You know, I always dreamed of having my own place,” I said with a slight smirk, looking at the keys he was holding.
“And I’ve always had my own place,” he replied with that same smile, which now only filled me with disgust.
It was already 9:30 p.m. I checked my phone again—no messages from Sergey. Dinner had gone cold, the candles had burned down, and the wine I’d opened two hours ago had lost all its bouquet. Much like our relationship.
Suddenly, the front door slammed so hard that the glass in the display cabinet rattled. Sergey stormed in, carelessly pulling off his tie. He smelled of an expensive perfume—one that wasn’t the one I’d given him for our anniversary.
“Why are you late?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“What, now I have to report every move?” he snapped, throwing his briefcase onto the couch. “I’m working, if you must know. Someone has to support this household.”
I bit my lip. Six years of climbing the career ladder in a large company, three promotions, and yet to him I was still just a “woman with career ambitions.”
“I made dinner. I wanted to discuss something important…” I began.
“You know what, Anya?” He cut me off. “I’m tired. Tired of your endless complaints, your constant dissatisfaction, these staged candlelit dinners. You live in some romance novel, but it doesn’t work.”
I froze. A lump formed in my throat, but I was not about to show him my tears.
“You’re right,” my voice sounded firmer than I expected. “I really am living in a novel. Only it’s not a love story. It’s a detective story. And you’re the main antagonist in it.”
His laughter cracked the air like a whip. The sound reverberated painfully inside me.
The divorce went quickly, as if Sergey had planned it in advance. The apartment we had built together—where I had invested not just money but a piece of my soul—remained his. “Legally, it belongs to me,” he said calmly, as though he were talking about an old T-shirt.
Marina, my best friend, helped me find a temporary rental in the neighboring district. Small, but cozy. “It’s only temporary,” she kept repeating, and I nodded, trying to believe her words.
“You know what hurts the most?” I asked, pouring wine into glasses in my new, tiny kitchen. “I really did love him. Not the apartment, not the status, not the lifestyle—just him.”
“And he only loved himself,” Marina handed me a napkin. “And you know what? It’s time for you to learn that art, too.”
I looked at my reflection in the window. A tired woman with a dull gaze stared back at me. Was that really me? The same Anna who once dreamed of conquering the world back in university?
“You’re right,” I said decisively, downing my wine in one gulp. “It’s time to learn to love myself. And one other thing.”
“What’s that?” Marina inquired.
“Revenge,” I answered, and for the first time in a long time, my smile was genuine.
The month after the divorce, I lived on autopilot. Work, home, then work again. I tried not to think about the past and resisted the urge to check Sergey’s social media. Marina joked that I looked like a clothed zombie from “The Walking Dead.” Maybe she was right.
“You can’t isolate yourself in this apartment forever,” Marina declared one evening, bursting in with a bottle of wine and a pizza box. “And no, working until midnight is not normal social activity.”
“I’m not isolating,” I argued, closing my laptop. “I’m just… adjusting.”
“Adjusting?” She snorted, taking two glasses out of her bag. “Honey, you’re not a coral reef to take centuries to adapt. By the way, remember the new project presentation next week?”
I groaned. Of course I remembered. The project I’d been working on for the past six months was either going to be my triumph or my downfall. Honestly, the latter seemed more likely, given how my life had been lately.
The morning of the presentation started with me spilling coffee on my white blouse. Normally, that might have thrown me off, but today I just laughed. What could be worse than losing your husband and your home?
“Anna Viktorovna,” my director, Alexey Petrovich, called out to me as I was heading to the conference room. “A moment, please.”
My heart sank as if it had dropped somewhere down into my stomach. Was he about to cancel my presentation? Or worse, did he already know my project was doomed?
“I looked over your materials last night,” he began once we were in his office. “I have a proposition.”
I braced myself for the worst.
“How would you feel about heading a new department?”
“Excuse me… what?” I blinked, sure I’d misheard.
“A new Strategic Development Department,” he continued, smiling. “Your project is exactly what we need. And from the way you’ve prepared it, you’re the ideal person to lead it.”
“But… what about Mikhail Stepanovich? Wasn’t he supposed to get this position?” I asked, still in shock.
