Alyona stood in the middle of the kitchen holding the divorce papers. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from indignation. Stepan was sprawled at the table, lounging in his chair with the air of a man who owned the universe.
“Out of your apartment?” she repeated, trying to stay calm. “Stepan, this is my apartment. I bought it before we got married.”
“DON’T MAKE ME LAUGH!” he barked, slamming his fist on the table. “We’ve lived here seven years! Seven years I invested in this home! And now you’ve decided to kick me out? NOT A CHANCE!”
Alyona slowly set the papers on the table. Outside, the spring sun was shining, but the kitchen felt ice-cold—the chill of a relationship dying.
“Invested?” she said quietly. “In seven years you haven’t paid the utilities even once. Not once have you bought groceries with your salary. You always had excuses—wrong job, terrible boss, jealous coworkers…”
“ENOUGH!” Stepan shot up from his chair. “I created comfort here! I was the backbone of this family!”
“The backbone?” Alyona gave a humorless smirk. “You lay on the couch and gave orders. ‘Alyona, bring this.’ ‘Alyona, cook.’ ‘Alyona, why do you earn so little?’ And you? What did you do all these years—besides humiliating me in front of friends and relatives?”
She remembered his mother’s last birthday. In front of everyone, Stepan announced that his wife was a worthless failure who couldn’t give him an heir—forgetting to mention it was him who refused to have children, saying he wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility.
“You’re NOTHING without me!” Stepan roared. “Who needs you at thirty-five? An aging career woman who only thinks about work!”
Alyona worked as the chief technologist at a confectionery factory. It had been her dream since childhood—to create new flavors, experiment with recipes. But for Stepan, her job was always something to mock. “My wife kneads dough,” he would say to his friends with a contemptuous grin.
“You know what, Stepan?” Alyona straightened up. “Yes, I do think about work. Because my work has fed both of us for years. And your grand projects have stayed exactly that—talk.”
“DON’T YOU DARE!” He stepped toward her, but Alyona didn’t back away.
“Remember your ‘genius’ plan to breed exotic fish? I gave you five hundred thousand. Where is it? And your party-planning agency? Another three hundred thousand. And what came of it? Oh right—competitors were to blame, the economy was to blame, the stars were aligned wrong—everyone except you!”
Stepan turned purple. He wasn’t used to his wife talking back. All those years Alyona had stayed silent, endured, hoped he would change. But today something broke. Maybe the final straw was yesterday’s scene—when, in front of her colleagues, he claimed he was the one supporting his wife, and that she worked “just for show” out of gratitude.
“GET OUT!” he screamed. “This is MY home! I’m the boss here! And you’re NOBODY!”
“The boss?” Alyona pulled documents from the folder. “Here’s the certificate of ownership. See the name? Alyona Sergeyevna Mitrofanova. The apartment was purchased two years before our wedding. Here are the bank statements—the mortgage was paid from my account. Here are the utility receipts—all in my name.”
Stepan snatched the papers and started tearing them.
“That’s what I think of your little documents!”
Alyona calmly took out her phone.
“Those are copies. The originals are stored separately. And one more thing, Stepan. Do you remember Marina Kozlova?”
He froze. Marina had been his mistress for the last two years. He thought his wife didn’t know.
“She’s pregnant,” Alyona continued. “With your child. And she’s demanding child support. By the way, her husband knows too. Igor Kozlov—if you forgot. The owner of the construction company where you’ve been dreaming of working.”
“How do you…”
“Female solidarity,” Alyona shrugged. “Marina came to me a month ago. She cried, apologized. Said you promised to marry her as soon as you divorced. Promised her mountains of gold. Familiar story, isn’t it?”
Stepan sank back into his chair. His swagger evaporated like morning fog.
“Alyona, let’s talk…”
“NO,” she cut him off. “For seven years I listened to your talking. Seven years I believed your promises. Seven years I endured humiliation. ENOUGH.”
“But where am I supposed to go?” he whined.
“To your mother’s,” Alyona suggested. “She always said you deserved better. Let her enjoy the company of her genius son.”
