A light autumn breeze chased yellow leaves across the pavement as people, wrapped in their coats, hurried about their business. Vlada stood apart from the flow, her gaze fixed on an old gypsy woman perched on a folding stool by the metro entrance. The woman seemed part of the cityscape, like a stray dog or an advertising billboard. Her bright skirts, heavy earrings, and piercing eyes that seemed to see right through you were hypnotic.
Vlada took a deep breath, clenched her wallet in her coat pocket, and stepped forward with resolve. She broke the invisible boundary everyone instinctively kept.
“Will you tell my fortune?” Her voice sounded unusually loud and clear above the street noise. “I won’t tip you with small change—I’ll gild your hand. For real.”
The crowd around them froze for an instant. A few passersby slowed; someone smirked and tapped a finger at his temple. The gypsy, whom everyone called Aunt Maria, lifted to Vlada an astonished, almost frightened look. Her lips, scored with wrinkles, folded into a puzzled smile.
“Am I in the wrong place?” Vlada didn’t look away, studying the old woman’s face: the dark skin, the veined lids, the heavy silver rings on thin fingers.
The gypsy laughed hoarsely and held out her palm, expecting money. Vlada was already reaching for a bill, but the old woman sharply waved her off.
“Ah, don’t rush to gild, child. First give me your hand. A living one, not a golden one. Go on! And be quiet while I look. Your whole life’s truth is written here—you just have to know how to read it.”
Her fingers, cold and rough like the bark of an old tree, closed around Vlada’s wrist. They seemed to burn her skin. Aunt Maria traced the lines for a long time, peering at every notch, every fork. Then her gaze rose and locked with Vlada’s. It was a heavy, bottomless look, sloshing with the wisdom of centuries and the knowledge of thousands of fates. Vlada held it without blinking, feeling goosebumps race down her back.
“If I hadn’t read on your hands and in your eyes everything that’s happened to you—I’d never have believed it!” the gypsy finally exhaled, her voice turning softer, more confidential. “You’re tangled in nets, child. A love triangle. And not a childish one. It’s all woven clever—like the pattern on an old carpet… pull one end and the other snarls. Are you sure about your decision? A heart isn’t stone; it aches, it cries.”
“I’m a hundred percent sure,” Vlada answered firmly, though everything inside her tightened. “And then what? Do you have some… cunning recipe for this case?”
Aunt Maria clicked her tongue meaningfully.
“Of course I do. Our people have a recipe for everything under the sun. But for this—there’s a special one. A gypsy recipe. Come to me tomorrow; I need to prepare. Dry special herbs, recall the right words. For now, go. And think. Remember everything from the very beginning. So tomorrow you can tell me in detail. Every little thing.”
Vlada walked home, and in her head something pounded like an alarm bell: “I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him.” This pendulum torture had been going on for six months. She hated Stanislav with the same force she had once adored him. Their bond wasn’t a love triangle so much as a true Bermuda Triangle where her will, self-respect, and peace disappeared without a trace.
Its origins lay in an elegant restaurant they’d gone to after signing a successful contract between her firm and his holding. He was witty, handsome, charming. He showered her with compliments and looked at her as if she were the only woman on the planet. A month later, a chance conversation with a mutual acquaintance revealed the truth: Stanislav was married. What’s more, he had a reputation as a womanizer.
Raised on principles of honor and dignity, Vlada did the right thing then: she deleted his number, cut all contact, tossed out the scarf he’d given her. She put a bold period on it. But her brain, that treacherous collaborator, kept slipping her those cherished digits. She hadn’t memorized them on purpose, but they were seared into her memory like a brand. And she, despising herself, dialed them again and again. His voice on the line was like a drug—bringing instant relief and promising happiness, and by morning leaving only the bitter hangover of shame.
She became a shadow of herself. Sleepless nights painted violet crescents under her eyes. Her hands shook. At work she made one mistake after another. Friends asked, with pity in their voices, if she was ill. And Stanislav himself, meeting her, more and more often tossed off with a smirk, “You’re not exactly on form today, Vlada. Pull yourself together—you’re my strong girl.”
After talking to the gypsy, a spark of hope flickered in Vlada’s soul. Soon it would end. This magic recipe would sever the cursed bonds. She could breathe fully again and live, not merely exist.
The next day Vlada returned to the metro. Seeing her, Aunt Maria silently beckoned her into a quiet square, away from prying eyes and ears. Panting, she sank onto a bench and drew from the depths of her many-layered skirts a small bundle tied with rough string.
“Here. The base. Enchanted herbs and berries gathered at the full moon at an abandoned crossroads of seven roads,” she whispered, her voice thick with mystery. “You must give them a good boil in clean water. When you see the scum turn black as a starless night, throw in some rag of that man’s. A tie. A sock. A handkerchief, for instance. Then read these words,” the gypsy thrust into Vlada’s hand a crumpled, yellowed sheet covered with strange signs and incomprehensible words. “Read until the foam turns white again, like the first snow. Then take the thing out. Dry it in the wind so it soaks up the power of heaven and air. And to achieve what you so fiercely desire, you must touch his bare skin with this thing. Got it? Bare skin! And then she!”
