Marina was wiping down the mirror in the manicure room when the last client of the day came into the salon. The woman had booked a haircut with Oksana. Marina stepped out, showed her where she could wait, and went back to cleaning. Friday—the end of the workweek. Tomorrow was a day off; she’d finally be able to rest.
Marina had opened her beauty salon right after marrying Sergey eight years ago. At first it was a tiny spot on the ground floor of a residential building—one specialist, two chairs, minimal equipment. Marina did manicures and pedicures herself, and sometimes brows. Sergey helped out: he drove supplies around, fixed broken furniture, and gave advice on advertising.
Then the business took off. Clients came back and brought their friends. Marina hired two more specialists. Then three more. She rented a larger space and bought new equipment. Now seven people worked at the salon, not counting Marina. They had twenty to thirty clients a day. The business brought in a steady income—good enough for a comfortable life. The Jasmine beauty salon had been operating reliably in its large space for six years.
The salon was registered in Marina’s name. That’s how it worked out from the start when they registered her as a sole proprietor. Sergey worked for a construction company and didn’t have time for paperwork. And there was no real point—Marina handled everything herself. She found suppliers, negotiated prices, hired staff, and kept the books. Her husband helped, but mostly morally—supported her when it was hard, celebrated her successes.
Over the past six months, Sergey had started staying late at work. He came home tired and late, saying there were lots of projects and constant deadlines. Then business trips appeared. Once every two or three weeks Sergey would leave for a couple of days to other cities—Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Yekaterinburg. Marina suspected nothing. He explained he was meeting contractors and inspecting sites.
They had also been discussing opening a second salon. The idea had been in the air for a long time. Jasmine was doing well—clients, money, everything was stable. They could expand. Sergey had even found a suitable space in another district. He showed photos, talked about the square footage and location. Marina agreed—why not? A second salon meant more income and more opportunities.
Last night Sergey came home with a thick folder of documents. He put it on the kitchen table where Marina was making tea.
“Contracts for the new salon,” he said, opening the folder. “You need to sign. There are a lot of pages, but it’s mostly technical stuff. I checked everything—everything’s fine.”
Marina took the folder and flipped through it. There really were a lot of pages. Small print. Legal terms. Usually she read documents like this carefully, but she was exhausted. It had been a hard day; her head was throbbing.
“I’ll sign tomorrow,” Marina said, setting the folder aside. “I want to study everything properly, not in a rush.”
Sergey frowned.
“Why put it off? The partners are waiting. The deadlines are tight. If we stall, we could lose the space.”
“Sergey, these are serious documents. I’m not signing without reading.”
He pressed his lips together. Marina noticed his shoulders tense.
“It’s all standard,” Sergey insisted. “Lease agreement, licenses, permits. I’m telling you, I checked it.”
“Then there won’t be a problem if I check too,” Marina stood up and picked up the folder. “Tomorrow I’ll read it calmly and sign.”
Sergey seemed like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He nodded, turned away, and went out onto the balcony to smoke—though he’d quit six months earlier.
In the morning Marina took the folder with her to the salon. She planned to go through the documents during her lunch break. But the day turned insane—three specialists called in sick at the same time, and she had to cover for them herself. By evening her hands ached, her eyes were heavy. Marina decided that tomorrow she would definitely show the papers to a lawyer—just to be safe. Elena Pavlovna, their regular attorney, always reviewed documents quickly and gave her opinion.
The salon closed at eight. Marina let the staff go home early, finished the last tasks herself, turned off the lights, and set the alarm. She stepped outside and breathed in the evening air. Cool, but pleasant. Home was nearby—about a fifteen-minute walk.
As she approached her building, Marina heard a familiar voice. Sergey. He was standing on the playground near the house, talking to someone. Marina wanted to call out to him, but stopped. Something in Sergey’s tone made her fall silent.
“It’s fine—she’ll sign it herself. She won’t even understand what she’s losing,” Sergey was saying. His voice sounded confident, with a hint of contempt.
The other person laughed. Marina recognized the laugh—Viktor, Sergey’s friend. They worked at the same company.
“You’re sure?” Viktor asked. “What if she takes it to a lawyer?”
“She won’t. She trusts me. Thinks it’s contracts for the new salon.”
“Brilliant,” Viktor slapped Sergey on the shoulder. “You’ll transfer the salon to yourself, take out a loan in her name, and that’s it. New life—no extra obligations.”
Marina froze. The blood drained from her face. Her hands went cold. What? What did Viktor just say—transfer the salon? A loan in her name?
“The main thing is to act fast,” Sergey continued. “She’ll sign today or tomorrow, and I’ll submit everything right away. Before she catches on, it’ll all be finalized.”
“And if she finds out?”
