Negotiations with the client ended an hour and a half earlier than expected. That sometimes happens—when people immediately understand each other, there’s no need to waste time on idle chatter.
Irina stood in the middle of the parking lot, twirling her car keys in her hands. Where to go? It was too early to go home; there was nothing to do there. Going back to the office made no sense either—all tasks for the day were completed.
“I’ll drop by Andrey’s,” she suddenly decided. “I’ll surprise him!”
Their restaurant—a small but cozy place—was located in an old mansion on a quiet street in the city center. White tablecloths, dim lighting, jazz in the evenings. They had come up with everything together—from the concept to the very last fork. Irina was responsible for marketing and atmosphere; Andrey handled the kitchen and finances. A perfect partnership lasting fifteen years. In business and in life.
She left the car around the corner. She wanted a real surprise—to see her husband’s genuine smile when she suddenly appeared at the door of his office.
The back door was open—chefs were taking out the trash. Irina slipped inside, nodding to the surprised head chef, and headed down the narrow corridor to the administrative area. She had taken off her heels beforehand to walk quietly. Like a little girl planning a prank—even at thirty-nine, such games amused her.
She was almost at the office when she heard voices. The door was ajar, and a woman’s laughter—strange, unfamiliar—pierced her heart like a thin needle. Irina froze, clutching her shoes. There was something… intimate in that laughter.
“As soon as we sign the papers for the new investor, her share can quietly be removed. She won’t notice anything—it’s all registered under my name.”
Andrey’s voice. So familiar yet so alien. Cold, businesslike, with a tone of superiority she had never noticed before.
“Are you sure she won’t suspect?” The woman’s voice sounded lazy, as if this was not a business conversation but a pillow talk.
“Absolutely. She’s too busy with her clients and presentations. Numbers aren’t her thing.”
The world around Irina shook. Literally—she instinctively grabbed the wall to keep from falling.
“Come on. I always count on her,” Andrey smirked. That sound was unbearably familiar. “She can sell anything but never thinks about the business structure. Just a creative type.”
“And after the deal, we’ll finally be able to live together,” the woman said as casually as if talking about buying milk, not destroying someone’s family.
“Vika,” Andrey started, but she cut him off:
“Come on. What’s there to plan? Sell the restaurant—pay her some small change, and that’s that.”
Irina silently stepped back.
That night she couldn’t sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling while Andrey breathed steadily and deeply beside her. When he came home, she greeted him with her usual smile. Made dinner. Asked how things were.
He talked about work. About new wine suppliers. About a possible investor coming soon.
She nodded. Smiled. Even asked questions.
Inside, she was empty. Like a glass that had been drained in one gulp to the last drop.
In the morning, after he left, Irina opened her laptop and began studying documents. She had trusted Andrey with the legal side of their business—“you know better, dear”—and only signed papers when he asked.
What a fool she was.
By evening, her eyes ached from staring at numbers and paragraphs. But she already understood how he did it. How he gradually re-registered assets. How he created the appearance of joint ownership, when in reality…
A phone call interrupted her thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Irina Sergeyevna? This is Maksim Danilovich, financial director of ArtFood. We discussed a possible deal.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied evenly, as if the pain inside was not screaming. “I remember our conversation.”
“Great. Your husband said you’re ready to sign preliminary documents on Friday. As I understand, this concerns the full sale of the business?”
She closed her eyes. The picture was clear before her: Andrey in a suit, with a fake smile, shaking hands with this Maksim Danilovich. Nearby stood Viktoria—surely beautiful, surely younger, surely with that condescending laughter.
“Irina Sergeyevna? Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry. You know, I’d like to clarify some details of the deal. Can we meet tomorrow? In person?”
The next day Irina sat in the luxurious ArtFood office, listening to the offer to buy their restaurant. Apparently, Andrey planned to sell the business entirely—but transfer most of the money to his own account. And she would only get a pathetic scrap.
She smiled and nodded. “Very interesting offer,” “we need to think about it,” “my husband and I will definitely discuss everything.”
In the evening she called an old friend—Sergey, a lawyer she had once helped with clients when his practice was just starting.
“I need your help,” she said simply. “And complete confidentiality.”
She told him everything. No hysteria, no tears—just facts. Dry as sand. He listened without interrupting.
“Well,” he finally said. “Good news: your husband made several serious mistakes in the documents. Bad news: we’ll have to act very quickly.”
At home, Irina continued to play her role. Laughed at Andrey’s jokes. Discussed weekend plans. Cooked his favorite dishes. All the while watching him—how he lied. How he looked her in the eyes and spoke of “our future.” How deftly he avoided talking about the restaurant.
“By the way,” he said at dinner on Thursday, “remember that contract I asked you to sign last month? Have you seen a copy? I need to clarify one point.”
“Oh, that contract?” she raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. “I think it’s in my office. I’ll check tomorrow, okay?”
At that moment she realized: he was afraid.
Something was wrong—she could feel it on her skin. Andrey was nervous. Though he tried hard to look like everything was under control.
He set a meeting with ArtFood for Friday, 10 a.m. A formality, he said, just to sign the papers and part ways. He told Irina she didn’t need to attend. “I’ll handle everything myself,” he said on the go.
But Irina knew—when a husband says it’s simple, it will definitely be complicated.
At 9:55—five minutes before the appointed time—she was already standing at the conference room door. She pulled herself together and went in.
“A scene straight out of a movie,” ran through her mind.