“She who? His wife?” Vlada snorted skeptically. “No, that’s impossible! How do you imagine that?”
“You’ll have to think of something,” the old woman spread her hands, her bracelets clinking. “First you strike, and right after you—she does. A double blow, double strength. Do you understand me? Only then will you break his spell.”
Vlada nodded, feeling a slight tremor in her knees. She carefully tucked the bundle of herbs and the spell into her bag and was about to leave.
“And the money, child?” Aunt Maria’s voice turned sharp and grasping again. “You pay for a gypsy recipe! In gold or silver—but pay!”
Without protest, Vlada counted out several bills. Freedom always came at a high price.
She all but ran home, gripping the precious bundle in her bag pocket. She remembered: she should still have his handkerchief. Expensive, silk, initialed, ironed with care by some unknown hand. It had slipped from his pocket a month ago, and Vlada had kept forgetting to return it—hope would flicker, then shame would swamp her.
She inhaled deeply, trying to push back the flood of memories. A recent chance meeting with Stanislav’s wife, Olga, had turned everything upside down, knocked the ground from under her feet, and made her question reality itself.
That meeting happened on her birthday. Stanislav had shown up unexpectedly with a huge bouquet of costly roses.
“I didn’t think you’d drop by… We didn’t plan anything,” Vlada was delighted, pressing the flowers to her chest; naive hope began to stream through her again. “Shall we go somewhere? A restaurant? I’ll get ready in a second!”
“No,” he cut her off, raking her from head to toe with a cold look. “We’re not going anywhere. Look at yourself. You don’t have enough makeup to hide those circles under your eyes. What do you even look like? You used to be a beauty! Why did you stop taking care of yourself?”
His words, sharp and precise as a blade, sliced her to pieces. She burst into tears—helpless, childlike, bitter. Stanislav patted her shoulder indifferently, tossed a curt “Get some rest,” and left, trailing behind him a heavy wake of expensive perfume and humiliation.
An hour later, trying to pull herself together, she went to the nearest supermarket for a sedative. And then a gentle female voice called to her:
“Vlada? Hello!”
An elegant woman in a stylish coat stood before her. Her face seemed familiar.
“Yes, hello,” Vlada replied, flustered, feverishly trying to place her.
“My name is Olga. I’m Stanislav’s wife,” the woman smiled, and there was not a drop of malice or reproach in that smile.
Heat rushed over Vlada. Her heart sank to her heels.
“Oh… oh,” she managed, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Please don’t worry. I’m not here to make a scene,” Olga’s voice was calm and soft. “I just wanted to warn you. You’re not the first. And, alas, you won’t be the last on my husband’s path. While there’s still time, save yourself… Run from him.”
And something in Vlada snapped. Self-pity gave way to sudden fury.
“Really?” Her voice steadied, and she drew herself up to her full height. “If you know all about his ‘adventures,’ why are you still with him? What keeps you? Money? Habit? Love?”
Vlada shook her head, dispelling the spell. She was standing in her own kitchen, staring at an enameled saucepan she had filled with filtered water. Stanislav’s handkerchief lay beside it on the table like incriminating evidence.
“No! That’s not what I need to be thinking about!” she ordered herself sternly. “We need to meet. The three of us. The gypsy didn’t give that recipe for nothing. And Stanislav must suspect nothing…”
She untied the bundle and tossed the dry, fragrant herbs into the water. They hissed, whirled into a vortex, and the water quickly began to darken, growing thick and murky. Soon black foam, glossy as tar, bubbled on the surface. Holding her breath, Vlada threw the silk handkerchief into the decoction. It sank, and almost at once the blackness began to drain away, as if the fabric were drawing it in. The foam lightened, turned transparent and clear.
“The gypsy recipe is ready,” Vlada whispered, feeling a surge of strange, almost mystical strength. “Dinner is served, Stanislav. Tonight I’m treating you to first-rate magic.”
At that moment her phone rang. His name lit the screen. She smiled and lifted it to her ear.
“Hi, Stasik,” she purred, sweet and languid.
“Listen carefully!” his growl deafened her. “Next month there’s a corporate convention with a banquet. Your firm is invited; you’re on the list. I’ll be there too—obviously with my wife. So you… so you don’t even look my way! Don’t come near! Don’t speak! I don’t need a scandal for no reason! Got me?! No hints, no looks!”
Vlada even pulled the phone back from her ear. But a smile was blossoming on her face. Fate itself was offering her the perfect stage for revenge.
“I understand. No need to shout,” she answered quietly, almost in a whisper. “Everything will be just as you say.”
He hung up. Vlada looked at the damp handkerchief steeped in dark magic.
“So we’ll meet, my dear. The gypsy recipe will be tested. And everything will fall into place.”
The luxurious banquet hall glittered with crystal chandeliers and mirrored walls. The air was thick with the blend of expensive perfume, exquisite food, and champagne. Ladies in evening gowns, men in tails, waiters in white gloves—everything mingled in an elegant kaleidoscope of a society gathering.
