— So, how’s life with such a handsome fellow?” the older sister asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.
“Just like in the fairy tale ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ only in reverse,” replied the interlocutor with a laugh. “I’m the beast, and he’s the beauty.”
In a cozy living room decorated in Scandinavian style, two couples were seated at the table. Outside, a February wind chased away the last winter clouds, while a few stray snowflakes danced in a whimsical ballet.
The slender brunette Alla, dressed in a strict office suit, radiated confidence and professionalism. Her husband Timur, with well-balanced features and an athletic build, looked like a magazine cover model. Opposite them sat Veronika—a petite blonde with lively green eyes—and her husband Herman, an intelligent man in glasses.
“Imagine, they promoted me to department head!” Alla continued excitedly.
“My dear, I believe a woman shouldn’t work,” Timur interjected. “A man is obliged to provide for the family.”
“Completely agree!” Veronika chimed in.
“Do you remember the story with Victoria Beckham?” Herman objected. “David insisted she give up her career. And what happened? Constant scandals and nearly a divorce.”
“Exactly!” Alla supported. “A modern woman must develop herself. Relying on her husband is a dead end.”
“Honey, it’s time for us,” Veronika said as she got up from the table.
In the hallway, while the men discussed football, she whispered to her sister:
“Just imagine how lucky you are with your husband! So caring, so handsome…”
“What did I just hear?” Herman’s voice came from behind.
“You misunderstood…”
The front door slammed shut. In the apartment, Alla and Timur remained, each lost in thoughts about how differently they envisioned their future.
And outside, the snow continued to swirl, indifferent to human problems and contradictions.
“Let’s finally discuss your dismissal,” the husband said insistently, settling into his armchair.
“Not this again!” the woman burst out, throwing her hands up. “Remember the story with Angelina Jolie? Brad Pitt also wanted her to stick to just the home and children. And what? They divorced!”
Outside, the February wind pelted the windows with wet snow, as if trying to join the couple’s debate. The table lamp cast bizarre shadows on the walls of the modern living room, where every interior detail had been carefully selected by the lady of the house.
“I have a decent salary,” Timur continued. “Buy whatever you want—I’m not going to count your expenses.”
“Oh, really?” Alla narrowed her eyes mischievously. “Then imagine: I get up at ten, head to a spa, then shopping, lunch with girlfriends in an expensive restaurant. In the evening – the theater or an exhibition. And on weekends – traveling across Europe…”
“Sounds wonderful!” her husband rejoiced.
“But in a month you’ll start complaining that all I do is spend money,” the interlocutor laughed. “Remember the heroine from ‘Madame Bovary’? How did her idle life end?”
“But you’re different!”
“Not anymore. Because I’m an independent woman. And if I become a housewife, I’ll just be a pretty doll to you. And you’ll be the first to stop respecting me.”
“I only want to take care of you,” the man sighed.
“You know, darling,” Alla said thoughtfully, “I promise I’ll think about it. But only after you spend a month at home doing housework yourself.”
At Timur’s unexpected proposal, he choked on his tea, while his wife silently smirked: How quickly enthusiasm changes when you suggest a man try being a househusband.
In early March, even the gray streets of Moscow were transformed, filled with a special light and warmth. From the window of the spacious apartment, one could see a park awakening, where the first timid buds were preparing to bloom in greeting to spring.
“Sweetheart, you really don’t take care of yourself,” said Lidiya Nikolaevna, whose sternness and upright posture reminded one of Madame de Renal from The Red and the Black.
“Mother, I suggested to Alla that she quit her job,” Timur sighed, watching his wife bustling by the stove.
“And rightly so!” the mother-in-law addressed her daughter-in-law. “When was the last time you rested?”
“Oh, I’ve long dreamed of Greece,” Alla became animated. “I read Gerald Durrell’s Corfu, and it made me yearn to see those olive groves and ancient streets…”
After the mother-in-law left, while loading dishes into the dishwasher, the young woman sank into thought. Maybe I really should listen? To be a muse for my husband, like Vera for Nabokov…
“Timur, is your proposal still on?” she asked.
