“Honestly, Anya, you’re like a little girl. My money is mine. Yours is yours. That’s fair,” Dima leaned back on the sofa and laughed loudly, straight from the gut.
That laugh, which a year ago had seemed sincere and infectious, now grated on my ears like cheap metal.
He looked down at me, and his eyes were slick with sticky self-satisfaction. A year ago there had been adoration there.
Now—condescending pity for the “poor girl” he had blessed by letting her live at his side.
“I just thought that since the refrigerator is shared, it makes sense to buy it together,” I answered quietly, studying the pattern on the carpet.
Don’t look up. The main thing is not to look up and let him see the cold rage slowly rising from the bottom of my soul.
“Logical is when everyone relies on themselves. Do I support you? No. Do I cover the rent and the utilities? Yes. And you should say thank you for that. And a refrigerator—sorry, that’s already a luxury. The old one works.”
He said it as if he’d tossed me a gnawed bone.
The old fridge, which we’d inherited from his grandmother, roared at night like a wounded beast and turned fresh vegetables into icy mush.
I nodded silently.
“A year, daughter. Just one year,” my father’s voice sounded in my memory. “I’m not against your Dima. I’m against your blindness. You’ve known each other three months. Let him prove he loves you, not my means. Live on your own. Not a penny from me. Let’s see what he’s made of.”
Father was angry about our hasty wedding. He thought Dima was a fortune hunter. To prove him wrong, I agreed to this experiment.
I even took back my mother’s surname so there would be no associations at work. For Dima, this became a story about how a rich father “disinherited” a defiant daughter.
What he was made of turned out to be rotten. For the first six months Dima played the nobleman. He was sure that if he just held out, the fearsome father-in-law would soften. And then he realized there would be no money.
And the mask began to slip. First the flowers disappeared. Then he “forgot” his wallet at restaurants. And now it had come to separate budgets, where his budget was only his, and mine was shared.
“All right, don’t sulk,” he came over and carelessly ruffled my hair like I was a dog. “You’ll earn it—you’ll buy it. You’re a smart girl. You’re trying.”
I slowly lifted my eyes to him. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt that he was right.
Only the confidence of a man in charge who earns well and who had “gotten lucky” enough to marry a beautiful woman absolutely useless in financial terms.
He didn’t know that my “trying” was in the company my father owns.
He didn’t know that the key project for which he was in line for a huge bonus had been devised and carried out by me from first to last step.
And he certainly didn’t know that tomorrow at ten in the morning he’d be called on the carpet not for a promotion.
“Yes, dear,” I forced myself to smile with my most submissive smile. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”
In the evening he came home with shining eyes. He tossed a folder with a car dealership logo onto the table.
“Look what beauty I’ve picked out!” he enthusiastically unfolded a glossy brochure in front of me. From the picture a predatory profile of an expensive SUV stared back at me.
“I’m taking it on credit, of course. But with my salary it’s nothing. I’ll make the down payment with the bonus for the ‘Horizon’ project. They’ll issue it any day now.”
He spoke quickly, excitedly, not noticing my frozen face.
“Horizon.” My project. My sleepless nights, my calculations, my negotiations. Dima was only the nominal manager there, who put his signature on my reports and presented them nicely at meetings.
“You’re buying a car?” my voice sounded muffled, as if from under water. “But… you said we needed to economize. That our ‘financial cushion’ is still too thin.”
He tore himself from the brochure and looked at me with genuine perplexity, as if I’d said something stupid.
“Anya, you’re mixing things up again. ‘Ours’ is when it’s about your spending. I’m not asking you for money, right? I earn, I spend. It’s motivation, you see?”
Motivation. A man should grow, strive. And you hold me back with your petty household problems.
He used that line—“you’re holding me back”—more and more often. Any request of mine or attempt to discuss shared plans ran into that wall. I, with my problems, was impeding his great achievements.
“I’m just trying to be practical,” I made one more, last attempt. “Maybe first we deal with housing? Start saving for a mortgage? Together.”
Dima laughed. The same laugh as in the afternoon. Loud, assured, humiliating.
“A mortgage? With your salary? Anechka, don’t make me laugh. To save for a mortgage you need to earn, not get pennies for shuffling papers.
“When I become commercial director, then we’ll talk. For now—be happy for your husband. Your husband will soon be driving a cool ride. That should please you.”
He came over and hugged me by the shoulders, pulling me close. He smelled of expensive cologne and success. False, stolen success.
“Speaking of the director,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tomorrow I have a meeting with the CEO. Looks like the ice has broken. The old man has finally appreciated my talents.”
My heart skipped a beat. The CEO. My father.
I moved away so he wouldn’t feel how my whole body tensed.
“That’s… that’s wonderful, dear!” I forced an enthusiastic smile.
“You bet!” he beamed. “So tomorrow will decide everything. Wish me luck.”
He went to bed almost at once, absolutely happy and confident about his future. And I sat in the kitchen for a long time, staring into the dark window.
The hum of the old refrigerator sounded like a countdown to me. A countdown to his fall. And I wasn’t going to wish him luck. I was going to enjoy the show.
The morning was saturated with his smugness. He whistled while choosing the most expensive tie. I silently handed him coffee, playing the role of the devoted wife.
“Right, have to look like a million,” he muttered, scrutinizing himself in the mirror.