“He was,” Alexey Petrovich nodded. “But he accepted an offer from our competitors. And you know what? I’m glad. Your approach is much more interesting.”
By the end of the day, I still couldn’t believe what was happening. The presentation was a triumph, the promotion contract was sitting in my bag, and my phone was practically exploding with congratulatory messages from colleagues.
“I told you so!” Marina gloated over a glass of champagne in our favorite bar. “You were always smarter than the rest of them; you just let that jerk overshadow your shine.”
“Don’t call him that,” I automatically responded, then burst out laughing. “Although, you know, you’re right. He really is a fool—he took everything we shared and just threw it away.”
“And now what?” she asked, winking at the waiter as a new bottle appeared.
“Now?” I mused. “Now I’m going to buy my own apartment. The kind I want, not what Sergey wanted. And guess what? I’ll hang pink curtains there. Sure, I’ll take out a mortgage, but with the new position, I can handle it.”
“He hated pink!”
“Exactly!” I raised my glass. “Here’s to pink curtains and a new life!”
The next six months flew by in a blur. The new position demanded my all, but I relished every moment. For the first time in my life, I felt I was doing what I truly loved.
My new apartment (with pink curtains) was filling up with details that truly made it mine. No compromises, no more “What would Sergey think?”—just what I liked.
“You’ve changed,” Marina remarked over lunch one day, looking me over. “And it’s not just the new haircut and wardrobe.”
She was right. I really had changed. The insecure woman who always looked over her shoulder at her husband was gone. Now I made decisions for myself—and took responsibility for them, too.
“You know what’s funny?” I asked, stirring sugar into my coffee. “I’m grateful to him. Grateful that he opened my eyes. Now I live my own life.”
“To Sergey?” Marina almost choked on her salad, nearly spilling her dressing.
“Exactly. If not for his betrayal, I’d still be living in his shadow, settling for the role of the ‘successful husband’s wife.’”
That day started off like any other: a meeting with the general director, then passing through reception on my way back. As I walked by, I overheard a conversation:
“…Confirmed from the head office. The whole department is being transferred under her leadership.”
I stopped in my tracks.
“Anna Viktorovna will now be in charge of the Moscow branch, too?” someone asked in surprise.
“Yeah, starting on the first. Can you imagine the scale? Thirty people on the team.”
The corners of my mouth lifted in a smile. Thirty people—quite a responsibility. But I knew I was ready for anything now.
“You know who works there?” the voice went on. “Sergey Viktorovich, her ex-husband.”
My smile slowly turned predatory. Oh yes, I knew exactly who worked there. Fate had decided to give me a special kind of gift.
That evening, I stood in front of the mirror for a long time, looking at my reflection. An expensive suit fit me perfectly; my new haircut gave me confidence; my eyes shone with determination.
“Well then, Sergey Viktorovich,” I whispered to my reflection, “are you ready to meet your new boss?”
My phone buzzed with a message from Marina:
“Heard the news! How do you feel?”
I answered quickly:
“Remember you said life is the best screenwriter? Looks like it just wrote the perfect ending to my story.”
“Ending?” Marina replied almost instantly. “Sounds more like it’s just beginning!”
My first meeting with Sergey in my new capacity was set to happen at a general department gathering. I was as nervous as if I were going on a first date. I spent two hours picking out my outfit, redoing my makeup three times. I finally settled on my favorite gray suit, which I’d once bought on sale. It wasn’t the most expensive, but it fit perfectly. And the shoes… I remembered the scandal he’d caused when I first bought them: “They’re just shoes! Why spend so much?” For me, they were a symbol of a personal victory.
Glancing at my reflection in the office’s glass doors, I almost laughed out loud. Where was that helpless woman, tripping over boxes of her belongings as she left his apartment? She was gone. In her place stood another—one with a straight back and a cool gaze.
“Good morning, colleagues,” my voice rang out confidently as I walked into the conference room.
Thirty pairs of eyes turned to me. Only one pair, locked in stunned shock, belonged to Sergey. His face went so pale so fast that I worried he might pass out.
