Marina stopped in the bedroom doorway, watching Roman hurriedly pack his things into a scuffed backpack. His movements were sharp, jittery—as if he were getting ready to flee. The zipper snapped shut with a metallic click, and he turned his back to the wardrobe.
— Going somewhere? — She stepped into the room. — Rom?
— Yeah… uh… to the guys, — he mumbled, still not turning around.
— Which guys?
Roman’s cheeks flushed, betraying his discomfort.
— It’s Artyom’s birthday, — he finally squeezed out. — He’s inviting people to his cottage.
Marina brightened, as if a fresh wind had blown into the room.
— Perfect! — she exclaimed. — I’ve got a new swimsuit. Let’s take a bigger bag, your backpack is clearly too small.
She was already reaching for a duffel, picturing the cool water and the glowing pool lane Roman had told her so much about. In their three years together he had often bragged about his friend’s pool and the legendary parties there. But somehow it always worked out that he went alone. Now that Roman had been living in her apartment for six months, Marina had decided firmly: enough of staying on the sidelines. It was time to meet his crowd and become a real part of his life.
Roman jerked a shoulder; his gaze slid past her.
— I’m not sure you were invited, — he muttered.
— We can check, — Marina replied evenly. — By etiquette, couples are invited as couples.
— We’re not married.
— Not yet. But we will be, right? — She caught his gaze and didn’t let it go.
— Well… yeah, — he answered in the tone of someone discussing a trip to the dentist.
Marina had been waiting for a proposal for a long time. Over three years, Roman had promised a ring more than once, but there were always excuses—“saving for housing,” “not the right time.” When her mother handed over the keys to her great-grandmother’s apartment, the housing question solved itself. Marina moved in, settled, and a couple of weeks later Roman moved in too. It was convenient for him—a short walk to the office, savings on transport and rent. Practical, just the way he liked it.
— Rom, go ahead and call, — she handed him the phone.
— I don’t want to force myself on them, — he waved her off.
At that moment his phone vibrated. “Artyom” lit up on the screen. Marina deftly intercepted the call.
— Good afternoon, this is Marina, — she said, putting it on speakerphone.
— Hello, — the birthday boy replied. — Can I speak to Romka?
— Of course. Just one thing first: did you invite Roman alone or are we coming together?
— Together, obviously, — Artyom sounded surprised. — Though he said he’d be alone. Did your plans change, Marina?
— They’re changing right now. Thanks, see you soon.
Marina handed back the phone and kept packing the bag. Now she knew Roman had intentionally been leaving her out, though no one objected to her being there. Roman watched as she folded a two-piece swimsuit with a bright tropical leaf print.
— Maybe I should bring a spare? — she asked.
— Better not bring one at all, — he ground out.
— Why?
— The weather might turn. And his pool is nothing special anyway—a puddle, not a pool.
— The forecast says twenty-six degrees. I’ll swim even if it pours. Do what you want.
Marina’s decision was final. After so many years as the girlfriend hidden from friends, she deserved to become a full part of his life.
They spent the rest of the evening separately. He camped out by the TV with a can of beer “to lift the mood,” she tidied the kitchen and mentally rehearsed the conversations ahead, imagining introductions and small talk.
There were six days to Saturday. Marina oscillated between excitement for the upcoming gathering and calming herself: it would be fine as long as she stayed herself. She genuinely wanted to fit in with his crowd and make a good impression on her fiancé’s friends.
Artyom’s house turned out to be thoughtful down to the last detail: a pool with shimmering lights, a gazebo strung with fairy bulbs, a solid grill, a garden swing, and a stylish bar along the far wall. From the moment they stepped in, there was the scent of charcoal smoke, fresh mint, and a feeling of carefreeness. The yard was small, but every corner was used smartly.
— Come in, make yourselves at home, — Artyom met them at the gate. Tall, open-faced, with a firm handshake.
In the gazebo the group had already gathered: the men clustered near the bar, the women—elegant, with chiseled cheekbones and long legs—occupied the wicker chairs. Marina tried to carry herself with confidence: she sampled the snacks, answered questions, laughed at jokes. Roman, after a curt nod of greeting, headed straight for the bar. Yegor, a thin guy playing bartender, handled the shaker deftly; cocktails appeared one after another.