“Of course!” Timur sprang up. “I want to see you rested and happy. Imagine: you could grow your beloved orchids, which you’ve dreamed of for so long. You could take up yoga, painting… Look at Marina, Andrei’s wife – after three years of office work, she turned into a typical neighborhood matron.”
Before Alla’s eyes flashed the image of a passionate Anna Karenina, so desired by her husband precisely because of her elegance and mystery.
“Fine, but on one condition,” she said resolutely. “It will be temporary—at most for a year. I don’t want to become a couch queen.”
“Deal!” Timur beamed. “Then in July, we fly to your Greek island.”
I’ll have to re-read Durrell, Alla thought, picturing a leisurely breakfast on a terrace overlooking the azure sea.
Sunlight barely filtered through the light curtains in the spacious bedroom. The graceful woman with a short chestnut haircut silently slipped from under the blanket, careful not to wake her husband. Timur slept soundly, his hand tucked under his cheek like a child.
The luxurious three-room apartment in minimalist style reflected the character of its owner—everything was functional and tasteful. Light walls were adorned with black-and-white travel photographs, and in the living room, a huge aquarium with exotic fish was proudly displayed.
“Good morning, darling,” Alla whispered, turning on her husband’s favorite jazz.
“Mmm, you’re up already? What time is it?” mumbled Artyom sleepily.
“Seven. Your suit is ready, and breakfast is waiting in the kitchen.”
After her husband left, the usual routine began—cleaning, exercising, courses. Returning home, the woman opened her daily planner on the computer.
“Okay, today is Margarita’s birthday. I need to order her favorite peonies.”
That evening, the kitchen was filled with a creative atmosphere. Dana, an elegant brunette in a chic sheath dress, watched her friend with interest.
“What’s on the menu today, chef?” the guest smirked.
“Duck breast with caramelized pear and port wine sauce. A perfect match would be a Pinot Noir,” Alla explained enthusiastically. “The wine should be light, with hints of cherry and spice.”
“Oh my, you’re like an encyclopedia! How did you learn everything?”
“Three months of courses and a ton of practice,” the hostess laughed. “The main thing is the desire.”
“You know,” Dana said thoughtfully, “in your ideal world, all you’re missing is the sound of children laughing.”
The knife hovered over the cutting board. Thoughts of tiny hands wrapping around her neck, of childish babble and first steps flashed through her mind.
“Maybe you’re right,” Alla whispered. “But for now, I’m enjoying what I have.”
“Uh-huh, and I’m enjoying your cooking!” her friend winked. “By the way, where did you get that amazing apron? It says ‘I cook like a goddess’!”
Laughter filled the kitchen, yet the thought of children had already firmly taken root in Alla’s mind.
Soft light from the table lamp created a cozy atmosphere in the living room. After dinner, the spouses settled on a velvet-upholstered sofa in a deep sea-wave color.
In the hands of the graceful woman lay a small notepad filled with neat handwriting.
“You know, darling, I’ve thought long and hard…” Alla began, flipping through the pages. “I’m ready to be a mother.”
“What?!” her husband straightened up sharply.
“Look, I even picked out names. For a boy – Mark, in honor of your grandfather, or Alexander – the protector of people. And if it’s a girl…”
“No children!” Timur snapped.
“But why? We talked about this after the wedding…”
“Look at yourself – you’re beautiful! Why spoil such a body?” the man leapt up. “Remember Veronika Light? She was a star, and after giving birth, she turned into a bloated mess. Now she’s an alcoholic in her mansion.”
“Unbelievable…” the woman whispered. “I gave up my legal career because you wanted me to be a housewife. But I never gave up my dream of having children!”
“Just look at Jessica Bloom!” Timur continued. “After giving birth, she became hooked on antidepressants, gained thirty kilos. Her husband left her for a young model.”
“So, I’m just a pretty doll to you?” Alla said bitterly with a wry smile.
“You’re my goddess. And I want it to stay that way forever.”
