Igor sat across from her in their favorite restaurant near Patriarch Ponds—the very place where, two years earlier, he had proposed. Back then, everything had felt perfectly aligned: a beautiful dentist, a successful entrepreneur, shared tastes, shared dreams. Life seemed mapped out and certain.
Now, he was twisting a paper napkin between his fingers and avoiding her gaze.
“Alla, my sunshine, you have to understand,” he began softly. “This is a critical moment for the business… We’re opening a branch in Yekaterinburg. I’ll need to travel a lot, oversee everything personally. A wedding is such a serious step—I want it to be absolutely PERFECT.”
“Igor, the wedding is in a month,” Alla replied sharply. “The venue is booked. Guests are invited. The dress is bought. My mother has already flown in tickets from Vladivostok. WHAT is going on?”
He took a sip of wine and grimaced, though it was exquisite—2015 Château Margaux, which they had ordered specially to celebrate the anniversary of their first meeting.
“Let’s just… postpone it,” he said. “Six months. Eight at most. By spring everything will settle, and we’ll throw the wedding of the century. We could even travel—Italy, the Maldives, wherever you want.”
Alla stared at him, barely recognizing the man in front of her. The confident, decisive Igor—who always acted swiftly and never hesitated—now looked like a nervous schoolboy caught unprepared.
“Igor Vladimirovich,” she said deliberately, using his full name the way she did only in the most serious moments. “We’ve been together for three years. I know you better than you think. That Yekaterinburg branch was planned last year, and you managed it just fine remotely. So stop lying and tell me the truth.”
He flinched as if she’d struck him.
“What truth? What are you talking about? I already explained—work, contracts—”
“Enough!” Alla raised her voice, and a couple at the neighboring table turned to look. “If you don’t want to marry me, just say it. Don’t insult me with these pathetic business excuses.”
A waiter approached with the dessert menu, but Alla waved him away.
“I do want to marry you,” Igor said quietly. “I just… need time. Please trust me.”
“Time?” she echoed coldly. “For what? To invent better excuses? Or maybe you’ve already found someone BETTER than me?”
The bitterness in her voice made Igor finally look up. Fear flickered in his eyes.
“Alla, don’t say that. You know I love you.”
“Do I?” she scoffed. “I used to. Now I see a man who suddenly wants a delay one month before his own wedding. You know what, Igor? Go to hell with your excuses.”
She stood, grabbed her coat, and walked out, leaving him frozen in his chair. Outside, a light October drizzle fell, but Alla didn’t feel it. One thought kept pounding in her head: something was very wrong.
A week passed. Igor called her every day, sent bouquets of white roses—her favorite—wrote long apologetic messages swearing his love. Alla ignored them all. She took time off from the clinic where she worked as a leading prosthodontist and stayed home, trying to make sense of everything.
Her best friend Marina, the only person she confided in, offered a theory.
“Maybe he lost big somewhere? Gambling debt? You said he likes poker.”
“Not enough to lose a fortune,” Alla said. “And I would’ve noticed. We practically live together—I know his finances.”
“Then it’s another woman,” Marina said bluntly.
“No!” Alla jumped up. “Impossible. We’re always together—when would he even—”
“Business trips,” Marina interrupted. “Corporate events. The gym. Men don’t need much opportunity.”
Alla went quiet. The last three months, Igor had been working late constantly, blaming preparations for the branch. A couple of times he’d slept at the office—supposedly sorting paperwork with lawyers. And then there was that strange incident a month earlier—she’d found a simple gold teardrop earring in his car. He claimed it belonged to a colleague he’d given a ride to. Alla hadn’t pushed.
“Damn it,” she muttered. “Marina… you might be right. Three weeks ago, after a corporate party, he came home acting strange. Too cheerful. Eyes sparkling, but like he wasn’t really there. I blamed alcohol—but he barely drank and drove himself home.”
“Exactly,” Marina nodded. “Probably some young secretary flirting. Men are like kids—new toy, old one forgotten.”
“Oh, shut up with that nonsense,” Alla snapped. “I’m not a toy. Three years together, plans, an apartment in a new building…”
Her phone buzzed. A message from Igor’s mother, Elena Sergeyevna:
“Alla dear, can we meet? I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
“Go,” Marina said. “Maybe his mother knows something.”
An hour later, Alla was sitting in her future mother-in-law’s spacious four-bedroom apartment on Kutuzovsky Avenue. Elena Sergeyevna—always polished and elegant at fifty-five—looked pale and unsettled.
“Alla,” she began, pouring tea, “Igor told me about your conversation. About postponing the wedding.”
“And what did he say? More stories about Yekaterinburg?”
Elena Sergeyevna shook her head.
“No. Nothing clear. He mumbled about responsibility, about needing time. I’ve never seen him like this. What’s happening?”
“If I knew,” Alla replied. “Have you noticed any changes? New habits? New people?”
Elena Sergeyevna hesitated.
“Actually… yes. Three or four weeks ago he became distracted. Always on his phone, smiling. He said it was work. But he started stepping into other rooms to take calls. That never happened before.”
