Can you imagine, the veranda faces directly east,” Igor squeezed her hand tighter as they crossed the street. “We’ll wake up in the morning, and the sun will be rising over the pines.”
Vera smiled, leaning against his shoulder. The February wind fluttered her scarf, but it was warm beside Igor. They walked along the embankment, talking about their dream house, a topic that came up more and more often.
“I only need a bigger window,” she said dreamily, closing her eyes. “So there’s plenty of light. I’ll put an easel there.”
“And you’ll paint your pictures,” Igor nodded, slightly tousling her hair. “And I’ll make special shelves for your paints.”
Vera pressed closer to him. A year of their relationship had flown by like a single day — long talks, evenings together, a trip to Kazan over the May holidays.
Igor seemed so reliable, confident in himself. His construction business was doing well, though he often complained about competitors and troubles with contractors.
“Listen,” Igor stopped at the railing, looking at the water, “if everything goes according to plan, by next winter we’ll have saved enough for the down payment.”
“Really?” Vera looked up at him. “Then I’ll have to start doing commercial portraits.”
Igor frowned:
“Why? I can handle it, I have a plan.”
“But I want to participate too,” Vera pulled back slightly. “It’s our house together.”
He smiled, hugging her shoulders:
“Better focus on decorating our apartment before the wedding. And money — that’s a man’s responsibility.”
Vera wanted to argue but was interrupted by a phone call. An unknown number.
“Vera Andreyevna?” a deep male voice said on the phone. “This is the law firm ‘Konovalov and Partners’ calling.”
She stepped aside a few steps, turning away from Igor. Something in the official tone of the stranger made her lower her voice.
“I’m listening.”
“This concerns your uncle, Gennady Viktorovich Sokolov.”
Vera instinctively gripped the phone tighter. Uncle Gena. Her mother’s brother, with whom the family had broken ties over some old conflict.
Only the image of his gray mustache and large hands presenting her a wooden horse came to mind.
“Did something… happen to him?” she turned toward a shop window so Igor wouldn’t see her face.
“Unfortunately, two weeks ago Gennady Viktorovich passed away. Illness,” the voice softened. “We need to discuss some matters that require your personal presence. Could you come to our office?”
Vera glanced over her shoulder. Igor was a few meters away, absorbed in scrolling something on his phone.
“Would tomorrow at three work for you?” she asked quietly. “Please give me the address.”
After the call, she returned to Igor, who was watching her expectantly.
“Who was that?” he nodded at the phone.
“Oh,” Vera waved her hand, “wrong number. So, what were we talking about?”
They continued their walk, but Vera was distracted. The news about her uncle made her think how quickly everything could change. The next day, Vera told Igor she was meeting a client who wanted a portrait. Instead, she sat in the leather chair in the lawyer’s office, listening to him and hardly believing her ears.
“Forty-seven million,” Konovalov repeated, handing her a folder with documents. “Plus an apartment downtown and a country house.”
Your uncle was a very successful investor and never started a family. You are his sole heir.
Vera took the documents with trembling hands. The amount was incomprehensible.
“All right,” she could only say. “And… I’d like to keep this a secret for now.”
“Of course,” the lawyer nodded. “Confidentiality is our priority. And you will only inherit everything in six months.”
That evening, she and Igor talked about their upcoming wedding. He spoke about the restaurant, the guests, the honeymoon.
“And when we return, we’ll immediately start saving for a house,” he lovingly circled her wrist with his finger.
“My little artist will soon live in a real mansion. But let’s not rush to have kids — first we need to get on our feet.”
Vera was silent, looking at her hands. The lawyer’s documents lay hidden in her studio, between the canvases. An inner voice whispered insistently: wait, don’t tell him yet, see how things unfold.
“Are you listening to me?” Igor snapped his fingers in front of her face. “I’m talking about our future, and you’re daydreaming.”
“Sorry, I was thinking about the invitation design,” Vera lied with a smile. “Let’s make them in blue tones, to match your eyes.”
Their wedding was intimate and cozy, like at home. Instead of a banquet hall — a cozy café with panoramic windows.
Instead of lavish bouquets — paintings painted by Vera. Instead of a limousine — a taxi with a cheerful driver who played jazz and told them stories about his daughter, a violinist.
While the guests danced, Vera stood by the window, watching the rain tracing winding paths on the glass. The inheritance documents still lay untouched in her studio. She hadn’t dared tell Igor even today. Something inside her said: wait a little longer.
“What are you thinking about, wife?” Igor came up behind her, hugged her waist tightly.
“I can’t believe I’m your wife now,” she turned to him. “Sounds so… official.”
“Get used to it,” Igor smiled. “Everything will be official. Marriage registration, house registration, registration…”
“Kids?” Vera laughed.
Igor’s smile faded slightly.
“We won’t rush that. First, we get on our feet.”
Vera was silent. Lately, he had been returning to this topic more often. “Get on our feet” sounded strange, like they were kneeling. The week after the wedding passed in a honeyed haze. They moved into Igor’s apartment — bigger, but cold.
Vera brought her paintings, arranged flowers, tried to create coziness. Igor didn’t object but always reminded her:
“We’ll save for a house, spend less on these little things.”