Memories flashed before her eyes of when they dreamed of a big family, choosing names for their future children, arguing over the color of the nursery… Slowly closing the notepad, the woman traced her finger along its cover.
“You know, Timur, goddesses also have children. And that doesn’t stop them from remaining beautiful.”
Tucking the cherished notebook into a desk drawer, Alla wondered for the first time if her perfect life was nothing more than a beautiful façade.
A month passed.
Shadows from passing cars danced on the apartment walls. Through the sheer curtains, the light of streetlamps seeped in, lending the interior a ghostly look.
In the hallway, heavy footsteps echoed. Timur, with a disheveled face, didn’t even glance at the set table.
“I’m filing for divorce,” he declared as he unbuttoned his jacket.
“What? You have someone else?” her voice trembled with disbelief.
“None of your business. Pack your things and get out.”
“Wait, Timur! I don’t understand… What for?”
“I’m tired of you. Two years of rest, and now get lost.”
“Rest?!” Alla’s voice quavered. “I worked just as hard as you! I maintained connections with partners, learned to cook, learned massage…”
“Who needs your efforts?”
“I sat with my nephew, helped Roma with his studies, took care of your mother when she was ill!”
“Shut up! Get out of my house!” Timur roared.
Stumbling, the woman fled to the bedroom. Leaning against the wall, she burst into tears. In her mind, lines from her favorite novel Crystal Dream flickered by—a heroine enduring a similar fate. How naive I was, she thought, believing in eternal love like Julia in the book. But at least she had a happy ending…
“May your spirit not be found here!” came a shout from the guest room.
With trembling hands, Alla mechanically packed her suitcase. Documents, a bit of clothing, a makeup bag… There was no time or strength for more.
“Tomorrow I’ll file the papers!” Timur shouted after her.
The sound of a vase being thrown echoed behind the closing door.
The staircase landing was lit by the dim light of a single bulb. Through the window, the noise of the night city could be heard: the hum of cars, distant barking of dogs, and the occasional passerby’s voice.
On a worn suitcase sat a fragile woman with tear-filled eyes.
Where now? the thought raced through her mind. No money, no plan… What a fool I am!
With trembling fingers, Alla took out her phone. The screen showed 11:00 PM.
“Dana, hi! Sorry for calling so late… Can I crash at your place?”
“Sorry, dear, I’m not in town. I’ll be back in a week. What’s happened?”
“No, no, everything’s fine,” her voice betrayed a tremor.
I can’t go to my sister’s— thought she, too ashamed to admit I’ve been cast out like a stray cat.
The next half hour turned into a marathon of refusals. Marina had a sick child, Sveta had guests, Katya was renovating…
“That’s when you really learn who your true friends are,” the woman bitterly smiled.
Steps were heard outside the apartment door. Maybe I should go back? a cowardly thought flashed. Start a fight, say everything…
Her fingers mechanically scrolled through her contacts. The last name on the list was Zoia—the diving instructor she’d only met a couple of times in courses.
“Hello?” a cheerful voice answered.
“Zoia, sorry for calling so late… This is Alla from the diving courses…”
“Of course I remember! What’s happened?”
“I… I need a place to spend the night…”
“Write down my address! I have a free couch, hot tea, and a fluffy cat to boot.”
Unexpected kindness brought tears back to her eyes. It’s strange how sometimes the closest people become strangers, while almost unknown ones extend a helping hand.
“Thank you,” Alla whispered as she rose from her suitcase.
Outside, a light drizzle fell, and on the windowsill, a striped cat slept. The cozy studio apartment, with a wall-to-wall window and black-and-white photographs of the ocean’s depths, radiated calm.
At the door stood a young woman, soaked through, with a suitcase. Her confused look, trembling lips, and disheveled bangs made her resemble a lost child.
“Did they kick you out?” the hostess of the apartment asked quietly.
In response, all that came was weeping. A tall, athletic brunette with a short haircut embraced the guest like a mother comforting a hurt child.
Scoundrel Timur, Alla thought bitterly. Used me and tossed me aside like something disposable.
