“Give me the money, Ulyana! Write it off as a business expense, or whatever you want! You’re practically swimming in money, and what am I supposed to do — keep sitting on your neck forever, begging like some pauper?”
He burst into the office as if he had just signed the deal of the century, not woken up at eleven in the morning. Ulyana, buried in quarterly reports, flinched and set the folder aside. Viktor stood in the doorway, openly enjoying the effect he had produced. He was wearing that same Italian shirt for seven thousand rubles, the one he had bought a month ago for a mythical job interview. It was wrinkled, as if he had slept in it.
“What money are you talking about, Viktor?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. Inside, everything tightened into a cold, heavy knot. She could feel something inevitable approaching, something that had been building for months.
“What money, what money…” he snorted and collapsed into the chair across from her desk, crossing one leg over the other. His gaze slid over the expensive equipment, the leather chair, the view of the night city outside the window. “I’ve come up with an idea. A serious one. A startup. Healthy meal delivery for office workers. The niche is empty. People will eat it up.”
Ulyana slowly closed her laptop. She knew she would not be able to work now. Her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat.
“Congratulations on the idea. And what exactly is my role in your startup? Apart from financing it, of course?”
“Don’t start with that sarcastic tone!” he snapped, slapping his palm against the armrest. “Are we a family or not? I’m a man. I need to realize my potential! And you… you’ve turned into an accountant, a money-making machine! When was the last time we even talked?”
She looked at him — at his nostrils flaring with self-importance, at the familiar gesture of twisting an imaginary ring on his finger. It was a habit left over from the days when he had been a big executive and the ring had been real. Now his hand was bare, but apparently his ambitions had not gone anywhere.
“We don’t talk, Viktor, because you’re either sleeping, watching TV shows, or demanding another thirty thousand for some ‘coaching program to get out of crisis.’ I have six salons, forty employees, loans, and rent to pay. I don’t have time for empty conversations.”
“Exactly!” he said triumphantly, pointing a finger at her. “Six salons! And all of it depends on you alone? Am I any worse than you? I’m giving you a chance to invest in a promising project! The starting capital is five hundred thousand. That’s pocket change for you!”
A thick, suffocating silence settled over the room. Ulyana could hear a car passing outside, and somewhere in the kitchen the faucet dripping — he had promised to fix it two weeks ago.
Five hundred thousand.
Half a million.
A month’s profit, earned through sleepless nights, fourteen-hour workdays, and years of forgetting the last time she had simply read a book or walked in the park.
“Five hundred thousand,” she repeated flatly. “And what exactly is it for?”
Viktor perked up and rubbed his hands together. Clearly, he had prepared for this part.
“Well, obviously, renting a proper space for a small kitchen — not in some residential district, of course. Buying professional equipment: ovens, refrigerators. Then an advertising campaign, website development, salaries for a cook and a courier for the first couple of months… I’ve calculated everything.”
“Calculated?” Ulyana raised an eyebrow. “Show me your calculations. Even if they’re just on a napkin.”
For a second, he looked embarrassed. His confidence cracked for the first time.
“What calculations, for God’s sake? I’m telling you in words! Don’t you trust me? You don’t trust your own husband?”
“It’s hard to trust someone who hasn’t earned a single ruble in six months but has spent more than three hundred thousand on his ‘depressions’ and ‘search for himself.’ You can’t even wash your own dishes, yet you want to run a business.”
His face twisted with anger. He jumped up from the chair and loomed over the desk.
“Don’t you dare throw my depression in my face! Do you have any idea what it’s like to be thrown out onto the street at forty-five? From a big office in a bank to your own couch? And you… all you ever did was nag me! ‘Get up, find a job, help me.’ Not one drop of support!”
Ulyana stood up too. They faced each other, separated by the wide oak desk, though the abyss between them was far wider.
“I supported you for the first two months, Viktor. I paid for the psychologist you went to exactly once. I kept quiet when you bought those ridiculous shirts and sneakers — the ones you only wore from the couch to the fridge. I looked the other way when you threw tantrums and drove away all our friends with your whining. But five hundred thousand… that’s not depression anymore. That’s shamelessness.”
“Shamelessness?” he shouted so loudly the windows seemed to tremble. “You’re the shameless one! Have you forgotten who you were when we met? A simple hairdresser with two hair clips in your pocket! And who helped you back then? Who gave you money for your first rental space? Huh? Do you remember?”
Ulyana clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms.
