I ran my finger over the cold steel of the keys in my pocket. Two brand-new, gleaming keys to an apartment Mark will never set foot in.
“Should I hang another shelf above the dresser, what do you think?” he asked without looking up from his laptop. “For my awards. They’re bringing me another one soon.”
I kept quiet and just nodded. Agreed. What difference does it make now how many shelves he hangs in this living room. In my new life, there won’t be any.
The last box stood by the door. Small, taped shut. Inside it—the remnants of me.
A photo album from university, a couple of favorite books, and a silly little owl figurine I bought on my first date with another man. Before Mark.
“You sorted out the junk, good job,” he finally tore his eyes from the screen and nodded at the box. “You can throw it out later.”
I nodded again. Of course. “I’ll throw it out.”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. He looked pleased, relaxed. A man who has everything under control.
“Listen, Lena, I’ve been thinking… The project I’m getting now is very serious. It’ll require total commitment.”
He talked about his job as if it were a sacred mission to save the world, not just another way to earn a newer car and a vacation farther away.
“I’ll need everything at home to be perfect. I want to come home and not have anything weighing on my mind.”
He stood, walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back. His posture radiated the confidence of an owner. Not just of this home, but of my life.
“That job of yours… at the gallery. It isn’t serious. Pennies, dust, and no status.”
He turned to me. His look wasn’t angry. No. It was patronizing—the way you look at a foolish child who’s gotten carried away with a silly game.
“I think you should quit.”
My fingers clenched the keys in my pocket so hard the sharp edges bit into my palm. I’d been waiting for this. I knew this conversation would happen sooner or later. He’d just handed me the perfect pretext. The final chord.
“Why?” I asked as calmly as I could.
He smiled condescendingly.
“Lena, we’re a team. Everything we do is for the common good. My career is our shared success, our future. And everyone has to invest according to their abilities.”
He paused, giving me time to absorb the “wisdom” of his words.
“You need to focus on what matters—creating comfort, being supportive. Your energy should serve the good of the family, not be scattered on nonsense.”
There it was. The phrase I’d been turning over in my head for months. The reason I’d been secretly saving money, looking for an apartment, and packing items one by one into a box labeled “For the dacha.”
I looked at his confident face. He didn’t even doubt I’d agree. That I’d meekly nod and submit my resignation tomorrow.
I simply picked up my last box from the floor.
“Where are you going?” he asked, surprised. “I haven’t finished.”
“I’ve heard everything,” I said, turning the front-door handle. “Thank you. You’ve helped me a lot.”
The door slammed behind me with a deafening click. I expected a shout, hurried footsteps, an attempt to stop me.
But nothing. He was probably still standing by the window, puzzled yet sure I’d be back in five minutes. Cool off and come back.
The new apartment smelled of paint and dust. Bare walls, my footsteps echoing, and a single box in the middle of an empty room. That’s exactly what freedom felt like—emptiness and the smell of renovation.
I sat down right on the floor, leaning my back against the cool wall. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Mark. I declined the call. It vibrated again. And again. Then the messages poured in.
“So you’ve decided to play the offended one? Come back, don’t be stupid.”
“Lena, I don’t have time for your hysterics. My project is on fire.”
“Where are you?”
I silenced the phone. Let it burn. The bridges behind me were already smoldering.
Half an hour later the phone rang again. This time I answered. I was curious what tactic he’d choose.
“Well, have you calmed down?” His voice was even, not hostile. That very “adult” tone he used to explain why I was wrong.
“I’m perfectly calm, Mark.”
“Great. Then call a taxi and come home. Let’s forget this circus.”
I smirked. Not out of malice—more out of fatigue.
“I’m already home.”
Silence on the other end. Not oppressive—analytical. He was calculating options.
“The address. I’ll come.”
“No need. We’ve nothing to talk about. I’ve filed for divorce. The documents will come by mail.”
I heard him exhale sharply. It seemed I’d finally managed to surprise him.
“Divorce? Are you out of your mind? Because I asked you to quit a job that’s getting in the way of our family? Lena, this is not serious. It’s infantile.”
