— Lenochka, don’t slouch. People are looking at us, — Oleg hissed, stretching his signature “millionaire from the next apartment block” smile across his face.
He adjusted my collar so aggressively that, for a second, it felt as though he was trying to strangle me right before the hot appetizers were served.
Our entire family life looked exactly like that banquet hall: the gilding on the plasterwork had peeled in places, but the chandeliers shone so brightly that no one could see the cracks in the ceiling.
The guests — forty relatives and useful acquaintances — were already enthusiastically destroying the cold cuts and discussing how, at thirty-five, a woman either blossoms or finally turns into a mother.
Oleg stood up, waited until the room grew loud enough with the clinking of forks, and solemnly raised his hand, asking for attention.
“Friends, you all know how much I value details,” he began, and an unpleasant itch ran down my spine. “For my Elena, I chose not just a gift, but a symbol of our unbreakable bond and technological progress.”
He pulled out a small box with the expression of a man presenting at least a component from the Large Hadron Collider.
Inside lay a pair of massive black smartwatches, their glossy glass reflecting my slightly stunned face.
“This is the latest model. I personally tested it for a whole week, calibrated the sensors so they would perfectly read your pulse,” he added smugly.
Oleg fastened the strap around my wrist so tightly that I felt every tiny metal ridge against my skin.
I was about to say “thank you,” but at that very moment, the gadget on my wrist came to life and gave a short, commanding vibration, like the bite of an electric ray.
A notification appeared on the screen:
“Kitten, are you almost done with your old shrew? I’m already wearing that red lingerie.”
I froze, staring at the glowing letters while Oleg continued speaking about how important it was in marriage to trust each other and always stay connected.
Uncle Vitya shouted something encouraging from the second row about “keeping the pulse under control,” and the room burst into approving laughter.
The vibration came again, this time more insistent, sending an unpleasant numbness through my hand.
“Olezhek, don’t forget what we agreed on: tonight you officially announce the trip to Sochi, but only for the two of us,” the next message said.
I lifted my eyes to my husband, who at that very moment was theatrically pressing a hand to his chest, portraying deep tenderness.
He had forgotten to disconnect his phone from the watch, and now his secret life was being broadcast straight to my wrist in real time.
“Lenochka, why are you so quiet?” Oleg wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me toward the microphone. “Tell everyone what it feels like to have a husband’s care with you every second.”
“It’s an unforgettable feeling,” I replied, and my voice sounded unexpectedly firm, even to me.
I lowered my hand and saw a new notification — this time a voice message from a contact saved simply as “Spare Parts Warehouse.”
Something inside me shifted, as if an old mechanism had finally thrown out a useless part and started working with surgical precision.
“You know, Oleg is right. Honesty these days is an expensive accessory, and not everyone can afford it,” I said into the microphone.
My husband nodded with satisfaction, taking it as a compliment to his taste and generosity.
Aunt Vera, sitting in the front row, dabbed her eyes with a napkin, already preparing herself to hear an ode to long-lasting love.
“My husband is so caring that he even set up a shared notification system on these watches so I could stay informed about all his… work processes,” I continued.
I brought the watch close to the microphone and pressed play on the latest voice message.
The hall filled not with music, but with a hoarse, sultry female whisper spreading through the powerful speakers into every corner of the restaurant.
“Listen, your gift to her is genius,” the woman’s voice purred. “Let her think you’re watching her health while we keep an eye on the temperature in my hotel room.”
Oleg’s face began to take on the color of spoiled kefir, and the hand resting on my shoulder started twitching noticeably.
He tried to snatch the microphone away, but I stepped aside and easily dodged his clumsy movement.
“And by the way,” the voice continued through the speakers, “I hope you remembered to delete yesterday’s chat about your ‘business trip’ to Gelendzhik?”
A strange silence fell over the room — the kind where you can hear bubbles popping in glasses of lemonade.
Oleg stood motionless, his mouth half-open, his eyes darting across the guests’ faces, frantically searching for some lifeline.
“Lena, this is… it’s a prank! The guys from the office decided to joke around. You know their sense of humor!” he finally squeezed out, trying to force a laugh.
“Of course, Oleg. It’s a brilliant joke,” I said, giving him the brightest smile I had. “Especially the part where ‘Spare Parts Warehouse’ puts on red lingerie.”
Slowly, I unfastened the watch strap, which only a minute earlier had felt like a noose around my wrist.
“Friends, the hot dishes will be served soon. I won’t keep you from enjoying the celebration,” I said, addressing the stunned audience.
Then I carefully placed the watch on Oleg’s plate, right in the center of a neat mound of mayonnaise salad.
The gadget buzzed again, slowly sinking into the sauce, as if trying to tell the world one last dirty little detail.
I walked through the hall without looking to either side, and every step filled me with a strange, almost weightless lightness.
At the exit, Aunt Vera tried to stop me, but I gently moved her hand away and stepped out onto the porch.
The evening air was cool and clear, free from the cheap restaurant smells and heavy perfume.
I called a taxi, and while I waited, I looked at my hands. They were no longer shaking from the constant expectation of disaster.
My own phone rang inside my bag. When I saw Oleg’s number, I blocked him with one movement of my finger.
At home, I did not pack suitcases in hysterics. I simply poured myself a strong cup of tea and sat by the window.
There was already a message from Oleg’s mother in my inbox:
“Lenochka, what happened between you two? Oleg says you misunderstood everything.”
I replied briefly:
“Tell your son his gift works flawlessly. Now I can see absolutely everything.”
The next morning, I did not wake up to my husband yelling about where his clean shirts were. I woke up to the sound of the city coming alive.
I knew there would be many unpleasant conversations ahead, property disputes, and Oleg’s attempts to make me look insane.
But none of that mattered anymore, because my personal event horizon had finally cleared of his suffocating presence.
I walked up to the mirror and saw a woman who no longer intended to be the “reliable support” for a man whose conscience was worth less than a cheap Chinese knockoff.
The doorbell rang. It was a courier with an enormous bouquet from Oleg and a note:
“Let’s start over.”
I took the bouquet, walked to the garbage chute, and sent it flying down without feeling the slightest stab of regret.
Real life does not begin with gifts or anniversaries. It begins the moment you stop pretending not to see what has been obvious all along.