“I remember. And I also remember that I paid every bit of that money back to you. With interest. Long ago. We’re even. But you… now you’re trying to turn that into a debt for life. As if your help back then gave you a permanent license to be a parasite.”
“I’m not a parasite!” His face was crimson with rage. “I’m your husband! And I demand what I’m entitled to! Or do you think I’ll let some upstart hairdresser support me?”
“Support me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and ugly. They held everything inside them: the dirty dishes in the sink, the sushi bills he ran up while she spent nights balancing accounts, the contemptuous looks he gave her when she came home exhausted and ready to collapse.
“You’re not a husband, Viktor,” Ulyana said quietly, but with perfect clarity. Every word landed like a nail hammered into a coffin lid. “A husband is a partner. A support. You… you’re dead weight. You’re dragging me down. And I’m not going to drown anymore.”
He froze, stunned. He clearly had not expected such a direct blow. He was used to her giving in, paying him off just to avoid another scandal. His confidence began to melt before her eyes, replaced by panic.
“You… you don’t understand…” he muttered. “This is a chance. My chance to become someone again. Let me write it all out for you, explain it…”
“Like you explained the coaching program? Like you explained the gym membership for fifteen thousand that you used twice?” She shook her head. Inside, there was nothing left but icy calm and exhaustion. Endless, freezing exhaustion. “That’s it. The game is over. Demand, scream, threaten — I don’t care. You’re not getting the money. Not a single kopeck.”
He stared at her, genuine amazement in his eyes. He truly could not understand how this had happened — how his word, his desire, was no longer the law. He looked like a little boy whose favorite toy had been taken away: the toy of his own importance, which all these months had been fed by her money and her silent patience.
“Fine,” he hissed, his gaze narrowing with malice. “Fine… If you won’t do this the easy way, then we’ll do it the hard way. You think I’ll let you humiliate me like this? You don’t know me, Ulyana.”
“I do know you,” she said with a bitter smile. “I’ve learned more about you in the last six months than in all fifteen years of our marriage.”
“Oh, look at that!” He stepped away from the desk, clasped his hands behind his back, and began pacing the office the way he used to pace his bank office. “You’re forgetting one little detail. We live in a small town. Everybody knows everybody here. And your salons have a spotless reputation. ‘Ulyana’s Salon’ — the standard of quality, trust, almost like family for your clients. I wonder what they’ll say when they find out what their owner is really like… a cruel, heartless woman who threw her husband out with nowhere to go, while he was depressed, in crisis. A woman ready to trample the person closest to her for the sake of money.”
Ulyana listened to him, and it almost made her laugh. It was so absurd and so predictable.
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” she asked indifferently. “Go to all my clients and tell fairy tales about your cruel wife?”
“They’re not fairy tales! It’s the truth!” He rushed back to the desk. “I’ll tell everyone! Your friends, your suppliers… We’ll see if they want to deal with a bitch like you!”
She looked at him in silence. She looked at this strange, embittered man, in whom there was not a trace left of the confident, handsome man she had once fallen in love with. That man was dead. Or maybe he had never existed at all.
“You know what, Viktor? Do whatever you want,” she finally said, waving a tired hand. “Talk to whoever you like. I don’t care anymore. But there is one small problem.”
“What problem?” he asked warily.
“The problem is where you’ll go back to after your little propaganda tours. Because you won’t be coming back here.”
He froze, not understanding.
“What… what does that mean?”
“It means I’m throwing you out, Viktor. Right now. You have one hour to pack your things and get out of my apartment.”
His face went slack.
“My apartment.”
He sobered instantly.
“You can’t throw me out!” Real, animal panic appeared in his voice. “This is our home!”
“No,” Ulyana said coldly. “This is my apartment. It was bought with my money, money I earned before we were married. Legally, you are nobody here. Just someone who lived here. And I’m no longer letting you in.”
She saw a spasm pass across his face. He was retreating, and he knew it. All his trump cards had turned out to be fake.
“Ulyana… Ulya, darling, let’s not…” He tried to switch from anger to tenderness. His voice became soft, pleading. “We’re adults. We can talk this through. I got carried away, yes. The five hundred thousand… maybe I did exaggerate. We can start with less. Let’s sit down and discuss everything calmly, like before.”
“Like before.”
Before, they had sat in the kitchen of this same apartment, drinking coffee while she told him about her dream of opening her own salon. He had listened, nodded, and stroked her hand. And she had believed he believed in her.