“It’ll be too late. The salon will be transferred, the loan will be approved. What’s she going to do—divorce me? Let her. I was planning to anyway.”
Viktor laughed again. Sergey took out a cigarette and lit it. Marina stood around the corner of the building, pressing her back to the wall. Her breathing was quick and shallow. Inside, everything tightened into a hard knot.
Sergey was planning to steal her salon—the business Marina had built for six years. Everything she had poured her strength, time, and money into. He was going to deceive her, transfer everything to himself, and take out a loan in her name. And then leave. Just leave, dumping debt on her and taking everything with him.
With shaking hands Marina pulled out her phone and dialed Elena Pavlovna. The lawyer didn’t answer immediately.
“Marina? Did something happen?”
“Elena Pavlovna, I need an urgent consultation,” Marina’s voice was quiet but steady. “Today. Right now, if possible.”
“Okay. Come to my office in half an hour.”
Marina turned and quickly walked away from the building. She didn’t look back. Sergey and Viktor kept talking, not noticing her. Marina called a taxi and went straight to the lawyer.
Elena Pavlovna met her in the office and poured her some water. Marina sat down and took the folder out of her bag. Her hands were still trembling.
“What happened?” the lawyer asked, taking the folder and opening it.
Marina told her about the conversation she’d overheard—about Sergey’s plan to trick her and transfer the salon to himself. Elena Pavlovna listened, nodded, and started reviewing the documents.
Page after page. She frowned, shook her head. Marina sat opposite her, hands clasped tight, waiting—afraid to hear her fears confirmed.
“This is not a contract for a new salon,” Elena Pavlovna said at last. “This is an agreement to fully transfer your current business into Sergey’s name.”
Marina closed her eyes. So it was true. All of it.
“It states here that you voluntarily transfer the rights to your sole proprietorship and all the salon’s assets to your husband,” the lawyer said, pointing to the lines. “Without any compensation. And on top of that, you take out a loan in your own name for three million rubles. The funds are transferred to Sergey’s account, supposedly for business development.”
“Three million?” Marina opened her eyes. “Why does he need three million?”
“I don’t know. But if you sign these papers, the salon becomes his property—and you’ll be left with a three-million-ruble debt you’ll have to repay.”
Nausea rose in Marina’s throat. Sergey—her husband. The man she’d lived with for eight years—had planned to ruin her. Take everything she built. Leave her drowning in debt.
“Do not sign this under any circumstances,” Elena Pavlovna closed the folder. “And I advise you to deal with your husband as soon as possible. This is fraud, plain and simple.”
Marina nodded, took the folder, thanked the lawyer, and went outside. She got into a taxi and headed home. The whole ride she stayed silent, staring out the window, thinking about what she would say to Sergey—how she would confront him.
At home Sergey was sitting in the living room in front of the TV. When he saw Marina, he immediately stood up.
“So, did you sign?” he asked with a smile.
Without a word, Marina took the lawyer’s written opinion from her bag and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. Sergey picked up the paper and scanned it. His face went pale.
“When did you decide to steal my business?” Marina’s voice was calm—cold. “And everything we built?”
“Marina, it’s a misunderstanding,” Sergey set the paper down and raised his hands. “The lawyer misunderstood. It’s just a technical formality to get better loan terms.”
“A technical formality?” Marina stepped closer. “Transferring all rights to the salon is a formality?”
“You don’t understand how business works,” Sergey spoke quickly, nervously. “Sometimes you have to structure paperwork a certain way to get the best conditions. I wanted what was best.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not!”
“I heard your conversation with Viktor this evening,” Marina looked him straight in the eyes. “By the entrance. You were talking about how I’d ‘sign it myself and won’t even understand what I’m losing.’ About transferring the salon to you. About a new life without extra obligations.”
Sergey froze. He opened his mouth, closed it. Tried to say something, but no words came.
“So here’s how it is,” Marina folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll give you one chance. Explain. Right now. Why do you need a three-million loan, and why were you planning to take my salon?”
Sergey was silent, staring at the floor. Then he suddenly exploded.
“It’s mine too!” he shouted, flailing his hands. “It’s my salon too! I put just as much effort into it as you did! I helped, supported, advised! And it’s registered only in your name! I have a right to my share!”
“You helped morally,” Marina said quietly, each word landing like a blow. “Not financially. Not physically. You didn’t look for specialists. You didn’t negotiate with suppliers. You didn’t sit over the bookkeeping until midnight. You didn’t risk your money opening a business. This was my project. My idea. My money.”
“We’re husband and wife! Everything should be shared!”
“Shared is when people talk and agree,” Marina said. “Not when one person deceives the other and steals documents.”
Sergey paced the room, clutching his head.
“I have debts,” he blurted out finally. “Big debts. I owe three million. The creditors want their money back—now. Otherwise there’ll be trouble. Serious trouble.”