Andrey was at the table. With him Maksim Danilovich—the very lawyer, always polite. And Viktoria. A young woman in a perfect suit, cold eyes, nails impeccably manicured—even the pen in her fingers looked like an expensive splinter.
“Ira?” Andrey literally jumped; suddenly paler than a sheet. “What are you doing here?”
Irina gave him a look that said “what do you think?”—and smiled radiantly:
“Shouldn’t I be part of the negotiations about selling our business?”
She sat right next to him—to keep the situation under control. Slowly, under the table, she pressed a button on her phone. A signal to Sergey—he was waiting behind the wall, in the next room, with important documents ready.
Maksim Danilovich’s gaze darted between Irina and Andrey, as if trying to figure out who would raise a storm. Viktoria nervously tapped her pen: tap-tap-tap, like a woodpecker, like a wooden metronome, counting seconds until the release.
“Uh, maybe we should take a short break?” Maksim timidly suggested, clearly trying not to miss the approaching storm.
“No-no,” Irina cut through the silence with her most professional smile. Even the toughest competitors feared her. “Let’s continue.”
And at that moment it became clear: the real negotiations were just beginning.
“So, if I understand correctly, this is about selling the restaurant ‘Granat’ completely, with all assets?” she flipped through the documents in front of her. “Interesting. And where are my signatures on the preliminary agreements? I don’t see any.”
“Your husband said he has power of attorney,” Maksim frowned.
“What a surprise! I’m not in the habit of giving power of attorney to dispose of my property,” she turned to Andrey. “You’re confused, dear.”
His face twisted. For a second she thought he was about to attack her—such rage flashed in his eyes. The eyes of a man she had considered family for fifteen years.
“I could explain,” Andrey began, but at that moment the door opened and Sergey entered with a folder of documents.
“Sorry for being late,” he bowed to those present. “Sergey Valentinovich, attorney for Ms. Irina Alexandrovna.”
Andrey jumped up:
“What circus is this, Ira?! We agreed on everything!”
“We agreed on nothing,” she remained seated, looking up at him. “All this time you acted behind my back. You acted,” she glanced at Viktoria, who turned pale and slid to the edge of the table.
“What are you talking about?” Maksim was clearly starting to get nervous.
“That my husband has no right to unilaterally dispose of our business, which is 51% mine,” Irina nodded to Sergey, who laid the documents on the table. “Here are the registry extracts. Here is the shareholders’ agreement that Andrey apparently ‘forgot’ to show you. And here is the court order issued this morning, prohibiting any transactions with the restaurant’s assets without my signature.”
“So, we can’t close the deal today?” Maksim looked confused.
“You can,” she shrugged. “But only with me. And on my terms.”
Andrey lunged for the documents:
“This is a forgery! She’s lying!”
“Don’t,” Sergey placed his hand on the folder. “Copies of all documents have already been sent to your lawyers, Mr. Maksim. Plus, a fraud lawsuit that we will file if today’s deal proceeds without considering my client’s interests.”
Viktoria suddenly stood:
“I need to leave.”
She rushed to the door, but Irina caught her by the arm:
“Stay,” she said quietly. “It will be good for you.”
Andrey looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes flashed with anger and fear.
“You can’t do this,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “We’re family.”
“That’s exactly why I am doing this,” she smiled, but her eyes remained cold.
She turned to Maksim:
“Now, about business. I’m ready to discuss selling the restaurant, but on different terms. And I’ll say right away: my husband’s share will be frozen until the divorce process is complete.”
“Ira,” Andrey’s voice was pleading. “Let’s not be hasty. We can discuss everything at home.”
“We’ve been discussing it for fifteen years,” she didn’t even turn to him. “And I found out about your real plans only by chance, coming home early.”
Maksim cleared his throat:
“I suppose we should postpone negotiations.”
“No need,” Irina cut in. “I’m ready to discuss the deal details. We just need to make adjustments.”
She pulled a folder from her bag—with alternative deal terms that she and Sergey had drafted during these crazy three days.
While they discussed financial details, Andrey sat stunned. He went pale, then flushed. Viktoria did not lift her eyes.
When the main points were agreed on, and Maksim left to prepare new documents, the three of them remained: Irina, Andrey, and Viktoria.
“Well,” Irina gathered her papers. “I suppose there’s nothing more to say.”
At the door she looked back one last time:
“Viktoria,” she called. The girl flinched. “You know your biggest mistake? You think love is built on destruction. But true love is always about creation. And I hope you realize that before he betrays you too.”
She left the room with her back straight. The hotel corridor was empty and quiet, only the air conditioners hummed. Irina leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
Three months passed like a day. Papers, meetings, negotiations—all merged into one endless flow.
Irina sat by the window of her new apartment—small but surprisingly bright. The window looked out on a park where dog owners jogged in the morning, and moms with strollers had impromptu picnics during the day.
The divorce went surprisingly quietly. Andrey did not resist—perhaps he was ashamed, or maybe eager to start a new life. Although rumors said things between him and Viktoria fell apart almost immediately after that ill-fated meeting.
Her phone vibrated—a message from Maksim Danilovich: “Meeting at 3:00 PM? I want to show you a new project.”
The deal to sell the restaurant was finalized—but on Irina’s terms. The money was divided fairly. And now Maksim was offering her a seat on the ArtFood board of directors—he appreciated her business savvy and intuition.
Well, life goes on.
