— Come on, Anya, you’re like a child. My money is mine. Yours is yours. Totally fair, — Dima leaned back on the sofa and laughed loud and heartily.
That laugh, which a year ago had seemed genuine and infectious, now clanged in my ears like cheap metal.
He looked down at me, and in his eyes sloshed a 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 beside him.
— I just thought that since the fridge 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 — don’t look up and don’t let him see the cold fury slowly rising from the bottom of my soul.
— What makes sense is when everyone counts on themselves. Do I support you? No. Do I cover the rent and utilities? Yes. And you should say thank you for that. As for a fridge — sorry, that’s a luxury. The old one still works.
He said it as if he’d tossed me a gnawed bone.
The old fridge, 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, and not my resources. Live on your own money. Not a kopeck from me. We’ll see what he’s made of.”
Father was angry about our hasty wedding. He thought Dima was after a dowry. To prove him wrong, I agreed to the experiment.
I even took back my mother’s surname so there’d be no associations at work. For Dima, it became a tale about how a rich father had “cut off the inheritance” of his unruly daughter.
What he was “made of” turned out 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 relent. Then he realized there would be no money.
And the mask began to slip. First the flowers disappeared. Then he’d “forget” his wallet at restaurants. And now we had separate budgets — where his budget was his alone, and mine was “shared.”
— Alright, don’t sulk, — he came over and casually ruffled my hair like a dog. — Earn it and buy it. You’re a smart girl. You try hard.
I slowly raised my eyes to him. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt in his gaze.
Only the certainty of a man in charge, who earns well and who “got lucky” marrying a beautiful woman who is, in his mind, absolutely useless financially.
He didn’t know that my “trying hard” was at a company owned by my father.
He didn’t know that the key project for which he was expecting a huge bonus had been developed and executed by me from start to finish.
And he certainly didn’t know that tomorrow at ten a.m. he’d be called on the carpet — not for a promotion.
— Yes, darling, — I forced myself to smile my most docile smile. — You’re right. Of course you’re right.
That evening he came home with shining eyes. He tossed a folder with a car dealership logo onto the table.
— Look what beauty I picked out! — he eagerly unfolded a glossy brochure. A predatory profile of an expensive SUV stared up at me from the page.
— I’ll take it on credit, of course. But with my salary it’s nothing. I’ll make the down payment with the bonus for Project “Horizon.” They’re cutting it any day now.
He spoke quickly, excitedly, not noticing how my face had gone still.
“Horizon.” My project. My sleepless nights, my calculations, my negotiations. Dima was only the nominal lead who signed my reports and presented them prettily at meetings.
— You’re buying a car? — my voice sounded muffled, like from underwater. — But… you said we had to economize. That our “financial cushion” was still too thin.
He tore himself away from the brochure and looked at me with genuine puzzlement, as if I’d said something stupid.
— Anya, you’re mixing things up again. “We” — that’s when it’s about your spending. I’m not asking you for money, am I? I earn, I spend. It’s a motivator, you get it?
Motivation. A man has to grow, strive. And you hold me back with your petty household problems.
He’d been using that trick — “you’re holding me back” — more and more. Any request of mine, any attempt to discuss common plans, ran into that wall. I, with my problems, was hindering 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, confident, belittling.
— A mortgage? With your salary? Anya, don’t make me laugh. To save for a mortgage you have to earn, not get pennies for shuffling papers.
Once I become commercial director, then we’ll talk. For now — be happy for your husband. Your husband will soon be driving a cool car. That should please you.
He came over and hugged my shoulders, pulling me to him. He smelled of expensive cologne and success. False, stolen success.
— Speaking of director, — he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. — Tomorrow I’ve got a meeting with the general director. Looks like the ice has broken. The old man finally appreciated my talents.
My heart skipped a beat. The general director. My father.
I pulled away so he wouldn’t feel my whole body tense.
— That’s… that’s wonderful, darling! — I forced out an enthusiastic smile.
— You bet! — he beamed. — So tomorrow decides everything. Wish me luck.
He went to bed almost at once, utterly happy and certain of his future. I sat in the kitchen for a long time, staring into the dark window.
The old fridge’s humming sounded like a countdown. A countdown to his fall. And I wasn’t about to wish him luck. I was going to enjoy the show.
