The door clicked softly in the lock, and Veronika stepped across the threshold of her apartment, feeling the sweet heaviness of exhaustion spread through her body. The day had been unbelievably long, crammed with notebooks, consultations, and endless school meetings. She longed for silence, for a cup of hot tea, for a soft couch where she could dissolve and forget all worries. But the moment she entered the hallway, her ears caught a strange, alien sound—carefree, rolling laughter coming from deep inside the apartment. It was a bizarre duet—a low, painfully familiar male baritone and a silvery, melodic female laugh.
For some reason, Veronika’s heart froze, then pounded so hard the ringing echoed in her temples. Her eyes instinctively dropped, and she noticed a peculiar pair of shoes neatly placed beside her husband Arseniy’s expensive dress shoes. They were elegant, snow-white sneakers—clearly small-sized, the latest model from a famous brand. Veronika, who always recognized quality, instantly grasped their cost. They screamed of an intruder—a young, brazen presence in her fortress, her only safe place.
Her feet carried her forward on their own, along the familiar path into the large living room. The laughter grew louder and clearer, spilling from behind the bedroom door. Moving as if in a dream, Veronika approached and pushed the heavy oak door ever so lightly. It swung open soundlessly, revealing a scene that seared itself into her memory forever, burning her vision with scalding shame and pain.
On their bed, on her side of it, sat Arseniy. Pressed against his shoulder was a young woman—unknown to Veronika, but dazzlingly beautiful. They were bent over his phone, laughing with such abandon, so wholly absorbed, that they didn’t even notice the mistress of the house enter. They were in their own universe, walled off by shared amusement, and Veronika stood outside of it—an outsider, unwanted, forgotten.
Her throat was crushed by an invisible iron band. With superhuman effort, she steadied her voice to keep it from breaking into a scream.
“Good evening,” she said softly, but with icy, steely clarity. Both jolted like springs and turned sharply. The girl instinctively grabbed the blanket, pulling it up to cover herself. “I wonder—what’s so funny? Care to share? Show me too.”
“Veronika?!” Arseniy exhaled, his face frozen in a mask of absolute, primal horror. His usual composure, his self-assurance, evaporated in an instant. “You… you were supposed to be at work for at least another hour!”
“So were you,” she countered, her words hanging in the air, sharp and cutting like shards of glass. Arseniy flushed; his gaze dropped helplessly to the parquet, as though searching for answers in its patterns. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. The word sounded so pitiful, so worthless, it became the last straw.
“Tell your…” Veronika paused, forcefully pushing back the avalanche of filthy, insulting words. “…tell your companion to get dressed and leave immediately. And you—pack your things and go with her.”
She turned and walked out without looking back. Her legs felt like cotton, her whole body trembling with a fine, treacherous shake. In the kitchen she clutched the counter, trying to steady herself as nausea and crushing weakness overwhelmed her. Thoughts spun in a chaotic storm: Arseniy. Traitor. Liar. It’s over. I can’t live with him after this. Never. Divorce. But what will I tell Misha? My son… What can I say? He’s grown, with his own family, his wife, his little daughter. He’ll understand without words. He’ll support me. Oh God, Lilia was right—she told me a thousand times that my husband was dishonorable, that he strayed. And I… I defended him, got angry with her, thought she envied our happiness…
The girl darted past the kitchen like a frightened mouse, and moments later the front door clicked shut. Arseniy returned, froze in the doorway, tense, guilt radiating from every line of his body.
“Veronika, forgive me, I beg you,” his voice cracked, hoarse and pleading. “This… this is the first time, I swear! The very first, and it went so stupidly… Please, I love only you, you know that! She came on to me, she started everything, I couldn’t resist, I was weak, I’m guilty, I’m a fool… Forgive me, please!”
“Pack your things and leave,” her voice was steady, cold, unyielding. “I can’t stand to see you. I don’t want to. Tomorrow I’ll file for divorce. I’m waiting. Go.”
Arseniy suddenly dropped to his knees, clutching her cold, motionless hands in his hot, trembling palms.
“Please forgive me! I’ll never do it again—never! What will I do without you? I’ll be lost!”
