My husband quietly transferred everything to his mistress. He had no idea his accountant wife had been preparing a surprise for him for ten years.
“Everything’s been transferred. Nothing belongs to us anymore.”
Igor tossed out the phrase as carelessly as he used to toss his car keys onto the hall stand. He didn’t even glance my way as he tightened an expensive tie—my gift from our last anniversary.
I froze with a plate in my hands. Not from shock. From a strange, hollow premonition, like the tremor of a taut string.
Ten years. Ten long years I’d been waiting for something like this. Ten years I, like a spider, wove this web at the very heart of his business, weaving the threads of my revenge into boring financial reports.
“What exactly is ‘everything,’ Igor?” My voice was even, steady. I slowly set the plate on the table. The porcelain gave a soft clink against the oak tabletop.
He finally turned. Poorly concealed triumph and a flicker of irritation at my icy calm swirled in his eyes. He expected tears, hysteria, curses. I had no intention of giving him that pleasure.
“The house, the business, all the accounts. All the assets, Natasha,” he said with relish. “I’m starting a new life. From a clean slate.”
“With Marina?”
His face went stone for a split second. He hadn’t thought I knew. Men are so naive. They truly believe the woman who balances debits and credits in their multimillion-dollar company won’t notice the regular “representational expenses” that equal a top manager’s annual salary.
“None of your business,” he snapped. “I’ll leave you your car. And I’ll rent you an apartment for a couple of months until you get settled. I’m not a monster.”
He smiled magnanimously—the smile of a well-fed predator certain he has driven his prey into a corner.
I walked slowly to the table, sat down, and folded my hands.
“So everything we built over fifteen years—you just gifted it to another woman?”
“This is business, Natasha, you wouldn’t understand!” he began to boil, red blotches blooming on his face. “It’s an investment in my future! In my peace!”
His. Not ours. He crossed me out of the equation so easily.
“I understand,” I nodded. “I’m an accountant, remember? I know investments. Especially high-risk ones.”
I looked at him, and I felt neither pain nor resentment. Only cold, crystal-clear calculation.
He didn’t know I’d been preparing my own surprise for him for ten years. Since the first time I found the message on his phone: “I’m waiting for you, kitten.” I didn’t make a scene then.
I simply opened a new file on my work computer and titled it “Reserve Fund.”
“Did you sign a deed of gift for your share in the authorized capital?” I asked in a businesslike tone, as if we were discussing a quarterly bonus.
“Why do you care?!” he barked. “It’s over! Pack your things!”
“Just curious,” I smiled faintly. “You remember that additional clause in the charter we added in twelve? When we expanded the business.”
“The one about alienating assets to third parties without a notarized consent from all founders?”
Igor froze. His smug smile slowly slid off his face. He didn’t remember.
He never read the papers I slipped him to sign. “Natasha, what is it, everything clean? Hand it here, I’ll sign.”
He signed everything, certain of my blind devotion. And he was right. I was devoted—down to the last comma.
“What nonsense are you spouting?!” he laughed nervously, but the laugh came out hoarse. “What clause? We never added anything like that.”
“We is you and me. Founders of Horizon LLC. Fifty–fifty. Clause 7.4, subparagraph ‘b.’ Any transaction transferring a share—sale or gift—is null and void without the written, notarized consent of the second founder.”
“Which would be mine. I insisted on that clause, remember? I said it would protect us from a hostile takeover. You laughed and called me paranoid.”
I spoke evenly, almost lazily, as if explaining multiplication to a first-grader. Each word fell into the void of his incomprehension.
“You’re lying!” He snatched up his phone, fingers darting over the screen. “I’ll call Sergey right now!”
“Call him,” I shrugged. “Sergey Ivanovich notarized that edition of the charter. He definitely has a copy in his archive.”
Igor’s face lengthened. He understood I wasn’t bluffing. Sergey Ivanovich had been our lawyer since the day the firm was founded. And his loyalty was not to Igor, but to the letter of the contract.
Igor dialed anyway. I caught snatches of phrases: “Sergey, it’s Igor… Natasha says… the 2012 charter… the clause about alienation…”
He moved to the window, turning his back to me. His shoulders tensed. The conversation didn’t last long.
When he turned around, rage and bewilderment were splashing in his eyes.
“This is a mistake! It’s illegal! I’ll sue you!”
“Go ahead,” I replied calmly. “Just note: on paper your deed of gift is a worthless scrap. But an attempt by a company director to siphon off assets—that’s criminal.”
He dropped heavily into a chair. The predator’s grandeur evaporated.
“What do you want, Natasha?” he hissed. “Money? How much do you need? I’ll pay you off!”
“I don’t need your hush money, Igor. I need what’s mine by right. My fifty percent. And you—you’ll be left with what you had when you came to me fifteen years ago. A suitcase and a pile of debts.”
“I won’t give you the company! I created it!”
“You were its face,” I corrected him. “I was the one who built it. Every contract, every return. While you were ‘working’ at your business meetings.”
He sprang up sharply, knocking over the chair.
“You’ll regret this, Natasha! I’ll destroy you!”
“Before you destroy me, call your Marina,” my voice was quiet, but steel rang in it. “And ask if she received the notice of early loan repayment.”
Igor froze.