Three girls—looking like dolls from glossy magazines—settled beside Marina. They picked at salad leaves and darted sidelong looks at Marina’s plate, silently counting calories.
— You don’t watch your figure? — one of them asked.
— I do. But I also live, — Marina answered calmly, suppressing her irritation. Her size forty-eight was in the past; now she didn’t meet magazine standards, but therapy had taught her to accept herself as she was. Roman had supported her then: “You’re beautiful as you are.”
— “I do…” — the girl mimicked. — And who ate all the shashlik?
— Leave her alone, — a tall brunette in a white shirt cut in. — Marina, come on, I’ll show you the garden. I’m Veronika, the birthday boy’s sister.
— Thank you, — Marina smiled sincerely. The smile was so warm that the barbs stopped at once.
Then Roman came over, already pretty drunk. He swayed by the bar, reeking of whiskey.
— Hey, Marish, you see these figures? — he swept his arm over the crowd. — Those are real figures. And you… you’re like a balloon! I’m not ashamed to be seen with you only in the dark!
All conversation died. Roman spoke deliberately loud, as if he wanted everyone to hear.
— Roman, shut up, — Veronika said quietly but firmly. She stepped in for Marina not out of politeness—she was genuinely disgusted by such boorishness.
Marina stood and headed into the house, locked herself in the bathroom, and breathed for a long time so as not to burst into tears. She could have made a scene, but that would only have made things worse and given Roman a reason to accuse her of “ruining the evening for everyone.”
When she came out, music was playing around the pool and guests were diving in. The light strips shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow. She wanted to slip into the cool water, as if washing away the humiliation and starting over. She took off her dress and walked to the edge.
Roman materialized beside her as if out of thin air.
— Are you out of your mind? — he hissed.
— Perfectly sane.
— Don’t embarrass me. Put your dress back on, — he grabbed her arm.
Roman was afraid of becoming a laughingstock. In his mind, Marina appearing in a swimsuit would draw attention to her body—and therefore to him as her partner. The opinions of near-strangers mattered more to him than the comfort of the woman he lived with.
— Everyone’s swimming. How am I different from the rest?
— The pool will overflow! — he jabbed a finger at her swimsuit. — Tropics, huh. All we’re missing is a hippo to complete the picture.
— Roman, — Veronika stepped between them again. — Bite your tongue. Now.
Veronika saw a classic abuser in Roman, someone who publicly demeans his partner to bolster himself. The behavior repulsed her.
— Mind your own business! — he yanked Marina hard enough that she lost her balance. Yegor caught her by the shoulder in time.
Veronika motioned, and Artyom appeared at once.
— Rom, step aside, — the birthday boy said without a hint of a smile. — On my property, you don’t lay hands on people.
— On your property anything goes! — Roman shoved Artyom. He clipped the table with glasses; the crystal jingled, a plate of fruit skittered away. Roman stumbled and, with a loud splash, plunged into the pool. Laughter rippled through the garden.
Underwater, in those few seconds, Roman thought only one thing: it was all Marina’s fault. If she had stayed home, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have had to make excuses for her looks, wouldn’t have drunk so much, wouldn’t have made a fool of himself in front of his friends.
— Call security? — someone shouted from the house. But Artyom and Yegor were enough. They hauled Roman out—soaked and furious.
— Calm down or leave, — Artyom warned.
— You don’t give me orders! — Roman swung, missed, and flopped onto the wet tiles.
— Veronika, — Artyom didn’t take his eyes off the troublemaker. — Call Dmitry. Let him explain to our guest how to behave in society.
Artyom understood they couldn’t solve the problem on their own. Roman was drunk and aggressive; it could turn into a brawl. And calling the district officer wasn’t a threat but a real prospect of a report and a fine. Usually that sobers people up quickly and effectively.
— Dialing now, — Veronika said, selecting the number for Dmitry Ignatyev, their district officer and an old family friend.