My gaze fell on the new dress hanging on the wardrobe door. Simple, linen, but I’d saved for it for three months from my “pennies-for-a-salary.”
It was my small victory, a symbol that I still existed apart from him.
Dima noticed it too. He came over and picked up the fabric between two fingers with distaste.
“And what’s this rustic chic?”
“This is my new dress,” I said quietly.
“Obviously it’s yours. You bought what you could afford. Anya, listen,” he turned to me, his face becoming serious, almost fatherly.
“When I get the position, you’ll have to measure up. None of these… cheap rags. You’ll be the wife of a big man. It’s shameful.”
He spoke, and I looked at the dress. At my small, hard-won joy that he’d just trampled into the dirt.
And then the thing happened that became the last straw. Smoothing a crease on his perfectly white shirt, he carelessly hung it on that same door.
And the hot iron, which he’d left for a second on the ironing board, slid straight onto my dress.
There was a hiss. An ugly brown mark crept, burning through the fabric.
Dima looked at the hole, then at me. There was no regret or guilt in his eyes. Only annoyance.
“There, you see. It got rid of that eyesore by itself,” he smirked. “All right, don’t cry. You’ll buy yourself a new one. When I allow it and give you money.”
That was it.
Something snapped inside. Not with a clang, not with a crash. Just a quiet, final rupture. A year of humiliations, pretense, hopes. All of it burned up along with the dress.
“You’re right,” my voice sounded unfamiliar—even, firm. “Time to get rid of the eyesore.”
He didn’t understand. He heard only submission in the words, not their essence. He nodded condescendingly, grabbed his briefcase and, pecking me on the cheek, left. Left for the meeting that he thought would lift him to the top.
I watched him go. Then I went to the wardrobe and took out my best business suit. The one my father gave me for graduating from university. The one Dima had never seen.
I got to work an hour early. I passed my desk in the open area, past my colleagues’ surprised looks, and headed straight down the corridor. To the corner office with the nameplate: “Head of Sales Department. Sokolov D.A.”
The secretary looked up at me.
“Anna, where are you going? Dmitry Alexeevich isn’t here yet.”
I smiled at her.
“I know. I’m going to my new office. Could you bring me coffee? And please change the nameplate. My surname is Orlova.”
Exactly at ten o’clock the office door flew open. Dima walked in. Radiant, confident, with a folder under his arm. He froze on the threshold when he saw me in his chair. The smile slowly slid off his face.
“Anya? What are you doing here?” There was puzzlement in his voice, but not yet alarm. “Go play somewhere else. I have a meeting with the CEO.”
“I know,” I answered calmly, taking a sip of coffee. “So do I.”
At that moment my father entered the office. Dima turned, and his face went slack. He recognized the CEO but couldn’t understand what he was doing here with me.
“Pavel Andreevich! Good morning! We were just…” he began to fawn.
“Good morning, Dmitry,” my father walked around him, came up to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. “I see you’ve already met your new boss. Orlova, Anna Pavlovna.”
Dima’s face turned into a mask. Disbelief, shock, panic—everything mixed in his eyes. He shifted his gaze from me to my father and back.
“Orlova?… Pavlovna?…” he whispered. “What Orlova? Anya, what kind of circus is this?”
“This isn’t a circus, Dima. It’s my real surname,” I stood up, feeling a cool calm spread through my body. “And Pavel Andreevich is my father.”
Dima’s pupils dilated. He staggered as if he’d been struck.
“Your father?… But you… you said…”
“I said my father didn’t want to have anything to do with me. And that was true. He didn’t want to have anything to do with a woman who allowed herself to be humiliated. He waited for me to understand everything on my own. Well, now I have.”
He looked at me, and it finally began to sink in. The car on credit. The bonus he’d appropriated for himself. His words about “pennies” and “cheap rags.”
“Anechka… kitten… it’s a misunderstanding!” He took a step toward me, reaching out his hands. Pitiful, wheedling notes crept into his voice. “I love you! I do everything for you!”
“You do everything for yourself, Dima,” I cut him off. “You set the rules yourself. Your money is yours. Mine is mine.
“So then. My company. My office. And my decision. You’re fired. For cause. For the systematic appropriation of others’ merits and intellectual work. All the materials for the ‘Horizon’ project are with me.”
He froze.
“Fired?… You can’t…”
“I can. And as for the car, don’t worry. The bonus, as you understand, you won’t receive. So they won’t approve the loan for you.”
My father silently watched the scene, and in his eyes I saw approval.
“And one more thing,” I added, looking him straight in the eyes. “You can pick up your things from the apartment by this evening. Leave the keys with the concierge. My lawyer will contact you about the divorce papers.”
He looked at me as if I were a monster. All his affected confidence fell away; what remained was only a petty, greedy, and terrified man.
“But… how… we’re a family!”
“We never had a family, Dima. You had a convenient project. But it’s closed. For failing every metric.”
I sat down in my new chair and picked up a pen from the desk.
“And now, if that’s all, leave. I have a lot of work.”
…In the evening, after the sounds of his hasty packing had finally died down in the apartment, I opened my laptop.
I went to an appliance store website. I found the biggest, most expensive stainless-steel refrigerator with an ice maker and a touch display. And I clicked “Buy.”
The payment went through instantly. From my personal card.