“You can’t kick me out! By law—”
“By law, you aren’t registered in this apartment. You refused to do it, remember? Said you didn’t need it, that we were one family. So legally you’re a guest here. An unwanted guest.”
The doorbell rang. Alyona went to open it. Two men in security uniforms stood there, along with a young woman holding a folder.
“Alyona Sergeyevna?” the woman confirmed. “I’m Victoria Pavlova, your attorney. These are the agency employees—they’ll help Mr. Maltsev pack his personal belongings.”
“What belongings?” Stepan exploded, rushing into the hallway. “THIS IS MY HOME!”
“Stepan Igorevich,” Victoria said calmly. “You have two hours to collect your personal items. The list of what belongs to you was compiled based on your own declarations over the past years. As you can see, it’s not long.”
She handed him a sheet. Stepan ripped it from her hands. The list read: clothes, a laptop (Alyona’s birthday gift), several books, and a collection of computer-game discs.
“And the furniture? The appliances?” he protested.
“Everything was purchased by Alyona Sergeyevna. There are receipts and warranty documents,” the attorney replied evenly. “By the way, the car is registered in her name as well.”
“Alyona!” Stepan lunged toward his wife. “You can’t do this! We’ve been together for years!”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Seven wasted years. Seven years I tried to build a family with a man who saw me as free domestic help and a source of income.”
“I LOVED YOU!”
“No,” Alyona shook her head. “You loved what I did for you. You loved the comfort I created. You loved the money I earned. But you didn’t love me. Otherwise you wouldn’t have humiliated me every chance you got.”
The guards politely but firmly escorted Stepan into the bedroom. An hour later he came out with two suitcases and a duffel bag. His face was gray, his eyes lost.
“Alyona, please… give me one more chance…”
“Stepan,” she looked him straight in the eye. “You had countless chances. Every day for seven years. You didn’t use them.”
“But how… where will I live?”
“That’s not my problem anymore,” she said sharply. “And by the way, Marina said she’s waiting for you. She’s got a room free now—Igor moved in with his parents. Temporarily, while he files for divorce.”
Stepan opened his mouth, but no words came. For the first time in his life, he had no excuses and no accusations.
“And one more thing,” Alyona added. “Your mom called. I told her about Marina and the baby. She was thrilled she’ll be a grandmother. Правда, about financial help she said her pension is small. But she’s ready to share plenty of advice on parenting.”
The guards discreetly ushered Stepan out the door. He still tried shouting in the hallway, but Alyona closed the door and turned the lock.
Victoria smiled.
“The divorce papers will be ready in a month. He won’t be able to make any property claims—there was no prenuptial agreement, and everything was acquired by you before the marriage or bought with your documented funds.”
“Thank you,” Alyona said, shaking her attorney’s hand.
When the door closed behind Victoria, Alyona returned to the kitchen and sat down at the table—the same one where Stepan had been sitting an hour earlier, convinced he ruled her life.
She brewed her favorite jasmine green tea—Stepan hated the smell and forbade her to buy it. She took strawberries from the fridge—he said they were expensive and pointless. She turned on classical music—he called it boring nonsense for old people.
Her phone buzzed. A text from her friend Katya: “How are you? Did everything go okay?”
“Yes,” Alyona typed. “I’M FREE.”
The next message was from her boss: “Alyona Sergeyevna, reminder about tomorrow’s trip to Switzerland for the confectionery exhibition. I sent the tickets and hotel booking to your email.”
Switzerland… She had dreamed of going, but Stepan always found reasons to cancel. Too expensive, she’d be lost without him, and anyway—why did she need “those foreign countries”?
Another message. An unknown number. Alyona opened it.
“Hello, Alyona! This is Mikhail Orlov—we met at the food technologists’ conference last year. I heard you’re going to Zurich. I’ll be there with a new organic chocolate production project. If you have time, I’d be glad to meet and discuss possible cooperation.”
Mikhail… she remembered him: intelligent, passionate about his work. They’d had a great conversation then, but Stepan had thrown a jealous fit and she cut off contact.