Marina pulled on a towel and with trembling fingers wiped water from her cheeks. Veronika handed her a glass of water.
— Drink. And don’t think this is the end of the world. At least now you know the truth about him.
— He’s never said anything like that before, — Marina breathed out.
— People say exactly what’s inside them. Romka drank and all the filth came spilling out. We’ll sort this out.
Roman’s words were still ringing in her ears—the ones he’d been shouting five minutes ago, waving a beer bottle. About her body. About how she “eats like a pig.” About how “women like her you only take in the dark.”
So that’s what he really thinks of me, — the realization didn’t hit her with pain but with a strange sense of relief. As if the fog had lifted, revealing a landscape she’d subconsciously seen long ago but stubbornly refused to acknowledge.
Dmitry arrived quickly. Tall, quiet, he spoke to Roman without fuss, but in a way that made Roman deflate.
— Will you leave peacefully or shall I write it up? — the officer asked.
— I’ll go, — Roman grumbled, gathering his backpack and pride into one wet heap.
Zoya Gavrilovna, Artyom’s neighbor, watching over the fence, crossed herself and, in the tone of a stage diva, declared, “What is the world coming to!..”
— Have a pleasant evening, everyone, — Dmitry nodded and left.
Roman headed for the exit, leaving wet footprints on the tiles, and a single thought turned over in his head: Everyone’s against me. Marina betrayed him, making him look like an idiot in front of these… Especially that Artyom with his perfect little house and perfect pool. Playing the noble host, and all of it set up. And the friends… where were they now? They turned away the moment trouble started. Some men, he thought bitterly, wiping his face with his sleeve. And Marina… She could’ve stood up for him. The humiliation burned worse than alcohol—he’d been publicly made a fool of, and now people would gossip about it at every party.
When they brought out the cake—covered in white frosting and topped with fresh cherries—Artyom sat down beside Marina.
— You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t try it, — he said. — My mom made it. She’s a wizard with cakes.
— I should probably skip sweets, — Marina tried to joke.
A habit, she realized. Roman was always commenting on her weight, and now every bite of cake felt like grounds for reproach. “Eating again? And then you complain your jeans won’t button.” His voice sounded in her memory so vividly it was as if he were standing next to her.
— Sweets are the hormone of joy. Open your mouth and close your eyes, — he winked, scooping up a spoonful of frosting.
She laughed and obeyed. He fed her; they got frosting on themselves and laughed again. The guests had switched to dancing; Roman was gone. The evening turned warm and simple.
When was the last time I laughed like this—carefree? — Marina licked frosting from her lips and realized she couldn’t remember. With Roman, every laugh had to be suffered, begged for, earned. But here… here she could just be herself. The Marina who could eat a piece of cake without feeling guilty. Who could laugh without glancing at her partner’s sour face.
— I can drive you home, — Artyom offered. — I haven’t been drinking, and I’m a bit tired of the noise anyway.
— That would be great, — Marina nodded.
It wasn’t about the noise. She wanted to prolong the lightness that might vanish the moment the dancers’ attention shifted back to her. Already a few girls were glancing over with curiosity—she was enjoying Artyom’s company a little too much after the scene with her fiancé.
They took a drive through the night city, strolled along the embankment, and had coffee at a kiosk. Conversation flowed easily.
I have a fiancé, Marina kept reminding herself, but the reminder sounded less and less convincing. What fiancé? The one who publicly insulted her? The one who never once asked what she dreamed about, what she liked, what worried her? Artyom listened without interrupting, asked about Marina’s work and hobbies. He didn’t say a word about Roman—and that was soothing.
— Thank you, — Marina cupped the paper cup. — You saved my evening.
— Anytime. And come by to swim when there’s no crowd, — he smiled.
— I’ll think about it, — she said, though she already knew: she would.
Of course I will, she thought, looking at his calm face in the streetlight. Because next to this man I feel like a person, not a target. Because he doesn’t cut me off mid-sentence or roll his eyes when I talk about work. Because with him I’m not afraid to be myself.