Vlada stood in the half-shadow by a column, fingers clenched around the bundle with the enchanted handkerchief. Her heart hammered, but an icy resolve ruled her soul.
Stanislav and Olga looked like the perfect couple: polished, beautiful, smiling. They chatted easily with the guests, and only Vlada, watching closely, noticed how taut and unnatural Olga’s smile was, how cold her eyes. At last they stepped aside and sat at a small table. Stanislav raised his glass, said something to his wife, and his face shone with self-satisfaction.
This was the moment. Vlada slipped from her hiding place. Twisting between guests like a shadow, she appeared right in front of him and collided hard with his arm. Golden champagne cascaded over his crisply ironed shirt and slicked hair.
“Oh, a thousand apologies! How clumsy of me!” she cried with feigned horror and, without losing a second, pulled out the handkerchief and began blotting his chest and collar, brushing the bare skin of his neck.
Stanislav froze in utter stupefaction, glancing from his wife to Vlada. Rage and bafflement contorted his face.
“Miss, such carelessness! Right before his formal address!” Olga’s voice sounded surprisingly calm. “Here, let me.”
She practically snatched the handkerchief from Vlada and set to work on the stain on her husband’s shirt, carefully running the cloth along his neck, cheeks, hands. Finished, she smiled an icy smile. Vlada stood motionless, looking at Stanislav with unfeigned joy. He turned his head helplessly, sensing that something was wrong but unable to grasp what.
“Vlada, I think it’s all clean, yes?” Olga broke the pause first.
“Yes, Olga, everything’s perfectly fine,” Vlada nodded. “Stanislav can go on stage. They’re waiting for him.”
“What? You… What?” The man looked completely lost. “Wait, I can explain everything…”
“Of course, of course, you will,” Vlada smiled sweetly and pointed to the stage, where the host was announcing his name. “Run along. Your audience awaits.”
Stanislav frowned. This was a total derailment of all his plans. But he was a master improviser. He cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and with head held high walked toward the microphone, shooting bewildered glances as he went at the two women standing together, watching him with the same expression of cold expectation.
Their alliance had been born from the ashes of mutual hatred and pain. After that meeting at the supermarket, they had met secretly once more. Vlada struggled to believe the “spell” story, but Olga spoke with such convincing sorrow, with such intimate knowledge of Vlada’s torments, that doubt began to melt.
“He admitted it himself. I overheard him,” Olga told her, nervously worrying a café napkin. “He was discussing details with some shaman or sorcerer. Said the new ‘victim’ was too strong-willed and the old charms weren’t enough. He keeps me because the business is in my name. It’s my father’s legacy. In a divorce, he gets nothing. And he keeps you, Vlada, because you’re beautiful, successful, and you flatter his ego. You’re his trophy.”
Olga gave her the contact of the person who had helped lift the glamour from her. And she proposed a plan. A plan in which the gypsy recipe was not the cause but a theatrical prop, the final drop that would overflow the bowl of his self-satisfaction and destroy him publicly. They agreed on everything: the place, the time, each one’s role.
Stanislav strode onto the stage with confident steps. He pulled prepared cards from his jacket’s inner pocket, cleared his throat, and approached the microphone. His throat tickled.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Colleagues, friends!” he began, but his voice sounded oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat again. “First, I want to thank… Ahem… No. I’ll start with the main thing.”
He fell silent, and the hall hung in quiet. His eyes suddenly widened in horror. He tried to press his lips together, but they had a will of their own.
“I am a deceiver. A real one,” came his own voice, but the words were a complete surprise to him. “I’ve been lying to my wife for years. And I never loved her! Ahem… I married for money, for status…”
A deathly hush settled over the room. The host took a step forward to lead him off, but Stanislav, with a gesture that wasn’t his, stopped him.
“And the main thing is—I’m not ashamed!” he shouted, his face twisted in a grimace struggling to dam the torrent of truth. “And as I say this to you, dear friends, I’m still scanning the hall for women! Moreover, there are five—no, six—ladies present with whom I once had and still have romantic relations!”
He went on, savoring the dirtiest, most shameful details of his infidelities, his schemes at work, his contemptuous remarks about his partners. The hall froze in shocked stupor, then erupted in a rumble of indignation, gasps, and whistles.
Standing off to the side, the two women watched the collapse.
“Well? Satisfied?” Vlada asked softly, and there was no joy in her voice, only weary relief.
“Disgraced and brought low. It seems almost too much,” Olga lowered her eyes. There was no elation in her soul either—only emptiness. “But something’s missing. Some final full stop.”
“Champagne, ladies?” A quick-footed waitress suddenly appeared with a tray full of crystal flutes of the sparkling drink.
Vlada and Olga exchanged a glance. For the first time that evening, real, unforced smiles touched their faces.
“Yes!” they said in unison. “That’s exactly what we were missing!”
They each took a glass, clinked brightly, and took a sip while watching the thoroughly destroyed Stanislav finally fall silent under the crowd’s angry murmur. The gypsy recipe had worked. But the strongest magic in it wasn’t the power of the herbs—it was the cold fury and shared pain of two deceived women who found the strength to unite against a common liar.