Unbidden, memories of their first meeting surfaced: a summer café, his enchanting smile, compliments… No, enough! she mentally rebuked herself.
“Let me feed you,” Zoia busied herself at the stove. “And stay here—my spare room is empty.”
“I don’t understand,” Alla fiddled with her fork on the plate, “why does such a beauty live alone? You’re just like Scarlett O’Hara—proud, independent…”
“I was married,” the hostess smirked. “Divorced five years ago. He cheated.”
“But so many men are lining up for you! I remember how, during the diving courses, all the instructors tried to get your attention.”
“I still love him, you know?” Zoia shook her head. “He came by recently, asking to come back.”
“And then?”
“She said that with traitors you don’t even go into intelligence,” Zoia smiled sadly. “And you? Do you love your…—” she hesitated, searching for the word.
And it’s true, Alla thought, despite all the humiliation, despite being cast out… I still love him.
“You know,” Zoia said thoughtfully, “they say time heals. Lies, all of it. Time just teaches you to live with the pain.”
Outside, the drizzle ceased. The striped cat stretched and jumped into Alla’s lap.
“Looks like he likes you,” Zoia laughed. “He’s a connoisseur of human souls.”
The two women sat in the kitchen deep into the night, sharing their stories—so different yet so similar in their pain.
Two years later.
Late autumn painted the city in vivid colors, as if an impressionist painter had splashed yellow and red hues across the canvas. In a new apartment, furnished in minimalist style, photographs from various countries hung on the walls, and a collection of succulents adorned the windowsill.
The slender brunette with a determined chin and intelligent brown eyes sat in an armchair with her laptop. In the two years that had passed, much had changed—both her appearance and her character. Every movement now exuded the confidence of a successful woman.
“It’s funny how life puts everything in its place,” the lady mused, reviewing reports.
A phone call interrupted her train of thought.
“Alla Sergeyevna, there’s a project presentation on Monday,” came the secretary’s voice.
“Yes, of course. The materials are ready.”
Closing her laptop, she walked to the window. Below, people hurried by, each with their own story, with their own victories and defeats.
It’s funny, she thought, how often we take the end of a relationship for the end of life. But it’s only the beginning of a new chapter.
The evening gradually melted into night, and the independent, strong woman planned her next day, unaware that fate was already preparing a new twist for her.
A few days later.
Twilight descended on the city, painting the skyscrapers in soft pastel tones. The business district slowly emptied, with only the occasional expensive car ferrying the last workaholics home.
On the doorstep of a business center, in a strict business suit and holding an elegant briefcase, stood an impressive woman. Her posture spoke of a conqueror, and her eyes reflected the certainty of someone who had achieved her goals.
“Alla!” a familiar voice called.
Just not this again, she thought.
Before her stood a rumpled man in an un-ironed shirt, sporting a three-day stubble. Any trace of the once-successful businessman had long vanished.
“Just like the Count of Monte Cristo in reverse— from princes to paupers,” a sarcastic thought crossed her mind.
“I looked for you everywhere,” Timur began. “Nobody wanted to give me your number.”
“And rightly so. What do you need?”
“Forgive me… I was wrong.”
What are you saying? I thought I was hallucinating when you kicked me out, she muttered internally.
“After you left…”
“After you threw me out,” she corrected sharply.
“Yes… everything went sideways. Partners turned away…”
“What’s the point of this conversation?”
“Let’s talk at a café?”
A laugh rippled down the street:
“At a café? You used to invite me to restaurants. What’s next? Instant noodles for two?”
“Alla, give me a chance to make things right…”
Strange, she thought, as she looked at the face she once loved, somewhere deep inside something still flickers… pity? Remnants of love?
“You know,” she said slowly, “with someone like you, I wouldn’t even sign up for intelligence.”
Clicking her heels, she turned and headed for her car.
“What does intelligence have to do with this?” came his voice after her.
He’ll never understand, she smiled to herself as she got behind the wheel.
Turning on her favorite music, she drove out onto the avenue. Ahead lay a long evening, and for the first time in years she truly felt free. Now, completely free.
