor.”
When the door slammed behind them, I slid to the floor. No tears. Just scorched emptiness and the roar of adrenaline in my ears.
The next day, hell began.
First, my boss called.
“Hi Anya. Listen, Kirill called… He’s worried about you. Says your behavior’s been unstable since the pregnancy.”
I went cold.
“What else did he say?”
“He asked for a leave of absence for you. Said you might not be making sound decisions.”
I understood then. He wasn’t just leaving. He was trying to destroy me. Piece by piece—my career, my reputation, my independence.
An hour later, a courier arrived with a thick envelope from his lawyer. Full of legal jargon, but the meaning was simple: he was suing for full ownership of our apartment, claiming he’d bought it before the marriage with his own money, and my contribution to renovations was “insignificant.”
But the last page was the worst—he petitioned for a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation of me.
To determine whether I was fit to be a mother.
That was the lowest blow. He wanted to take not just the apartment—but my child. He wanted to use my pregnancy, my vulnerability, against me.
Something snapped inside me. The thread that tied me to the old Anya—the forgiving, understanding “good girl.”
He thought I’d break. Cry. Beg. Agree to his terms.
He forgot.
He forgot who stayed up nights with him while he built his business, combing through contracts.
He forgot who kept his “grey” accounting in a notebook because he couldn’t afford a real accountant.
He forgot that I knew all his tricks. His offshore accounts. His “tax optimization.”
I had been his shadow. His faithful squire. And he assumed the squire was unarmed.
I went to the safe we’d bought together “for important documents.” My hands were steady. I entered the code—only he and I knew it.
Inside, under marriage certificates and property deeds, was a thin folder. The one he’d asked me to “just keep safe” a few years ago.
“It’s insurance, Anechka,” he’d said. “Just in case. Keep it—you’re my most reliable person.”
He had so much faith in my blind loyalty, he handed me the weapon himself.
I picked up the phone. Not to call a lawyer—but my old university friend, now in economic crimes.
“Hi, Stas. I have a very interesting story for you. About a very successful businessman.”
The effects weren’t immediate. Stas warned that anonymous tips only opened investigations—nothing more. But the wheels were set in motion.
The first few months were torture. Kirill pressured me from every angle. His lawyers bombarded me with lawsuits.
He called mutual friends, telling them I’d lost my mind due to hormones. But I endured. I had an ace—and waited.
Six months in, the first blow hit: a tax audit. A full, aggressive one.
They froze his accounts. He called—I didn’t answer.
Lena tried contacting me too. Pathetic messages: “He left me. I have no money. Please help—you’re my sister.” I read them. Then deleted.
The downfall was slow, excruciating. Like poison. His partners began backing away.
His precious reputation cracked.
He tried to sell his business. No buyers for a toxic asset.
He called me from a restaurant—his card was declined.
“What have you done, you bitch?!” he hissed. “You’re ruining my life!”
“No, Kirill,” I replied calmly, folding baby clothes. “I just turned on the light. The cockroaches scattered on their own.”
He threatened, screamed. But I heard fear in his voice. He knew I no longer played by his rules.
He lost the property case—my lawyer proved the apartment was purchased with joint funds, and his “personal money” came from his own firm.
His custody petition was denied—especially after the tax probe surfaced. He was labeled unfit.
He lost everything. Business. Money. Status. Received a massive fine and a three-year suspended sentence with a ban from executive roles.
For someone like him, that was worse than prison.
Two years passed.
I sat in a cozy café, watching my son Misha concentrate on building a block tower.
Next to me sat Andrey. A kind, steady man I met in a parenting class.
He didn’t try to replace Misha’s father—he just loved us.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated. Unknown number. I picked up.
“Anya? It’s Lena.”
I was silent.
“I… I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” her voice trembled. “I was such a fool. I envied you all my life. Your strength. Your ease. I thought if I took him, I’d become you. But I became nothing.”
“How are you?” I asked evenly.
“We’re… okay. I named my daughter Nadya. Kirill… he didn’t even come to the hospital. He tried to borrow my last money and vanished.”
I looked at Misha, who clapped joyfully after placing the last block. Andrey smiled, gently stroking my hand.
“Lena,” I said. “If you ever need help—for Nadya—you can count on me.”
She sobbed.
“You really… would?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But my door will always be open to my niece. As for us… maybe one day.”
I hung up.
Forgiveness wasn’t fireworks or liberation. It was a quiet decision.
A decision not to carry the heavy burden of past pain into my new, happy life.
The memory of betrayal was now just a scar. It didn’t hurt anymore—but it reminded me that I had survived.
I was no longer the “good girl.” I was a woman who had learned to defend herself.
And I liked this version of me a whole lot more.
