“My apartment, my rules! Go wherever you want — under a bridge for all I care. I’ve had enough.”
Roman stood in the middle of the living room like some self-important Roman patrician, except instead of a toga he was wearing a velour tracksuit. He pointed dramatically toward the door, as if he had rehearsed that gesture in front of a mirror.
I simply nodded. Working in logistics dispatch had taught me how to handle emergencies. A truckload of fish stuck at customs? A driver going on a bender in Voronezh? A husband suddenly deciding to play the alpha male? The algorithm was always the same: assess the damage, build a new route, remove the unreliable link.
On the sofa, like VIP spectators at a private show, sat his relatives. My mother-in-law, Zinaida Sergeyevna, pursed her lips with the expression of someone personally issuing me an eviction order from a dormitory she no longer even owned. Beside her, my sister-in-law Zhanna fidgeted restlessly, already imagining herself trying on my shoes.
“Roma is right,” Zinaida Sergeyevna declared, adjusting the brooch pinned to her ample chest. “You brought nothing into this home. A man who manages an auto repair shop needs a dependable rear guard, not a woman forever buried in spreadsheets. He needs a wife with status.”
I kept packing my suitcase with steady hands. Rolling clothes into tight cylinders is the best way to save space. Practical. Efficient.
“Exactly!” Zhanna chimed in, fluttering her eyelash extensions. “Roma’s a man of means now. He’s going to give me the startup money for my boutique soon. We’re business people. And what are you? A hired little mouse.”
I calmly zipped up my toiletry bag, straightened, and looked at her.
“A boutique, Zhanna, requires either sole proprietorship registration or an LLC. And under our laws, if a citizen has active enforcement proceedings from bailiffs for more than half a million rubles in overdue microloans, their accounts get frozen automatically. Your business plan will die before you even make it to buying the cash register.”
Zhanna jerked so sharply that she dropped her phone. It hit the parquet floor with a hard crack.
She seemed to deflate and turn pale all at once, like a cheap air mattress punctured on a pebble beach.
Roman flushed crimson, realizing his grand moment of triumph was slipping away.
“This conversation is over! Put the keys on the table. Did you really think I’d keep tolerating that cold face of yours forever? I want emotion! Passion!”
“Passion isn’t my department, Roma. Try the fire inspector,” I said, placing the keys on the hallway cabinet. “Goodbye.”
When I stepped out into the chilly March evening, I didn’t collapse against a wall or burst into tears in some alleyway. I called a taxi to a hotel. Once I was in the back seat, I took out my phone and made exactly one call.
“Katia, hi,” I said, watching the city lights slide past the window. “You once said your channel’s ‘Consumer Shield’ segment was desperate for something juicy. Write this down. Auto service center ‘Empire Motors.’ Yes, that one — the place servicing luxury imports.”
Katia, my old school friend and now the producing editor of a scandal-hungry local TV show, came alive instantly.
“Olya! Are you seriously ready to hand over your dear husband?”
“He’s not my dear anything anymore. Start taking notes,” I said, my voice smooth and flat as a federal highway. “The scheme is textbook. On the paperwork, they bill customers for original German parts. In reality, the mechanics install cheap Chinese substitutes or cleaned-up used parts. Roman pockets the difference off the books. That’s consumer fraud, plus tax evasion. I’ll email you the plate numbers of three cars that got fake brake pads installed yesterday. Their owners still have no idea they’re driving around on ticking bombs.”
“I adore you, Olya! Tomorrow morning we’re going in with a mystery customer and hidden cameras.”
The next morning, I was drinking cappuccino in a cozy rented one-bedroom apartment, scrolling through the news feed. My phone pinged. It was the building chat, where the admin was Larisa — the best friend of my now-former mother-in-law. A loud woman with an unhealthy appetite for other people’s business.
“Dear neighbors!” Larisa announced in oversized text. “Our esteemed Roman Nikolaevich has finally kicked out his leech! Let’s all support a good man! She lived off him the whole time — no borscht, no comfort, nothing!”
I took a sip of coffee, opened the keyboard, and typed back:
“Larisa Gennadyevna, supporting a man who hides part of his salary in cash so he doesn’t have to pay child support for his two children from his first marriage is certainly a very noble cause. And while we’re discussing the law, how is your illegal remodeling project going — the one where you moved a load-bearing wall onto the balcony? Housing inspectors don’t just fine people for that. They also order everything restored to its original condition at the owner’s expense within a month. I was actually planning to clarify that with an inspector soon.”
The silence that fell over the chat was so thick you could have sliced it with a knife. A minute later, a system notification popped up:
“User Larisa Gennadyevna deleted the group.”
She vanished from the digital world as quickly as a cockroach caught in a sudden beam of light.
And by lunchtime, the real show began.
Katia sent me a link to the channel’s live social media broadcast. Roman was on camera. His face, usually smug and polished, now looked like an overripe beet. He was darting around the reporter, waving his arms wildly, while the mystery customer held up an oil filter that was literally crumbling in his hands — sold as an original part for an outrageous price.
“This is a setup! You have no right to film here! This is my territory!” my ex-husband screeched.
“Roman Nikolaevich,” Katia chirped sweetly into the microphone, “this territory belongs to the service owner, Mr. Markov, who, by the way, is on his way here now — along with representatives from the consumer protection office and the tax authorities. You’re just the hired manager here, correct? How would you like to comment on the double bookkeeping?”
Roman froze, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly.
All his swagger crumbled like old plaster in a Khrushchyovka during an earthquake.
Within three hours, my phone was burning up from calls. Zinaida Sergeyevna called. Roman called. I pressed Block with methodical calm every single time.
That evening, a message came from an unknown number.
“Olya, it’s Zhanna. Roma got fired in disgrace. The owner is pinning all the losses and shortages on him. Mom is down with high blood pressure. Roma’s yelling that you were the one who sicced the TV crew on him. Tell me it wasn’t you! How are we supposed to live now? He was going to take out a loan for me to help fix the problems at the auto shop!”
I smiled. Then I opened the window and let the fresh autumn air into the room.
The algorithm was complete. The toxic cargo had been unloaded, and the logistics chain of my life had been rebuilt from scratch — without defects, without waste.
“Go wherever you want, Zhanna. Under a bridge if necessary,” I typed back. “Your rules. Your problems.”
I hit Send, blocked the final contact, and went to make myself dinner. Ahead of me was a calm, comfortable life that was finally — and entirely — my own.
