— Well, did you eat that up? — Vlad barged into the kitchen, swinging his car keys like a scepter. — The deal is closed. I told you I’d crush them.
Anya slowly lifted her gaze from the laptop screen. His flushed, triumphant face was mirrored on the glossy surface.
She silently closed the lid. The banking app still lingered on the darkened screen, showing a seven-figure sum.
— I’m glad it worked out for you, — she replied evenly.
Vlad snorted and opened the fridge with the authority of an inspector.
— Worked out? Anya, this isn’t “worked out.” This is the natural result. The result of brains, grit, and hard work — not staring at silly pictures on the internet.
He was talking about her blog. The one he’d spent the past five years calling “nonsense” and a “waste of time.” She never argued. Why bother?
Anya stood and walked to the window. Evening lights shimmered in the rain-streaked glass like a blurred watercolor.
Five years of humiliation, mockery, and dismissal. Five years she’d poured into her blog about rare, nearly vanished crafts, collecting stories from old masters piece by piece.
— Speaking of your little pictures, — Vlad continued, pulling a bottle of expensive sparkling wine from the fridge. — It’s about time you quit that. We’ll need more money soon. I’ve picked out a new country house. And your hobby only puts us in the red.
He said “we,” but she clearly heard “me.” That was always the way. His victories were his alone, but financial burdens were shared.
— Do you even realize the level we’re at? — Vlad approached, popping the cork with a loud bang. Foam sprayed across the windowsill. — I’m the man who gets things done. And you… who are you?
He poured himself a full glass, ignoring her.
Anya looked at his reflection in the dark glass — the smug grin, the expensive suit he thought made him untouchable.
Inside her, there was no anger, no bitterness. Just a strange, ringing calm. As though she were watching a scene from a bad movie.
— You’re broke, and I’m successful! — he laughed, as if it were an undeniable fact of the universe. — You should remember who carries the weight of this family.
He drank, waiting for her reaction. Tears? A breakdown? Silent submission?
Anya slowly turned to him. She looked him straight in the eyes — not defiantly, but with faint curiosity.
The way one looks at a book long read and grown dull.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A message from a buyer. A major international media network had purchased her “useless” blog to turn it into a global project. They wrote they were deeply impressed with her work.
— You know, Vlad, — she began quietly, her voice steady, — you’re right. It really is time to change something.
She picked up her laptop from the table.
— I think I’ll go. Book myself a hotel room. You celebrate. You’ve earned it.
He froze, glass in hand, his face stretching in shock. He hadn’t expected this. He thought he was in control.
Anya was already in the hallway, slipping on her coat.
— Where are you going? — he shouted, bewildered. — What, are you upset? Anya!
But she was already opening the front door. On the threshold, she turned back with the same calm smile.
— Don’t worry. I’ll pay for the hotel myself.
The door of the presidential suite closed softly behind the porter. Anya stood alone in the vast living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows.
Below, the night city glittered — the same one that had seemed cold and distant just an hour ago.
She slipped off her shoes and walked barefoot across the plush carpet. The sensation was incredible. This wasn’t just freedom. It was coming back to herself.
Her phone buzzed insistently. Ten missed calls from Vlad. Then texts. First angry, then anxious, and finally almost pathetic. “Anya, I’m worried. Please pick up.”
She silenced it. Not now.
In the morning, she woke to sunlight flooding the room. For the first time in years, she had slept deeply. No nightmares, no heaviness in her chest.
She ordered breakfast in — the kind Vlad called “a waste of money” — and, wrapped in a silk robe by the window, opened her laptop.
An email awaited her from Eleonora Van der Meer, head of the European division of the media group. They invited her to Brussels. Tomorrow.
Anya smiled. Everything was happening so fast, but she wasn’t afraid. Only exhilarated.
Meanwhile, Vlad was unraveling.
He called all their mutual friends, her few girlfriends, even her mother, painting the picture as if Anya had had a nervous breakdown from his “overwhelming success.”
— She’s always been fragile with that blog, — he sighed into the phone. — So delicate. I’m afraid she might do something stupid.
By noon, he realized his story wasn’t working. Nobody believed Anya was crazy. But everyone heard the thinly veiled panic in his voice.
The last straw was a call from his business partner.
— Vlad, did you see the news? Some handicraft blog got sold for eight million euros! Can you imagine? Threads of Time, it’s called. Isn’t that your wife’s hobby?
Vlad froze. He remembered the name. She had mentioned it when asking for money to visit some embroiderer in a remote village. He’d laughed at her.
Frantically, he searched online. Forbes article. Anya’s photograph.
Smiling. Confident. And the sum of the deal — not just big. Massive. More than he had ever earned in his life.
Vlad’s world — where he was king and god — collapsed in an instant. His face twisted with rage mixed with primal fear. Now he understood her calmness. Her departure. Her final words.
He quickly found out which hotel she was in. Less than an hour.
Anya had just finished a video call with Eleonora, discussing contract details and future strategy.
She felt weightless. Not just a content creator now — they offered her to lead an entire division, overseeing projects worldwide.
A sharp, demanding knock rattled the door. Anya frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She peeked through the peephole — and recoiled. Vlad stood there. His face pale, eyes burning with a cruel fire. He looked like a man stripped of everything.
She opened the door.
— We need to talk, — he hissed, pushing past her into the suite. His lips curled in a bitter sneer as he scanned the luxury. — Nice setup. On my money?
Anya closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. She had expected this line. She was ready.
— Yours? — she asked calmly. — Vlad, all the money you ever gave me for “pins and needles” wouldn’t cover a single night here. So no. Not yours.
He spun around, caught off guard. His plan — storm in, scare her, dominate — was crumbling.
— It’s our money, Anya! — he tried a different tactic, adopting a pleading tone. — We’re a family. What’s yours is mine. I supported you. I inspired you! Without me, you’d still be nowhere!
— Inspired me? — she allowed herself a faint smile. — By calling my work “nonsense”? By telling me to “get a real job”? Or by declaring me broke just yesterday? Which of those was the inspiration, exactly?
Each word hit him like a blow. He flinched.
— You don’t understand big money! — he shouted, snapping back into aggression. — They’ll trick you! Those corporate sharks will devour you! You need me. I know how to handle assets. We can multiply it all. Build an empire!
He stepped toward her, hand outstretched, as if inviting her into his grand vision.
— Your empire collapsed last night, Vlad, — Anya cut him off. — About the time you popped your champagne. And you know what? I don’t want an empire. I want my life. The one I’ll build myself.
She picked up her phone and quickly typed something.
— What are you doing? — he asked, real fear creeping into his voice now. The fear of losing not a wife, but a resource.
— Calling security. Our conversation is over.
— No! — he lunged toward her. — Anya, wait! Please! I see it now! I was wrong!
It was a pitiful sight. The mighty Vlad, feared and respected, now begging the woman he had treated as property just yesterday.
— No, Vlad, you don’t see anything, — she replied, steady as ever. — You just saw numbers on someone else’s bank account. My lawyer will contact you about the divorce.
And about that house you picked out — forget it. Your last deal won’t even cover the down payment.
She pressed the call button.
Two burly guards arrived within minutes. Efficient. Professional.
— Please escort this gentleman out, — Anya said, pointing at the stunned Vlad. — He’s mistaken the room number.
Vlad didn’t resist. He just stared at her with hollow eyes as they led him away. No rage left. Only emptiness.
When the door closed behind him, Anya exhaled slowly. She walked to the vast window.
The city below pulsed with life, and for the first time, she felt part of it.
Free. Strong. And endlessly happy.
Tomorrow, her flight to Brussels awaited. Tomorrow, her real life would begin.