“That’s it,” Alla slammed her palm on the table. “My suspicion was right. Your son has another woman.”
“That’s impossible!” Elena Sergeyevna went pale. “You two were perfect together. The wedding is in a month—was in a month…”
“To hell with the wedding!” Alla exploded. “If he found someone better, he should say it. Not string me along with fake business excuses. Coward!”
Elena Sergeyevna stared at her helplessly.
“Alla, don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe it really is business trouble—”
“Thank you for the tea,” Alla stood. “But I’m done guessing. If Igor can’t tell the truth, I’ll find it myself.”
For the next two days, Alla conducted her own investigation. No detectives. No spying. She simply examined Igor’s social media—something she’d never bothered with before.
And she found exactly what she feared.
In a month-old photo from a corporate party, posted by one of his colleagues, Igor appeared in the background. Standing next to him was a young woman—about twenty-five, long red hair, bright lipstick. They were deep in conversation, their body language clearly not professional.
Finding her was easy.
Kristina Vorobyova. Client relations manager at Igor’s company. Her Instagram was full of selfies, trips, restaurants. And three weeks earlier—photos from a restaurant Alla knew all too well. The same place where Igor had taken Alla on their first date. Only Kristina appeared in the photos—but there were two wine glasses on the table.
“You bitch,” Alla hissed, throwing her phone onto the bed. “Our restaurant.”
Rage surged through her. She wanted to break something—preferably Igor’s head. Instead, she took a deep breath and dialed his number.
“Igor,” she said when he answered on the first ring. “Tomorrow at three. Café by Chistye Prudy. We need to talk.”
“Alla! My sunshine! You finally answered—”
“SHUT UP,” she yelled. “Tomorrow at three. Don’t come—and forget I ever existed.”
She hung up and turned off her phone.
The next day, Alla arrived fifteen minutes early, ordered a double espresso, and waited. Igor arrived exactly at three, breathless, holding white roses.
“Get rid of those,” she said coldly. “And sit down.”
He obeyed.
“I’m so glad you agreed to meet,” he started. “I want to explain—”
“Kristina Vorobyova,” Alla said, staring straight into his eyes.
He went pale, then flushed.
“Who? I don’t—”
“Don’t understand?” She pulled out her phone and showed him the photo. “Who is that redhead you’re whispering to?”
“She’s… a colleague. I’m her manager—”
“As a manager, you take subordinates to the restaurant where we had our first date?” she cut in. “Or did you forget Provence on Bolshaya Nikitskaya?”
He deflated.
“How long?” she demanded. “And why did you need to postpone OUR wedding?”
Silence. Then he whispered:
“She’s pregnant.”
Alla grabbed the edge of the table to keep from collapsing.
“What?”
“She’s pregnant,” he repeated. “It only happened a few times. I swear. After the party… then again… And a week ago she told me.”
“And you postponed our wedding?” Alla’s voice was deadly calm. “Why? Planning to marry her?”
“No! God, no! I love you! I just needed time to… fix things. Maybe she’d agree to… you know.”
“To an abortion?” Alla stood. “Go to hell, Igor. You, your pregnant mistress, and your ‘fixing things.’”
She flung the remaining coffee into his face and walked out.
That evening, Alla sat at home with Marina and a bottle of red wine.
“Wow,” Marina whistled. “What now?”
“Nothing,” Alla said flatly. “Let him rot with his pregnant manager.”
The intercom buzzed.
“Alla, it’s Elena Sergeyevna. May I come up?”
Minutes later, Igor’s mother sat in the living room, shaken.
“He told me everything,” she said. “I’m in shock. How could he?”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Alla shrugged.
“He won’t marry her,” Elena Sergeyevna insisted. “He said it was a mistake. He loves you!”
“Love?” Alla laughed bitterly. “Sleeping around, making babies, and asking me to wait? That’s love?”
The doorbell rang. Alla opened it—and froze. Igor stood there.
“Alla, please—”
“GET OUT!” she screamed. “Now!”
“I’ll fix everything,” he pleaded. “Kristina will leave, I’ll give her money—”
“ARE YOU INSANE?” Alla hurled a vase at him. It shattered against the wall.
“Leave,” his mother ordered.
He retreated.
The next day, Alla packed her things, canceled the wedding, sold the dress, notified the guests, and blocked Igor completely.
Eight months later, Alla sat in her new office. She had opened her own dental practice—her dream. Life was good again.
“Igor Vladimirovich is here,” the receptionist said.
“Five minutes,” Alla replied.
He looked broken.
“I married Kristina,” he said. “It’s hell.”
“Congratulations,” Alla replied coolly.
“I don’t love her. I love you.”
Alla stood.
“You mean nothing to me. You ceased to exist the day you told me your mistress was pregnant.”
She threw a plaster jaw model at him and pointed to the door.
Later that evening, her phone rang.
“Andrey Petrovich,” a pleasant voice said. “Would you like to have dinner?”
Alla smiled.
“Yes,” she said.
The past belonged exactly where it was—behind her.
And Igor, alone in his new apartment, stared at an old photo of them at the seaside, realizing he had destroyed everything with his own hands—for nothing.