Marina stopped.
“What debts? Where did they come from?”
“I… I took out loans. A year and a half ago. Invested in projects. I thought it would work, I’d repay everything and make more. But it didn’t work. The projects failed. The money’s gone.”
“A year and a half?” Marina slowly grasped the scale of the deception. “You hid it from me for a year and a half—three million in debt?”
“I thought I’d fix it,” Sergey said. “Find a way to pay it back. But I ran out of time. The creditors are threatening me. I need the money. Urgently.”
“And you decided to steal my business.”
“Not steal!” Sergey snapped, turning to her. “Take what’s mine by right! We built the salon together! I have a right to it!”
“No,” Marina shook her head. “You don’t. The salon is registered to me. Every document is in my name. Every investment was mine. You contributed nothing but advice. And now you want to take everything to cover your dirty debts—debts I didn’t even know about.”
Sergey sank onto the couch and covered his face with his hands. Marina stood across from him, looking at her husband like a stranger. This man was чужой—completely чужой. Eight years of marriage, and it turned out she hadn’t known him at all.
“I won’t sign these documents,” Marina said. “Never. And I’m filing for divorce.”
Sergey lifted his head.
“Marina, wait…”
“No. Trust between us is destroyed. You planned to deceive me, steal my business, leave me with debt. What’s the point of a marriage like that?”
“I’ll change. I’ll find a way to repay my debts. We can—”
“We can’t,” Marina turned toward the door. “Tomorrow I’ll call the lawyer. We’ll do the divorce properly. We can discuss compensation for the years you were involved with the salon, but it will be a small amount. The business stays mine.”
“Where am I supposed to live?”
“Not my problem. Move in with Viktor. Since he helped you develop this brilliant fraud scheme, let him shelter you too.”
Marina went into the bedroom and closed the door. She sat on the bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. Inside was emptiness—cold, heavy emptiness. Eight years. Eight years of life together turned out to be a lie. Sergey didn’t love her. Didn’t respect her. He was just waiting for the moment he could grab a bigger piece.
Marina remembered opening the salon—how much effort, time, and nerves it had taken. How she searched for a space and negotiated with the landlord. How she did the renovation herself, painted the walls, assembled the furniture. How she recruited the first specialists and convinced them to work for a new, unknown salon. How she sat over tax forms and reports at night, learning everything from scratch.
Sergey had been there—encouraging her when things were hard, driving supplies around. But it was minimal, moral support. Marina did the real work. She invested her money, took the risks, carried the burden. The salon was her baby.
And Sergey thought he deserved half—just because he was nearby, because they were married. But marriage doesn’t give you a right to someone else’s labor. It doesn’t give you a right to lie and steal.
In the morning Marina called Elena Pavlovna and asked her to start the divorce process. The lawyer agreed and said she would prepare the documents. Marina also called a locksmith and asked to have the locks changed—just in case.
Sergey left on his own. He packed silently, put his things into two suitcases. He didn’t look at Marina. Didn’t try to talk. He simply took his bags and walked out the door. Marina watched him go and felt relief.
The divorce was finalized a month later. They met and signed the papers. Sergey received compensation—three hundred thousand rubles. Not much, but the lawyer explained that he had no rights to the salon because he hadn’t invested money into creating it. The salon remained entirely with Marina.
Sergey moved in with Viktor. Marina found out from mutual acquaintances. She also learned that her ex-husband sold his car to partially pay off his debts. The creditors didn’t back off and kept demanding payment. But those were Sergey’s problems now—not Marina’s.
Marina was alone in the apartment where she had lived for eight years. The first days felt strange—empty, quiet. But she gradually got used to it. She even started to like the silence. No one pressured her, lied to her, or made plans behind her back.
The salon ran as usual. The staff didn’t notice any change in their owner’s personal life. Clients kept coming, booking appointments, leaving good reviews. The business continued bringing in income—a stable, honest income that Marina controlled herself.
Sometimes Marina thought about that conversation by the entrance. If she hadn’t heard Sergey’s words, would she have signed the papers? Maybe. She had trusted her husband and never doubted him. She might have signed without reading. And then she would have learned the truth when it was too late—when the salon was transferred, the loan approved, and Sergey gone.
Thank goodness she heard it in time. That she stopped and checked. She saved her business. She saved herself from debt and ruin.
Marina stood in the salon, looking at the mirrors, at the specialists bent over their clients. This was her place. Her work. Built with labor, persistence, and patience. No one would take it from her. No one would deceive her—because now Marina knew the bitter truth about trust, and about people who are willing to betray for money.
Eight years of marriage turned out to be an illusion. But the salon was real—the reality Marina had built herself, and the reality that would stay with her. Without Sergey. Without his debts. Without his lies