“Maybe. But it’s my infantile decision.”
He switched tactics. Hard notes crept into his voice.
“Fine. Let’s talk like adults. What are you going to live on? Your three-kopeck salary? Renting that… hole? Do you even realize how much utilities cost?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Really?” a poisonous little laugh slipped out. “Are you aware that the loan I took to grow the business… for our future, as I thought… is in both our names?”
It was like a bucket of ice water. I knew about the loan, but he’d always said it was his personal responsibility.
“You said it was only on you.”
“I said what you needed to hear so you wouldn’t worry. So you wouldn’t meddle with your silly advice.
“And now that you’ve decided to play independence, half that debt is yours. Congratulations on adult life, Lena.”
He hung up.
I sat on the floor in the empty, echoing apartment. The smell of paint suddenly turned suffocating.
He hadn’t just tried to control me. He’d set traps ahead of time in case I ran. And I’d just fallen into the biggest one.
The first feeling was sticky, paralyzing fear. He’d won. He’d shoved me back into a cage, only this time the bars were made of numbers with lots of zeros.
I stayed on the floor for about an hour, I think. Then anger—cold and sharp as a shard of glass—pushed every other emotion out. Enough. Enough of being a victim.
The next day I was at a lawyer’s office.
A young woman with a sharp gaze studied the copy of the loan agreement I’d found in our shared cloud storage—the password to which Mark, in his arrogance, hadn’t even changed.
“Is this your signature?” she asked.
“Yes. He said it was a formality for the bank, something like a family guarantee. I believed him.”
“He registered it as an ‘earmarked’ loan for ‘expanding the family business,’” the lawyer tapped a line in the contract with her pen. “That’s good. It means the money had to go to specific purposes. Do you have access to his accounts?”
“No. But there’s a folder called ‘Reports’ in the same storage. He bragged that he had everything digitized.”
That evening, instead of unpacking my single box, I sat with a laptop I’d borrowed from a friend. I opened file after file. Invoices, receipts, transfers. Mark was meticulous, and that was his undoing.
Most of the loan money really did go to paying suppliers and renting a new office.
But three large transfers stood out. They were made to a sole proprietor named “Vasilyev.” There were no contracts with this SP in the reports.
I typed the name into a search engine. Ten minutes later I had everything I needed. Vasilyev turned out to be the owner of an elite country club.
The very one where Mark held his “business meetings,” coming home at dawn smelling of expensive alcohol and someone else’s perfume.
And I found a folder called “Archive,” protected by a password. The password was laughably simple: “MySuccess2024.”
And inside… Inside were photos. Mark, beaming with pride, standing in front of a brand-new boat. Purchase date—a week after receiving the loan. Of course there was no boat in his disclosures.
I called him myself.
“Come to the café by your office tomorrow. Noon. Bring the divorce papers.”
“I told you, no conversations until you come home and accept half of—”
“Noon, Mark,” I cut him off. Not a hint of pleading in my voice. “Otherwise I won’t go to a café—I’ll go to the economic crimes unit.
“With the reports on your ‘earmarked’ loan. And photos of your undeclared boat.”
A strange sound came from the other end, as if he’d choked on air.
He arrived at exactly twelve. Pale, one eyelid twitching. He silently set the signed papers on the table.
“Y-you’re not going to…”
“That depends on you,” I took the documents and checked his signature. Everything was in order. “You waive all financial claims against me. The loan is your problem. The divorce goes through peacefully.”
He jerkily nodded.
“And one more thing,” I said, rising from the table. “All your awards you wanted those shelves for… They’re worth nothing if the person living with you feels like an object.”
I turned and walked to the exit without looking back. I didn’t hear what he said or did. I didn’t care.
Back in my empty apartment, I opened the window for the first time. The paint smell aired out. In its place came fresh, cool air.
I took the silly owl figurine from the box and set it on the windowsill. It was the first object in my new home.
In my new life. And I knew that now I could fill it with anything I wanted—on my own terms.
Write what you think about this story! I would be very happy!