Roman showed up Monday at dawn as if nothing had happened. He chewed an omelet and cracked jokes at the TV, avoiding serious topics.
Marina kept silent, waiting for at least an attempt to apologize. Some acknowledgment of what had happened on Saturday. But Roman acted as if nothing had occurred—no drunken scene, no insults, no humiliating plunge into someone else’s pool. So he figured she should forget. Endure. Swallow it, she realized, studying his self-satisfied face.
By noon a huge bouquet of cream roses arrived for her at work. Coworkers gasped: “Now that’s a man!” Marina thought Roman’s conscience had awakened, but the card read: “I’ll pick you up at 6:30. — Artyom.”
He remembers. He’s thinking of me. And he doesn’t ask for anything in return—this warmed her more than Roman’s most expensive gifts. He gave gifts to buy her off. Artyom gave them to delight her.
They started going for evening walks. Artyom met her by the metro, brought mulled wine in a thermos, drove to the outskirts to watch the swifts fly.
Marina didn’t say no because these outings became the one bright spot in her life. At home, Roman waited with his complaints, sulks, and silent reproaches. But here—here she could breathe. Artyom didn’t rush anything, didn’t ask for anything. Marina caught herself going an entire hour without thinking about Roman. Easy and quiet.
Roman pretended not to notice the flowers. He behaved like a hostel lodger: eat, sleep, leave. The more he stayed silent, the clearer the math became to Marina.
I’m not his fiancée—I’m free domestic help. I cook, do laundry, pay the bills, and he deigns to be here. And considers it a favor. The realization didn’t come at once, but when it did, it was crystal clear.
That evening she set a paper on the table.
— Roma, you’ve been living with me for six months. Here’s the calculation: rent for a comparable apartment, utilities, internet, groceries. I didn’t include your “performances”—those would be too expensive. Settle up within a week.
By “performances” she meant his drunken scenes, the stool he broke in a rage, the pot he burned on the stove, and other “gifts” he regularly presented her with. Marina was tired of being convenient, tired of forgiving, tired of living in a constant mode of excusing someone else’s behavior.
His eyes bulged.
— You’ve got some nerve! You should be paying me for my company!
— Leave, — Marina said calmly, handing him a bag. — Right now.
— You bal— — he didn’t finish; the crack of the slap stunned the room.
“Charl—” that’s what he wanted to say. Or “sl—t.” It didn’t matter. Marina didn’t hit from anger—she hit from exhaustion. Exhaustion from being humiliated in her own home.
Roman swallowed. He shoved his feet into sneakers, grabbed his backpack, and walked out without looking back.
Marina didn’t cry. That same evening she drafted a claim to recover unjust enrichment and part of the utility payments from her former live-in partner. Nothing romantic—just bookkeeping.
Justice, she decided. Not revenge, not greed—justice. Let him understand that everything in life has a price. Housing, food, the “right” to humiliate other people. Let the last one be especially expensive.
Veronika sent a video from the party that very day: Roman yelling, falling into the water, Marina smiling with the cake. The video became a neighborhood meme. Someone titled it “Splashdown.” Alina, the HR manager at Roman’s company, saw it.
— Mr. Roman, — she told him at a meeting. — We have a code of ethics. You’re on probation. Considering reports of appearing intoxicated at corporate events and the latest incident… We’re parting ways.
Alina wasn’t acting out of sisterly solidarity. She’d seen dozens like Roman—men who viewed aggression as normal and rudeness as a way to assert themselves. In her company that behavior was unacceptable, and she wasn’t about to make exceptions. To her, Roman was simply an unsuitable candidate who had disqualified himself.
— It’s slander! — he shouted.
Panic swept over Roman. A job meant money, status, the ability to rent a decent place. He had just started getting used to a steady income, was making plans… And now it all collapsed. Because of one stupid party, because of that hysterical Marina, because of…
— We have the video. Best of luck to you, — Alina didn’t flinch.
Roman slammed the door. That evening he texted Marina: “You’re nothing without me. You’ll crawl and beg me to come back. No one will take someone like you. Pathetic freak.”