On Friday, she announced she wanted to cut back teaching hours at the art school.
“I want to work on a solo exhibition,” Vera said at dinner. “Even if I have to tighten my belt a little.”
“What do you mean by ‘tighten’?” Igor put down his fork. “Are you going to earn less?”
“Temporarily,” she nodded. “Just a couple of months. I thought now is the best time to focus on art while we have no kids…”
Igor stood up sharply from the table.
“Listen carefully,” his voice turned icy. “All my money is mine, and yours is yours.
I’m not going to support anyone. If you want something — provide for yourself.”
Vera froze with her mouth slightly open. Her husband’s words hit her like a slap.
“But we are family,” she finally squeezed out. “Isn’t that what marriage means — to support each other?”
“Support — yes,” Igor cut her off. “Leeching off each other — no. Your work is your responsibility.
My work is mine. We both invest in our future. But I won’t throw money around while you’re painting your pictures.”
He left the kitchen, leaving her stunned. At night, the bed felt unnaturally wide — each held their side as if an invisible border lay between them. The next morning, Igor behaved as if the previous evening had been erased from memory.
At breakfast, he flipped through the cinema program, discussed ski resorts for winter holidays, joked about a colleague stuck in an elevator with an accountant.
Vera studied his face, trying to understand how she could have been wrong. His perfectly trimmed stubble, flawlessly styled hair, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled — all so familiar yet suddenly utterly foreign. Behind every gesture of care, she now saw cold calculation. Behind every compliment — an evaluation of her usefulness.
“Can you lend me five thousand until payday?” she asked, testing her theory.
His smile wavered, his gaze froze for a moment.
“I won’t give you money, remember that,” he delicately changed the subject.
Two months later, Vera signed a contract with the advertising agency “Neo-Art.” Now her day began at six in the morning and ended late at night. The schedule resembled a puzzle: morning — art school lessons, daytime — ad sketches, evening — something else draining her last strength. She came home when the city was already asleep. On the eighth day of this marathon, Igor finally noticed her absence.
“Did they promote you to night guard?” he snapped from his laptop as the key turned almost at eleven.
“I took extra work,” Vera kicked off her shoes, feeling her feet buzz. “How else will I provide for myself? That was the deal, remember?”
Igor grimaced as if he had swallowed something sour.
“Stop dramatizing. I only meant you shouldn’t quit steady income for creative experiments.”
“Don’t worry,” she went to the bathroom, tossing over her shoulder: “Your budget is completely safe.”
By the end of the third month of marriage, Vera worked three jobs simultaneously, as if trying to prove something — not so much to Igor, but to herself. School, agency, private workshops on weekends.
She met her husband less often than the food delivery courier. Came home when he was already asleep, left when he wasn’t awake yet.
She understood that soon she wouldn’t have to work at all because of the inheritance, but she wanted to prove she could manage without that money.
In rare meetings, she managed to do laundry, clean the bathroom, cook something for the next day — silently, economically, like a robot programmed for household chores.
Igor hardly noticed her efforts. He stayed late at work more often, came home irritated, snapped over trifles. One day she found messages on his phone with some Margarita — clearly flirting. When she asked, Igor brushed it off: “She’s an interior designer, we’re discussing a project.”
“At one a.m.?” Vera raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t tell me when and with whom to talk,” he cut her off. “And don’t snoop in my phone.”
The following weeks passed coldly. Vera stopped cooking for two, washing his clothes, asking about his day. She lived like a roommate — parallel lives, no crossing paths. A day before their half-year anniversary, she finally received the first inheritance transfer. The amount in the account caused a slight dizziness. Igor didn’t know — she opened a separate account.
That evening he came home later than usual. He smelled of alcohol and perfume.
“We had a party,” he said to her look. “Signed a new project.”
Vera nodded silently. She had already packed her things — the few that really mattered. Paintings, brushes, clothes, her mother’s photo album. On the table lay an envelope with a divorce petition. Waiting for its time.
“Did you get the milk?” Igor threw a question without looking up from his laptop screen, his fingers still running over the keys.
A month passed since Vera packed her things, but the petition remained in the desk drawer. She was held back not by fading feelings but by some painful curiosity — how deep this strange experiment in their life could go.
“In the left bag,” she put the bags on the kitchen counter. “And I paid the internet bill, the receipt’s on the fridge.”
Igor barely nodded, fully absorbed in work. Vera quietly went to the bedroom and pulled out the top drawer of the wardrobe.
There, under a pile of winter sweaters, lay an ordinary shoe box — her personal safe. Over these weeks, she had turned the inheritance into a tangible reality: consultations with lawyers, meetings with financiers, re-registration of documents, investments.
Now the money, the city apartment, and the country house legally belonged to her.
Her fingers carefully sorted through the new documents in the box: bank statements with seven-figure numbers, a certificate of ownership with a seal, a bunch of keys to a spacious apartment with a river view. A collection of freedom waiting for its moment.
In the evening, while they sat at dinner, Igor suddenly perked up:
“Listen, remember we wanted a house outside the city?”
Vera looked up from her plate:
“I do.”