“For those who don’t know me yet,” I began, smiling professionally and politely, “I’m Anna Viktorovna, your new supervisor. I’m sure we’ll work together just fine.”
As soon as the meeting ended, Sergey tried to corner me in the hallway.
“Anya, wait! There must be some mistake!”
I turned, lifting my eyebrow:
“Do you have any work-related questions, Sergey Viktorovich? If not, then excuse me—I have an important meeting in fifteen minutes.”
“What the hell, work questions?!” he burst out, grabbing my arm. “You were always just…”
“Take your hand off me. This instant,” I said each word sharply, coldly. “And in the future, I suggest you choose your words carefully. I wouldn’t want to see this as a disciplinary violation.”
He recoiled as though scalded.
“You’ve changed,” he muttered, clearly rattled.
“Really?” I pretended to be surprised. “I think I’ve always been like this. Some people just preferred not to notice.”
In the weeks that followed, it became a challenging game. Sometimes Sergey tried to get on my good side; other times he would explode in frustration. I remained unmoved, focused solely on work. No personal feelings, no compromises. Each day was a new step forward, each success another reminder that I was capable of much more than he’d ever believed.
“Sergey Viktorovich,” I addressed him during one meeting, “about your quarterly report… How can I put this delicately…”
“What’s wrong with it?” he snapped. “I always do reports this way.”
“And that’s exactly the problem,” I replied, tapping my pen lightly on the table. “You’re still using a five-year-old method. The world’s moving forward, and you’re stuck in the past. Update your data with the new metrics. Deadline: by the end of tomorrow.”
“By tomorrow?!” He turned red. “That’s impossible! I already have plans, theater tickets…”
“That’s your personal problem,” I said coolly. “Work always comes first, or wasn’t it you who once drilled that into me?”
After the meeting, Olga—his new girlfriend, who worked in a neighboring department—approached me:
“Anna Viktorovna, can I have a minute?”
I nodded, expecting a scene or accusations. She surprised me instead:
“I just wanted to thank you.”
“For what?” I asked, wary.
“For opening my eyes to his true character,” she said with a bitter smile. “Yesterday, I packed my things and moved out.”
In three months under my leadership, Sergey hardly recognized himself. His former cockiness was replaced by confusion; his performance metrics were dropping, and his attempts to maintain his old authority looked increasingly pitiful.
“Anya, we need to talk,” he cornered me one evening by the office exit.
“Anna Viktorovna,” I automatically corrected, pulling out my car keys.
“I don’t care!” he practically shouted, clearly on the edge. “I get it, okay? I was a blind idiot. I never valued you, your ambitions, your potential. Can’t we start over?”
I froze. How many times had I imagined this moment? How many nights had I dreamed of hearing those words?
“You know what’s most ironic?” I turned to him slowly. “A year ago, I would’ve done anything to hear that. But now…” I shook my head. “Now it’s all different.”
“Different?” He frowned. “You’re not even happy?”
“No, I’m grateful,” I answered calmly. “If it weren’t for you, I would never have realized what I’m capable of. Wouldn’t have found the strength to become who I am today. You actually did more for me than you’ll ever know.”
“So what now?” His voice quivered.
“Now?” I opened the car door. “Now you should submit your resignation. Of your own accord, of course. And I’ll give you a great reference.”
“You’re taking revenge on me?” His face contorted.
“No,” I said, starting the engine. “I’m just doing business. Unfortunately, you no longer meet the company’s standards.”
That evening, Marina and I relaxed on the balcony of my new apartment. The sunset painted the sky the same pink as my curtains.
“You know,” my friend began thoughtfully, “when you talked about revenge a year ago, I thought it was just emotions.”
“Oh, I really was angry,” I admitted, taking a sip of wine. “But then I realized one important thing.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The best revenge isn’t hurting other people,” I replied. “The best revenge is becoming so strong that they realize for themselves just how badly they misjudged you.”
Marina raised her glass:
“To strong women!”
“And to those who help them discover that strength,” I added with a smile.
My phone chimed with a new notification: the company had approved Sergey’s resignation. I looked at the sunset and thought that sometimes life writes scenarios far more intriguing than any movie. Sometimes the end of one story is the beginning of another—one that’s much more exciting.