“Leave,” she repeated with the same icy finality. “Now.”
Arseniy knew his Veronika. In matters of honor, dignity, betrayal—she was immovable. He rose, lingered a moment, still hoping for a miracle. None came. His shoulders collapsed. Without another word, he left. Fifteen minutes later, the rasp of a zipper closing a suitcase echoed from the bedroom. Then the front door slammed.
Only when that sound—the sound of her former life ending—resonated through the empty apartment did Veronika allow herself to collapse onto a chair and sob. Bitter, searing, endless tears. She didn’t want him to see her cry. She didn’t want him thinking she was weak, that he had broken her. Let him think I don’t care. Let him believe I won’t shed a tear for him. What a scoundrel. What a vile man! No, I will never forgive. Never. I know it will be unbearably painful, because I still love this man. But I am strong. I will survive. Forgive—I cannot. Of course, starting over at forty-six, getting used to solitude, to silence… But that is a million times better than sharing life and bed with a traitor I saw with my own eyes. That picture I’ll never forget. Never…
Veronika taught physics at school. Work was her only refuge, her outlet. She loved the eternal, lively buzz of school life, the atmosphere of youth in constant motion. She enjoyed talking with her students—she respected their individuality, and they responded in kind. Her relationship with colleagues was calm and steady. Her best friend, Lilia, an elementary school teacher, also supervised after-school programs.
They had been friends for almost twenty years, since the very beginning of their teaching careers. Lilia, whose grown children already had their own families, had often, almost casually, told Veronika she had seen Arseniy in town with young, attractive women—at shopping centers, leaving fancy cafés, in the park. But Veronika had always brushed it off: “Lilia, he has business, endless meetings, negotiations. He tells me himself.” And when asked, “Why not in the office, but in a café?”—Arseniy always calmly replied: “Informal settings are needed to disarm competitors, to relax partners.”
Now she understood. Those weren’t business meetings. That was cheap flirting, systematic, cynical betrayal. Nothing could convince her otherwise—she had seen it with her own eyes.
After calming down, she took a sedative and dialed Lilia’s number.
“Lilia, you were right,” she whispered, her voice trembling again.
“About what, darling?” her friend asked, worried.
“About everything. My husband is a lying womanizer and a traitor. Today I caught him in our bedroom with some… girl. I threw him out. I know the apartment is joint property, but I’ll file for divorce. He won’t leave it to me—I’ll have to split.”
“Oh, Veron, maybe you should forgive him?” Lilia said carefully. “You’re kind, gentle… What if he just stumbled? Maybe things can still be fixed?”
“No, my friend, they can’t. I know my worth too. I’m no less than him. Divorce only.”
The divorce was hell. Arseniy, despite his wealth, clung to every little thing, every spoon in the house. He threatened to leave her penniless, boasted of his connections, his standing in the city. He could have bought three more apartments like theirs, yet he hoped Veronika would be frightened, would back down, unwilling to face life alone on a teacher’s salary. But he underestimated her.
Then their son Misha stepped in. The conversation was stern, heated.
“Father, leave Mother alone. Let her keep the apartment. Be a man, finally. If you want money for your half—I’ll pay you. I earn enough. I’ll give you every penny, but I won’t let you humiliate and hurt her. She doesn’t deserve it. I’ll stand by her.”
Arseniy was silent, then sighed heavily.
“Yes, son… Your mother and I raised you into a real man. I understand everything myself… I just can’t accept that she… tossed me out like that. That she doesn’t need me anymore. Maybe you can talk to her? Convince her?”
“No, Dad. She said she won’t forgive. You know her—she doesn’t change her mind. I’m terribly sorry it turned out this way. I love you both equally. But now we’ll all have to adjust to this new life.”
Three long, hard years passed. Through acquaintances, Veronika learned Arseniy had married that same young woman. Veronika lived alone, worked, relearned the silence of her apartment. Then one day, gathering her courage, she bought a voucher and went to the sea—to a resort on the Black Sea, near Sochi.