Rage choked him. It was all her fault. If she’d kept quiet, if she hadn’t made a scene, if she hadn’t drawn attention to that video—none of this would’ve happened. He wanted to hurt her, to make her regret her decision.
She forwarded the message to Dmitry. The reply was brief: “Keep a screenshot. If the threats continue—file a report.”
The district court greeted Marina with the familiar bureaucratic chill and the dull light of fluorescent tubes. The judge flipped through the documents mechanically, like shuffling a deck of cards in a game whose outcome was predetermined.
— Claim for recovery of utility payments and housing costs, — she intoned. — Defendant: Roman Vladimirovich Petrov. Witnesses?
Veronika spoke first. Her voice was clear and firm:
— Roman lived with the plaintiff for three years. He paid expenses for the first few months, then stopped. He said that since Marina invited him, she was obliged to support him.
Yegor added dryly:
— I’ve repeatedly heard him tell neighbors it was his apartment. He wasn’t listed on any of the documents.
Roman sat in a corner, nervously worrying his phone. Red blotches stained his face, and in his eyes sloshed the bewilderment of a person used to problems solving themselves—or someone else solving them.
— I object! — he shouted when the judge announced the decision. — We lived like a family! She can’t kick me out!
The judge looked at him over her glasses:
— The decision is based on the evidence presented. The period for voluntary compliance is ten days.
A week later bailiff Kuzmin—a stocky man—stood in the hallway of Roman’s mother’s apartment. He glanced around: expensive electronics, leather furniture, paintings on the walls—all clearly beyond the means of a delivery courier.
— So, — Kuzmin unfolded the paperwork, — the debt totals three hundred forty-three thousand rubles. Will you pay voluntarily, or do we proceed to enforcement?
— What debt?! — Roman sprang up from the couch. — I didn’t sign anything! I didn’t ask anyone to go to court!
— Young man, — the bailiff spread the papers on the table patiently, — this is a court order. You had ten days to contest it after receiving it. It was handed to you personally. Did you sign?
— I signed, but I didn’t read…
— That’s your problem, — Kuzmin took out a tablet. — We’re starting an inventory. Television—seventy-five inches, roughly a hundred thousand. Sound system—another forty thousand or so. That’ll do.
Roman flailed his arms around the room:
— Those are my mom’s things! You have no right!
— I do. You’re registered here, therefore the property may be considered yours. Prove otherwise—be my guest. Until then, the equipment is under seizure.
The bailiff affixed seals to the TV and the audio system. Selling or gifting them was now prohibited—doing so could bring criminal charges.
— You have one month, — Kuzmin said, gathering the papers. — If you don’t pay, we’ll put them up for auction.
After he left, Roman sat for a long time in the living room, staring at the dark TV screen. Pride kept him from asking his mother for help; he had no friends left—everyone had turned away after the incidents with debts and borrowed money never returned. Only Vitek from the car wash remained—another loser scraping by on odd jobs.
— Hey, there’s an opening, — Vitek said over the phone. — Courier for a delivery service. Doesn’t pay much, but it’s steady. You’ll have to grind from morning till night.
Roman agreed. He had no choice.
Now he lugged heavy boxes, climbed top floors without elevators, listened to clients’ gripes and the dispatcher’s yelling. His hands blistered, his back ached in the evenings, and the pay barely covered food and fares.
And Marina seemed to spread her wings. She did what she wanted without looking over her shoulder. She signed up for a pool—an old dream Roman used to mock: “Why do you need to swim? You already splash around in the tub every day.”
Artyom turned out to be a patient instructor. He taught her to breathe properly, to glide through the water, not to fight it but to trust it.
— Water isn’t an enemy, — he said, supporting her back with his hand. — It holds you if you don’t resist.
Those words applied to more than swimming. Marina was learning to trust life, to stop clinging to what hurt out of fear of being alone. On weekends they grilled vegetables in his yard, watched old comedies, helped neighbor Zoya Gavrilovna tend her garden. The woman, a former literature teacher, became a wise mentor for Marina.
— You know, dear, — she’d say, trimming the currant bushes, — people are either givers of energy or takers. You fed an energy vampire for far too long.
