Dmitry’s shouts echoed through the beauty salon “Aphrodite.” The receptionist, pressed fearfully against the counter, held her breath, and the client who was just having a manicure flinched in surprise — the fresh nail polish was ruined. Nina stood nearby, arms crossed, her face stone-cold as she watched the eruption of male anger.
“How could you? Without my permission! This is our shared money!” Dmitry shouted, waving his arms. His face turned crimson, his neck tensed, a pulsing vein bulging.
Ten years ago, when Nina planned to open her own salon, she could never have imagined that her biggest problem would be her own husband. Dmitry got a job there as the receptionist but quickly started to see himself as the true boss. Yet, he rarely showed up at work — only to show off to clients or “lecture” the staff.
Every day, she watched him strut around the salon, telling everyone it was a family business, their joint venture. Meanwhile, Nina dealt with all the real problems: hiring experienced specialists, buying equipment, negotiating with cosmetics suppliers, managing the finances.
Her husband was convinced that his mere presence and a few random pieces of advice gave him the right to be considered an equal owner.
“Dima, let’s not make a scene in public,” Nina said calmly, heading to her office. He followed her like a shadow.
“How dare you buy a summer house for your parents without my approval? This is our business!” he continued to yell, slamming the door.
She sank into her chair and rubbed her temples tiredly. This conversation was inevitable, but she had hoped it would happen in a calmer atmosphere. The wedding anniversary had seemed the perfect occasion to give her parents a gift — a countryside house with a garden. But Dmitry’s reaction was worse than she had feared.
She glanced at a photo of her parents on the table. They had dreamed of their own land all their lives, spent every weekend helping neighbors at their dacha, tending plants. And now, when she finally made their dream come true, her husband threw a tantrum like a child deprived of a toy.
“Dima, let’s be honest,” Nina said firmly. “This is my business. I built it with my own hands, invested my money, work here twelve hours a day. You are formally the receptionist, but you even do that job carelessly. What equality are you talking about?”
“So that’s how it is?! I’m nobody to you? Just an assistant? But I’ll get even with you! You buy your parents a summer house, and I’ll buy my own a car! Not some old thing, but a proper SUV! You hear me?!”
With that, he abruptly turned and ran out of the office, slamming the door hard.
Nina shook her head and took out her phone. Within five minutes, all the bank cards linked to the salon’s account were blocked. She knew her husband’s character well: if he wasn’t stopped now, he might do something foolish just out of spite.
Dmitry burst into the bank, nearly knocking down an elderly woman at the entrance. He was determined to teach his wife a lesson and prove who was boss at home. A premium card was in his pocket — the thought of withdrawing a large sum warmed him inside.
The bank was crowded. The line moved slowly, and Dmitry’s impatience grew. He kept glancing at his watch, fragments of the morning’s quarrel spinning in his mind. How dare she spend money without asking him?
Imagining the proud announcement to his parents about the car purchase, picturing their grateful looks and the neighbors’ envy.
“Hello, how can I help you?” smiled the bank clerk when it was his turn.
“I need to withdraw a large sum,” Dmitry said, placing his card on the counter.
The clerk ran it through the terminal, paused a moment, and returned it:
“Unfortunately, your card is blocked.”
“What do you mean, blocked? Check again!” he demanded, feeling cold inside. With slightly trembling hands, he took out a second card.
“That one is unavailable too. The system shows restrictions set by the account owner,” the clerk replied.
Dmitry felt a knot tighten inside him. Nina was one step ahead. While he was plotting revenge, she had already taken action.
“And the payroll card?” he asked hopefully, handing over a third card.
“That account is also restricted,” the clerk said softly.
People in line began whispering disapprovingly. But Dmitry didn’t care. He sank slowly into a chair, realizing that for the first time in ten years, his wife had put him in his place — firmly and without unnecessary words.
The phone in his hands trembled. He dialed her number several times but didn’t dare press call.
Memories flickered: how he proudly told friends about “his” salon, how he bossed employees around… and now it was all falling apart.
Anger won. Dmitry pressed the call button.
“Nina! What are you doing?! Unblock the cards immediately!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“No, Dima,” her voice was cold and calm. “You’re acting irresponsibly. I won’t let company funds be used for your ambitions. That’s impossible!”
Her composure only fueled his rage…
“Fine!” he jumped up, drawing everyone’s attention. “Then don’t wait for me at home. I’m not coming back until you stop this farce!”
“Suit yourself,” Nina replied shortly and hung up, leaving Dmitry torn between anger and helplessness.
Outside, he realized he didn’t even have money for a taxi — cash hadn’t been used in ages. He had to call his family and ask for help.
On the way home, he was silent, ignoring his mother’s worried glances.
The first evening passed with attempts to explain the situation. His mother shook her head:
“Dima, have you gone mad? What car? We already have two!”
His father silently smoked on the balcony.
On the second day, calls from the salon staff began. Dmitry smugly ignored them, imagining how Nina had to deal with problems alone.
By the end of the week, his confidence began to crack. The work chat showed the salon running smoothly. Nina was handling everything easily, and the new receptionist, Sveta, was getting many positive reviews.
Every evening Dmitry checked his phone, hoping for a missed call. He imagined his wife calling, asking him to come back, admitting she was wrong. But the phone remained stubbornly silent.