Alyona smiled and typed back: “Hello, Mikhail! I’d be happy to meet. I arrive tomorrow evening.”
Outside, the sun was setting, filling the kitchen with warm golden light. Alyona stood and went to the window. Down in the courtyard she saw Stepan—standing by Marina’s car, an old red Mazda. Marina was angrily lecturing him, and he nodded meekly.
“Now it’s his turn to listen to complaints,” Alyona thought—not with malice, but with a quiet sadness for the time she’d lost.
The phone rang. Mom.
“Alyonushka,” her mother’s anxious voice said. “Stepan called me—he says you threw him out…”
“Mom, I filed for divorce. And I asked him to move out of MY apartment.”
“But sweetheart… you have to protect the family…”
“Mom,” Alyona said firmly. “A family is where you’re loved and respected. Not where you’re humiliated and used. I’ve made my decision.”
A pause. Then her mother sighed.
“Well… maybe it’s for the best. Come over this weekend, we’ll sit and talk. I’ll bake your favorite cherry pies.”
“I will, Mom. After Switzerland.”
“Switzerland?” her mother sounded surprised.
“Yes. A business trip. I’m going to the exhibition—and maybe there’ll be a new, interesting project after that.”
“Good,” warmth entered her mother’s voice. “It’s high time you saw the world. And Stepan… God will judge him.”
They said goodbye. Alyona went into the bedroom—the same one where she’d woken up that morning with a heavy heart, knowing she couldn’t live like that anymore. The room looked emptier without Stepan’s things, but it was a pleasant emptiness—space that could be filled with something new and bright.
On the nightstand lay a photo from their wedding. Young Alyona looked into the camera with hope and love. Stepan beside her—handsome, confident. It seemed like a happy life awaited them.
“It didn’t turn out the way I dreamed,” she thought, putting the photo into a drawer. “But this isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.”
She took out a suitcase and started packing for her trip. Business suits, comfortable shoes, an evening dress—the emerald one Stepan called vulgar. But in it, she felt good and confident.
The next morning Alyona stood in the airport—light, almost weightless, back straight and eyes shining. Her colleagues exchanged surprised glances: usually quiet and unnoticeable, Alyona Sergeyevna seemed to glow from within.
“You look amazing!” the young intern Lena said.
“Thank you,” Alyona smiled. “I’ve simply finally started to LIVE.”
On the plane she took a window seat. Clouds drifted below like whipped cream. Alyona pulled out her notebook and began writing down ideas for new recipes. Swiss chocolate, Alpine herbs, mountain honey—so many possibilities for creativity!
Her phone was in airplane mode, but she noticed a message that had arrived before takeoff. From Stepan: “Alyona, I understand my mistakes. Let’s start over. Marina was a misunderstanding. I only love you.”
She deleted it without regret. Some bridges need to be burned so you won’t be tempted to go back.
And a month later…
Stepan sat in a tiny room in Marina’s apartment. Her hysterics about money, doctors, and his irresponsibility had become a daily routine. He still hadn’t found a job—without Alyona’s connections and recommendations, nobody wanted him. His mother refused to help, citing a bad heart and a small pension.
And Alyona, meanwhile, was signing a contract to develop a new line of premium chocolates for a Swiss company. Mikhail turned out to be not only a great business partner, but an interesting person. They walked around Zurich a lot, talking not only about chocolate, but also books, music, and travel.
“It’s amazing that such a talented woman stayed in the shadows for so long,” he said once over dinner.
“I put myself there,” Alyona answered honestly. “But I will NOT let anyone dim my light ever again.”
And she kept her word. A year later, her signature chocolates won a gold medal at an international exhibition. At the award ceremony she stood on stage—confident, successful, happy.
In the audience, Mikhail sat and smiled proudly. They didn’t rush into a relationship, but both knew: this was something real, built on mutual respect and shared interests.
And somewhere in another city, Stepan once again listened to Marina and her mother’s reproaches, dreaming of the times when he had a home where he was waited for, loved, and forgiven for all his antics. But those days were gone forever. Just like Alyona—the woman he never learned to value