When Veronika visited, she didn’t hide her satisfaction:
— Remember my idea with the test? That cake at Artyom’s birthday? I wanted to see how your Roman would act when a rival showed up.
— And?
— He showed his true nature—immediately started marking territory like a yard dog. A real man isn’t afraid of competition; he just takes better care of his woman.
Marina laughed:
— So I passed the test?
— You didn’t just pass. You surfaced after a long time underwater.
That was true. Marina caught herself smiling at her own reflection—not because she’d changed outwardly, but because she no longer asked permission to live her life.
Spring slid into summer imperceptibly, like a film cut. Marina discovered she could fit into a dress she’d bought two years ago and banished to the back of the closet. Regular swimming and long walks changed her figure, but more importantly they changed her attitude toward herself. She stopped eating stress away and stopped apologizing for every bite.
Artyom didn’t rush things. He appeared in her life gently, like sunlight through curtains. He gave her books, brought seedlings for the balcony, invited her to classical music concerts. With him she rediscovered simple joys Roman had called boring.
One evening, as they sat by the pool watching the stars reflected in the water, Artyom took out a small velvet box.
— I’ve thought a lot about how to do this right, — he said. — Big ceremonies aren’t our style. But I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you?
Marina took the box and opened it. Inside lay a simple gold ring with a small stone—not ostentatiously expensive, but elegant and tasteful.
— Yes, — she answered without hesitation. — Of course, yes.
She didn’t analyze, didn’t make pros-and-cons lists, didn’t fear a mistake. She simply knew: with this man she was happy. And that was enough.
There were no lavish outfits or orchestras at the wedding.
Roman didn’t come. He wasn’t invited.
Five years flew by. Marina pushed a stroller with her three-year-old daughter through a mall, choosing roller skates for the little girl who’d just learned to ride a scooter and dreamed of new wheels. Artyom carried shopping bags, now and then straightening the daughter’s jacket as it slid off her shoulder.
At the entrance to a sporting-goods store they ran into a delivery courier. A man in a faded uniform jacket stood with a box, checking an address on his phone. His hair had thinned, his face had grown gaunt, and his lips held their habitual crease of displeasure.
— Beautiful family, — the courier said, not recognizing Marina at first. — Lucky guy.
Artyom smiled:
— Lucky is the one who knows how to appreciate.
He nodded toward their daughter, who had let go of her mother’s hand and pressed her nose to the ice-cream parlor window, counting the rainbow scoops aloud.
The courier peered closer and flinched:
— Marina?! Is that you?
She recognized Roman and realized she felt neither anger nor pity—only mild surprise, like when you run into a long-forgotten classmate.
— I’m the same me, — she replied calmly. — I just cut all the excess from my life.
Roman started to say something, but at that moment he got a text about an overdue payment. A car loan he’d taken three years earlier for work had accrued interest and penalties. He’d had to sell the car; the debt remained. His phone died at the worst moment.
— Damn it, — he swore, shaking the dead device.
Marina took her daughter’s hand. Artyom put an arm around them both.
— Let’s go, — he said. — Zoya Gavrilovna’s waiting for us with a new crop of currants. She’s going to make compote from her grandmother’s recipe.
— And ice cream! — the little girl reminded him. — You promised!
— We keep our promises, — Artyom crouched to zip her jacket. — Always.
Marina glanced back for a second. Roman stood with a dead phone and a box, watching them walk away. In his eyes flickered a dim understanding of what he had lost—but it was too late.
She didn’t gloat. Revenge is a destructive feeling that poisons first of all the one who carries it. Roman got what he deserved, not thanks to her efforts but thanks to his own actions. Life turned out to be a fair, if slow, judge.
Marina smiled at her husband and daughter. Her joy was of a different kind—not joy at someone else’s failure, but joy at her own belonging.
At home they had an evening with books, their daughter’s laughter echoing from the bath, and quiet balcony conversations under the stars. Happiness didn’t shout—it breathed steadily and calmly. It smelled of a summer evening, the blooming linden outside the window, and the warmth of home.