“I found out…” he leaned forward, “there are great options in Sosnovo. If we take a mortgage, and our down payment…”
“Our?” Vera interrupted. “You mean your down payment?”
Igor froze for a second but quickly composed himself.
“Well, technically mine. But it’s for both of us.”
“How interesting that sounds,” Vera put down her fork. “And I thought all your money was yours and mine was mine. Or have the rules changed?”
He blushed but only for a moment.
“I don’t get the tone,” Igor spread his hands. “I’m just suggesting we make our dream come true. The one we talked about before the wedding.”
Vera slowly stood up from the table.
“I’ll do the dishes tomorrow,” she said. “I need to prepare for tomorrow’s lessons.”
In the morning, Igor intercepted her at the door:
“Listen, I didn’t mean to hurt you yesterday. Just… let’s think about the future together. You wanted a house, a studio, a garden…”
Vera gave him a long look. The man before her was not the one she fell in love with once. Or maybe he was — only now she saw him clearly.
“I’ll be late today, don’t wait for me,” she said.
That evening Vera didn’t go to work. Instead of her usual route, Vera directed the taxi to a glass building in the business district where her lawyer’s office was, and afterward — to an old house on the Fontanka River.
The apartment she inherited greeted her with the chill of an uninhabited space and the scattered light streaming through dusty floor-to-ceiling windows.
She slowly walked on the parquet, listening to it creak under her heels — as if telling the story of former inhabitants.
Five rooms, stucco on the ceiling, marble window sills, spaciousness, and air. This was where real paintings should be born — not those strained advertising illustrations, but canvases alive with soul.
A week later, Igor came home earlier than usual. His eyes sparkled, his movements were nervous and sharp.
“Vera!” he almost shouted. “You won’t believe it! I met Anton, remember him? He works at a bank and says…”
He stopped mid-sentence, seeing her sitting in the chair with a box on her lap.
“What happened?” his smile faded.
“This is for you,” Vera handed him the box.
Igor weighed the box in his hands, as if assessing its importance, then threw off the lid. His eyebrows slowly rose, his fingers froze over the documents. Seconds gathered into silence.
“Is this some kind of joke?” His voice was cracked, pupils dilated, revealing a mix of disbelief and suddenly awakened appetite.
“Look at the seals,” Vera leaned against the door frame, watching his expression change. “An apartment with a view of the Neva, a country mansion in the pine forest, and a bank statement with seven-figure numbers. Not a bit of forgery.”
He flipped through the papers, eyes widened at the numbers.
“Where did all this come from?”
Vera allowed herself a faint smile.
“Remember the call on the embankment before the wedding? That was my uncle Gennady’s lawyer. He left me his entire estate. Forty-seven million, to be exact.”
Igor sank onto the sofa as if the air around him suddenly thickened.
“And you kept silent all this time?” He raised a darkened gaze. “Why?”
“You set the priorities in our family yourself,” she stepped to the window, ran her finger over the windowsill. “‘All my money is mine, and yours is yours.’ I just followed the rules.”
Turning, she met his eyes:
“At that moment I realized that for you, this wasn’t a marriage but a profitable deal. You got freedom of action and a convenient housekeeper, and in return… nothing. I needed to be sure once and for all. Now I have no doubts.”
Igor swallowed convulsively, his fingers shuffled the papers as if searching for a way out.
“Let’s not be hasty,” his voice gained false softness. “This is a wonderful opportunity to realize our dreams! The house we talked about, a studio for you! We could even have a child…”
“No,” Vera said quietly but with such firmness that he stopped. “Here,” she placed an envelope with an official seal on the table. “A divorce petition. My signature is already there. I need yours.”
“Are you crazy?” He jumped up, throwing the papers aside. “That’s our money! I’m your husband!”
“But you said yourself…”
“To hell with your words!” He lunged at her, gripping her shoulders. “I won’t sign anything!”
Vera gently but firmly pushed his hands away.
“You’ll have to,” there was anger in her voice. “Otherwise, the court will get a detailed report about your meetings with Margarita. And with Elena from accounting.
And that blonde from the fitness club whose name I didn’t even bother to learn. Call logs, camera footage, witness statements — my lawyer turned out surprisingly thorough.”
Igor stepped back, his face turned chalky.
“That’s just blackmail.”
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s an investment in my future. And, frankly, not the most expensive one.”
Sunlight glittered on the facade of the two-story building. Vera stood at the entrance, admiring the new sign: “Art Space ‘Breath of Color’. Painting School and Gallery.” Three months had passed since the divorce. Three months of absolute freedom and transformation. In that time, she managed not only to finalize the purchase of the building but also complete the renovations, select teachers, and run an advertising campaign.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket — a message from the realtor about the completion of the ownership registration. Now this building officially belonged to her. Without encumbrances. Without claims. Without ghosts of the past.
Vera pushed open the glass door and stepped inside. The spacious room, flooded with light from panoramic windows, was filled with the voices of the first students — fifteen children with burning eyes, impatiently fidgeting on chairs in front of easels.
“Good afternoon, young talents!” she smiled, looking around at their faces. “Ready to create your first masterpieces?”