Now she understood: he had merely indulged her. He had considered her dream a “cute little women’s hobby.” He had never believed she would succeed. And now what angered him was not simply her refusal, but her success. Her independence. The fact that she no longer needed him.
“No, Viktor,” she said quietly, her voice lined with steel. “There is no ‘like before.’ Before ended when you didn’t get up for breakfast three times in one week while I was rushing across town to deal with a failed hair dye delivery. Before ended when I found pizza crumbs on a floor I had just cleaned. Before ended today, when you demanded half a million from me without even bothering to put on decent pants. One hour. I’m not joking.”
She turned toward the window, showing him her back, making it clear that the conversation was over. Outside, November rain mixed with snow. Rare passersby pulled their jackets tighter and lifted their collars. The world was cold, wet, and real. And behind her, in her warm, comfortable office, some other false life she had tolerated for far too long was collapsing.
First came a deafening crash. He had hurled the heavy glass ashtray onto the floor. It shattered loudly, scattering shards across the office. Then came a tirade — wild, incoherent, full of insults and threats. He shouted about his love, about how she was destroying everything, about how she would regret it. Then his tone turned pitiful. He began recalling their past, their years together, begging forgiveness, swearing everything would change.
Ulyana did not turn around. She watched the raindrops sliding down the glass like tears. But she herself did not cry. Inside, there was only that icy emptiness. She stood and waited for the noise, the chaos, the final act of a pointless performance to end.
Eventually, silence settled behind her. Then she heard him leave the office, breathing heavily. Sounds came from the bedroom — closet doors slamming, rustling, movement. He was packing.
About an hour passed. Ulyana was still standing by the window. She heard footsteps in the hallway, then the creak of the front door opening and closing. First quietly, then loudly, echoing through the whole apartment.
The sound was final, like the click of a lock.
Only then did she turn around. The office was empty. Glass shards lay scattered across the floor, and an overturned folder of documents lay nearby. She walked over slowly and picked it up. The papers were in complete disarray. She began gathering them carefully, sorting them into stacks. Her hands did not tremble. Her breathing was steady.
She cleaned the office, swept up the glass. Then she went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of cold water, and drank it in one gulp. In the sink, just as expected, stood Viktor’s dirty mug with the remains of yesterday’s coffee. She looked at it, then picked it up and placed it in the dishwasher. A simple, mechanical action.
She sat down on a kitchen chair and listened to the silence. The apartment was unusually quiet. There was no snoring from the bedroom, no sound of the television from the living room. There was no constant background feeling of irritation and injustice.
The silence was heavy, but clean.
Like the air after a storm.
She picked up her phone, found her lawyer’s number, and sent a short message:
“Maxim, good evening. It happened. I’m preparing the divorce papers. I need your help.”
The reply came almost instantly:
“I understand. Come to my office tomorrow. We’ll handle everything.”
Ulyana put the phone aside. Tomorrow would be a new day. A difficult one, full of paperwork and unpleasant conversations. But it would be her day. Her life. Without blackmail, without reproaches, without endless demands and excuses.
She walked to the living room window. Down below, a taxi had pulled up near her building. The trunk was open, and the driver was helping Viktor load two large suitcases. Hunched over in that same thin Italian shirt, now soaked through by wet snow, he was gesturing at the driver, probably complaining about fate and his cruel wife. Then he got into the back seat, the door slammed, and the car slowly pulled away, dissolving into the November gloom.
Ulyana felt neither joy nor triumph. Only immense, all-consuming exhaustion and the feeling that she had just won a long, draining battle — a battle in which the greatest victory was returning to herself.
She remained standing by the window, looking at the lights of the city and at her own reflection in the glass: lonely, but firm.
And for the first time in a long while, she was not ashamed of herself.
“Ulyana, what on earth are you doing? You threw your husband out onto the street! You should have seen the state he arrived in. I’ve never seen him like that!”
Anna Viktorovna’s sharp, accusing voice cut into her ear. Ulyana slowly exhaled, looking through the window at the workers installing a new reinforced door.
“Anna Viktorovna, your son stopped being a husband six months ago. He became a freeloader. He didn’t work, didn’t help around the house, but kept demanding money for his whims. Yesterday he demanded half a million rubles for a questionable startup. My patience finally ran out.”
“But he was depressed! A man should be supported in difficult times, not thrown out like a dog! He loves you!”
“Love is not lying on the couch while someone else works themselves into the ground. And it is not blackmailing someone when they refuse to give you money. This conversation is over.”