The morning was soaked in his self-satisfaction. He whistled as he chose the most expensive tie. I silently handed him coffee, playing the role of the devoted wife.
— Gotta look like a million, — he muttered, inspecting himself critically in the mirror.
My eyes fell on a new dress hanging on the wardrobe door. Simple linen, but I’d saved three months from my “pennies-for-a-salary” to buy it.
It was my small victory, a symbol that I still existed separate from him.
Dima noticed it too. He came over and pinched the fabric between two fingers, with disgust.
— What’s this country-chic nonsense?
— It’s my new dress, — I said quietly.
— Of course it’s yours. You bought what you could afford. Anya, listen, — he turned to me, his face suddenly 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 an important man. This is shameful.
He talked while I looked at the dress. At my small, hard-won joy he’d just ground into the dirt.
And then came the last straw. Smoothing a crease on his perfectly white shirt, he casually hung it on that same door.
And the hot iron, which he’d left for a second on the ironing board, slipped straight onto my dress.
There was a hiss. An ugly brown mark spread, burning through the fabric.
Dima looked at the hole, then at me. There was no regret or guilt in his eyes. Only annoyance.
— See? It got rid of that eyesore by itself, — he smirked. — Alright, don’t cry. You’ll buy 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 break. A year of humiliation, pretending, hoping. All of it burned up with the dress.
— You’re right, — my voice sounded strangely calm and firm. — Time to get rid of the eyesore.
He didn’t get it. He heard only submission in the words, not the meaning. He nodded condescendingly, grabbed his briefcase and, pecking me on the cheek, left. Left for the meeting that, as 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 when I graduated. The one Dima had never seen.
I got to work an hour early. I walked past my desk in the open office, past my colleagues’ surprised looks, and headed straight down the corridor. To the corner office with the plaque: “Head of Sales. Sokolov D.A.”
The secretary looked up at me.
— Anna, where are you going? Dmitry Alexeyevich isn’t in yet.
I smiled at her.
— I know. I’m going to my new place. Would you bring me a coffee? And please have the plaque changed. My surname is Orlova.
At exactly ten o’clock the door flew open. Dima walked in. Radiant, confident, 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’ve got a meeting with the general director.
— I know, — I replied calmly, taking a sip of coffee. — I do too.
At that moment my father walked into the office. Dima turned, and his face went slack. He recognized the general director, but couldn’t understand what he was doing here with me.
— Pavel Andreyevich! Good morning! We were just… — he began to toady.
— Morning, Dmitry, — my father went around him, came to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. — I see you’ve already met your new supervisor. Anna Pavlovna Orlova.
Dima’s face turned into a mask. Disbelief, shock, panic — it all 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?
— It’s not a circus, Dima. It’s my real surname, — I stood up, feeling a cool calm spread through me. — And Pavel Andreyevich is my father.
Dima’s pupils dilated. He swayed as if struck.
— Your father?… But you… you said…
— I said my father didn’t want to deal with me. And that was true. He didn’t want to deal with a woman who lets herself be humiliated. He was waiting for me to figure it out on my own. Well, I have.
He looked at me, and it finally began to sink in. The car on credit. The bonus he’d claimed for himself. His words about “pennies” and “cheap rags.”
— Anechka… kitten… this is a misunderstanding! — he took a step toward me, reaching out his hands. His voice had turned whiny, ingratiating. — I love you! I do everything for you!
— You do everything for yourself, Dima, — I cut him off. — You set the rules. Your money is yours. Mine is mine.
So. My company. My office. And my decision. You’re fired. For cause. For the systematic appropriation of others’ achievements and intellectual work. All materials for Project “Horizon” are with me.
He froze.
— Fired?… You can’t…
— I can. And don’t worry about the car. You won’t be getting the bonus, as you understand. So the loan won’t be approved.
My father watched the scene in silence, and I saw approval in his eyes.
— And one more thing, — I added, looking him straight in the eye. — You can pick up your things from the apartment today by evening. Leave the keys with the concierge. My lawyer will contact you about the divorce papers.
He stared at me like I was a monster. All his affected confidence had fallen away; what remained was a petty, greedy, terrified little man.
— But… what about… we’re a family!
— We never were a family, Dima. You had a convenient project. And it’s closed. All metrics failed.
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 away in the apartment, I opened my laptop.
I went to an appliance store’s 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.