For the first two days, she simply basked in the sun and sea, savoring the unfamiliar sense of absolute freedom. She returned from the beach tanned, tired, filled with the sound of waves. On the third evening, wanting a change, she strolled along the promenade. The air was warm, thick with the scent of the sea and blooming plants. Breathing it in deeply, her heart slowly began to thaw.
She soon spotted a cozy open café with a view of the water. Settling at a table by the parapet, she ordered a cherry ale and gazed at the waves rolling against the rocks, lit by the glow of old lanterns.
“You’re clearly not a local,” came a pleasant, velvety male voice nearby.
Veronika turned. A man stood there, elegantly dressed in a light linen shirt and dark trousers. His smile was open, and for some reason immediately inspired trust.
“And why do you think so?” she smiled back.
“Locals rarely sit here alone. Usually in noisy groups. And your eyes… they have a kind of thoughtful depth, not typical for a carefree resort. May I join you? I’ve no one to share a coffee with.”
His voice flowed softly, enveloping. Veronika nodded, inviting him to sit. He noticed her glass.
“I see you have flawless taste. That’s the best cherry ale on the coast,” he remarked.
“Honestly, that’s not my credit,” she laughed. “The waiter recommended it.”
They began to talk. He introduced himself as Igor. He told her he worked remotely as a programmer, was forty-eight, divorced for four years, never found another partner.
“At our age, one doesn’t dive headfirst anymore,” he said, and Veronika couldn’t help watching his well-shaped lips, the dimple on his chin that appeared when he smiled. “You approach everything consciously, deliberately. I rarely go out, and now I realize how lucky I am I did today—and met you.”
It turned out Igor was passionate about antiques and art—things that had always fascinated Veronika too. She was delighted to discover they had much to talk about. He even offered to take her to a unique little antique shop known only to locals.
After the café, they strolled the promenade. Later, Igor walked her all the way back to the resort. Time flew unnoticed. Both felt invigorated, enchanted with each other. They exchanged numbers.
“Thank you for this wonderful evening,” Igor said sincerely. “May I suggest we meet tomorrow? I’ll pick you up, and we’ll see that antique shop.”
Buoyant, almost floating, Veronika went up to her room. Sleep eluded her—the encounter left too strong an impression. In the morning, Lilia called:
“Hi, dear! How’s your vacation? Aren’t you lonely?”
“Hi, darling!” Veronika’s voice rang. “The vacation is wonderful. And you know… I’m not alone anymore.”
It was the brightest, happiest love of her life. They spent every free minute together. They couldn’t get enough of talking, listening to each other. Every little detail of their lives became a subject of joyful discussion. They drove to local sights, went to cafés and movies, swam and sunbathed. One day he invited her to his home—a large two-story house outside the city, with a breathtaking sea view from huge panoramic windows.
Veronika adored it. The house was lovely, though it bore traces of neglect, the absence of a woman’s touch—something that stirred warmth and tenderness in her.
When her departure day came, Igor set a beautiful table in the cozy courtyard, took her hands, and looked straight into her eyes.
“Listen, Veronika… My vacation starts in two weeks. You’re leaving tomorrow, and I… I’m terrified to be without you. I’ve given you my heart. You are my person. I knew it that very first night in the café. I don’t want to let you go. I’m asking you… to be my wife. What do you say?”
Veronika froze—happy and overwhelmed at once. She, too, dreaded leaving this noble, genuine man. But they had only known each other ten days.
“Why are you silent, my dear?” Igor asked gently. “Do you think it’s too soon? That we don’t know each other well enough?”
She looked at him in surprise—he had read her thoughts again.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But I agree.”
Joy lit his face.
“Then choose: either you move in with me, or I move in with you. I work remotely, I can be anywhere. But I hope you’ll choose the first. Here’s the sea, the air, this house, the garden… Your loved ones can always visit—we’ll welcome them. During my vacation, I’ll come for you by car. You’ll settle your affairs, and you can work here, at the local school. Or, if you wish, not work at all… We’ll bring your things here. So? What do you think of my plan?” He looked at her with hope.
Veronika smiled with her new, radiant smile—the smile of someone who has found her harbor after a long voyage through stormy seas.
“Your plan, like everything you propose, is wonderful. I agree. We’re starting a new life.”