His mother tried daily to get through to him:
“Son, you know you’re acting foolishly. Nina built this business from scratch, and you just relaxed, pretending to be the boss. And her parents really had long dreamed of a summer house… Why be so angry?”
Life at his parents’ house became unbearable. His father deliberately ignored him, occasionally saying:
“When will you finally grow up?”
His mother tried to reconcile him with his wife, constantly reminding him how smart Nina was and how much she had done for him. And his sister, who came for the weekend, bluntly said:
“You’re selfish, Dimka! Nina works like a horse, and you just play and boss around like a director!”
But Dmitry refused to listen. He was tormented by resentment — his wife had dared to show him his place and humiliate him in front of everyone. Deep down, he knew his family was right, but admitting it meant admitting his own inadequacy.
On the eighth day of his voluntary absence, the phone finally rang. Nina’s name appeared on the screen. His heart tightened.
“So, she couldn’t hold out!” he smugly thought, picking up.
“Dima, we need to talk. Come home. I’m waiting for you,” she said.
There was something uneasy in her voice that made him wary…
An hour later Dmitry stood nervously fiddling with keys outside the apartment door. Something inside told him this conversation would be different. Usually, after fights, Nina greeted him with an apologetic look, trying to smooth things over. But now there was determination in her tone that gave him goosebumps.
The key wouldn’t turn. He tried again — no luck. The locks had been changed. This discovery froze him. Now he would have to ring the bell like a stranger.
Nina took a long time to open the door. When it finally swung open, Dmitry barely recognized his wife. She looked composed and confident — as if preparing for important business negotiations, not a talk with her husband.
“Come in,” she said briefly, stepping aside.
Dmitry stepped inside and immediately froze.
His suitcases stood in the hallway. All his belongings were neatly packed, each with a list of contents. Even his favorite ties were folded by color.
“Is this a joke?” he asked, confused.
“What do you think?” Nina leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “I forgave a lot, Dima. Your tantrums, arrogance, laziness, rudeness. But the last scene was the last straw.”
He looked around. Photos, trinkets, personal items — all gone. It was as if someone carefully erased every trace of his life here.
“Are you kicking me out?” Dmitry tried to smile, but it was unconvincing.
“Exactly. I’m tired of being a nanny to a grown child who thinks he’s the big boss. Ten years have passed, and you’re still the same immature selfish man hiding behind my back. Enough!”
“But I’m your husband! We have a family, a business…”
“What business, Dima? While you played boss, the salon ran because of me. During this week you lived at your mother’s, things even went better. Without your ‘brilliant’ orders and fights with the staff. Can you even understand that?”
Nina approached the table and handed him a folder with documents.
“I analyzed our work for the year. You missed 48 workdays without valid reasons. Three times you disrupted deliveries by forgetting to place orders. Four employees quit because of your attitude. And that’s just part of what I recorded.”
Dmitry wanted to argue but couldn’t. Every word hit its mark. His self-image crumbled instantly.
“I filed for divorce,” Nina continued calmly, handing over the papers. “Everything is already processed by the lawyer. Take your things and start a new life. It will help you.”
There was no anger or resentment in her voice. Only exhaustion and a firm decision to move on.
Two months later, Dmitry sat in his parents’ kitchen, absently turning an empty cup. The divorce had been quick and quiet. Nina had organized everything in advance: documents, division of property, everything. She simply erased him from her life like an extra line in a notebook.
“Son,” his mother gently placed a hand on his shoulder, “maybe it’s time to start changing? Nina sent you your work record and a reference. I arranged with a friend — she’s ready to hire you as a manager in a store. You’ll start from scratch, but with your own effort.”
“Mom, be quiet,” Dmitry answered softly for the first time.
Memories swirled: how Nina took out a loan, wrote the business plan, rejoiced at the first clients. And he? Just considered himself the owner, without investing anything.
Yesterday he accidentally met one of the salon’s clients. She pretended not to notice him but he heard her say on the phone:
“Can you imagine, ‘Aphrodite’ has become so cozy! Nobody yells, the girls are so attentive! Just beautiful!”
His phone vibrated. A message from the work chat:
“Dear clients! We are pleased to announce that our salon ‘Aphrodite’ is opening a second branch! We look forward to seeing you at the new address!”
Dmitry smiled bitterly. Nina was not just thriving — she was growing. And he sat in his mother’s kitchen, realizing how much he had lost.
“You know, Mom… I think I’ll go to that interview. You’re right. I need to start a new life. From scratch.”
He took his phone and texted Nina:
“Congratulations on the new branch! You deserve it.”
The reply came almost immediately:
“Thank you, Dima. Take care of yourself.”
For the first time in two months, he felt relief. Maybe that’s what he was missing — honesty with himself.
“What time is the interview?”
“At two,” his mother smiled quietly, wiping a tear. Her son looked alive for the first time in a long while.
“Then I’ll go prepare. Need to make a proper resume. No fluff. Time to be myself.”
In the hallway, he stopped at the mirror. The reflection was no longer the confident “boss,” but a confused man who had to relearn how to live. And the first step — to be honest with himself.
“Well then,” he muttered to his reflection, “welcome to adult life, Dima. About time…”
The phone rang again. It was his mother’s friend.
Taking a deep breath, Dmitry pressed “answer.” The time for a true new beginning had come — no masks, no pretenses, no borrowed glory. Only his own effort and honestly earned money. Maybe that’s how he would finally become who he always wanted to seem.