She hung up without listening to the objections. Calls from his relatives continued all day, but she no longer answered. In the evening, a message came from his sister:
“Are you even human? My brother says you didn’t even give him all his things! And you didn’t give him money for a ticket to Mom’s place! He was left without a penny!”
Ulyana smiled coldly and deleted the message. She remembered how, just a month earlier, he had spent eight thousand on restaurant delivery while she was counting every kopeck for new equipment for the salon.
Three days later, late in the evening, the doorbell rang again. Persistently. Demanding. She looked through the peephole. Viktor stood there with two suitcases, gaunt, his eyes red.
“Ulya, I know you’re there. Open the door. I have nowhere to sleep. Mom’s place is being renovated, my sister’s apartment is too cramped. I won’t bother you anymore. Just let me stay the night.”
“There are hostels,” she replied coldly through the door. “Or you can leave your suitcases in a storage locker at the station.”
“How can you do this?” He began pounding his fist on the door. “I’m your lawful husband! We lived together for fifteen years! Has your heart turned to stone?”
“A heart turns to stone when it’s used for years like a cash cow. Leave, Viktor. The next call will be to the police.”
She stepped away from the door and began dialing the local precinct. Hearing this, he shouted in fury:
“Fine! Fine! Remember this! You’ll regret it! I’ll destroy that fancy business of yours! Your clients will find out everything! They’ll learn what a bitch you really are!”
His voice broke into hysteria. Then came the sound of footsteps moving away down the stairs. She canceled the call. His threats no longer frightened her. They only confirmed that she had made the right decision.
The next morning, she drove to her most problematic salon — the one located near the car dealership where, according to him, he was now working. The administrator, a young woman named Katya, met her with an anxious expression.
“Ulyana Sergeyevna, your husband was here yesterday. He was shouting at the front desk, demanding to see you. He said you had illegally blocked his access to shared finances. We called security, but he managed to scare the clients.”
“He won’t come here again,” Ulyana said firmly. “Security has already been instructed. If he shows up again, call the police immediately.”
She held a staff meeting, checked supplies, and spoke with the nail technician, who complained about poor-quality polish from a new supplier. Work, reality, numbers — all of it calmed her. Here, everything depended on her, not on someone else’s sudden moods.
As she returned to her car, she saw him. He was standing across the street by the entrance to the car dealership, wearing a cheap corporate jacket and holding a stack of flyers. He looked pitiful and absurd. Their eyes met for a second. In his, she saw not hatred, but confusion and fear.
Fear of a life where there was no longer a convenient cushion made of her wallet and her patience.
She got into her car and drove away without looking back.
That evening, one final unexpected call came. A young, nervous female voice spoke on the other end.
“Hello, this is Irina, Viktor Anatolyevich’s colleague. He… he’s in the hospital. A hypertensive crisis. They took him from work by ambulance. He asked me to tell you to come.”
Ulyana was silent for a moment, watching the city lights flicker on in the dusk.
“Tell Viktor Anatolyevich that I wish him a speedy recovery. And advise him not to call me from other people’s phones anymore. It won’t work.”
She hung up.
Lying about the hospital was no longer even funny. It was pathetic. He had finally sunk into cheap manipulation.
A month passed.
The court granted her divorce without unnecessary delays. On the day she received the divorce certificate, the first snow fell. Large, slow flakes settled on the dirty November asphalt, covering the city in a clean white blanket.
She went into a small café near her home, ordered a cup of hot chocolate, and sat by the window.
The feeling was strange — neither joy nor sadness. Emptiness after the storm. But it was a good, bright emptiness, one that could be filled with something new.
She took out a notebook and began sketching an idea for a new project: a small hairdressing school for girls from orphanages. Something she had postponed for years because “Viktor needed a new watch” or “it was time to go to an expensive resort.”
Her phone vibrated. It was a message from her friend Marina:
“So, free woman? How does it feel?”
Ulyana smiled and replied:
“Quiet. And it’s wonderful.”
She left the café, wrapping herself in her coat. The snow crunched under her feet, and the air was cold and fresh. Ahead was winter — long, difficult, but her own. Without the constant feeling of guilt. Without needing to justify her success. Without the heavy burden on her shoulders in the form of an adult, spoiled child.
She walked home, to her apartment, to her life.
And for the first time in many years, she was not afraid.
She knew that whatever came next — good or bad — she would survive it.
On her own.
