“You know, I’ve always dreamed of having my own place,” I murmured, my gaze fixed on the keys dangling in his hand.
“And I’ve always had mine,” he replied with a smirk—once charming, now repulsive.
It was already 9:30 PM. My fingers hovered over my phone screen, but there were no messages from Sergey. The dinner I had carefully prepared sat untouched, the candles had melted into waxy puddles, and the wine I had uncorked two hours ago had lost its rich aroma—just like our relationship.
A sudden, forceful slam of the front door sent a tremor through the apartment, rattling the glassware in the china cabinet. Sergey stormed in, carelessly loosening his tie. The air around him was thick with the scent of expensive cologne—but not the one I had given him for our anniversary.
“Why are you late?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even.
“What, am I supposed to report to you now?” he scoffed, tossing his briefcase onto the couch. “I work, you know. Someone has to support this house.”
I bit my lip, swallowing the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. Six years in a high-ranking position at a major company, three promotions under my belt—and yet, in his eyes, I was still just a woman with ‘career ambitions.’
“I made dinner. I wanted to talk to you about something important…” I started.
“You know what, Anya?” he cut me off, exasperation lacing his words. “I’m tired. Tired of the constant complaints, the endless dissatisfaction, these staged candlelit dinners. You live in some fantasy novel, but that’s not real life.”
I froze. A lump formed in my throat, but I refused to let him see my pain.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “I do live in a novel. But it’s not a love story. It’s a mystery. And you, Sergey, are the villain.”
His laughter slashed through the air like a blade. Cold. Merciless.
The divorce was swift, as though he had already planned it. The apartment—our apartment—remained his. “Legally, it’s mine,” he had said, as if it were nothing more than an old shirt he had grown out of.
Marina, my best friend, found me a small rental in a nearby district. It wasn’t grand, but it was warm. “It’s temporary,” she reminded me. I nodded, willing myself to believe her.
“You know what the worst part is?” I asked one evening, pouring wine into glasses in my tiny new kitchen. “I really loved him. Not the status, not the apartment, just him.”
“And he only loved himself,” Marina replied, handing me a napkin. “Maybe it’s time you started doing the same.”
I caught my reflection in the window. A tired woman with dull eyes stared back. Was this really me? The same Anna who once dreamed of taking on the world?
“You’re right,” I said, downing my wine in one gulp. “It’s time to learn to love myself. And something else.”
“What’s that?” Marina asked, curious.
“Revenge.”
The first month after the divorce was a blur. Work, sleep, repeat. Marina joked that I had turned into a ‘functioning zombie.’ Maybe she was right.
“You can’t isolate yourself forever,” she announced one evening, barging in with pizza and wine. “And no, working until midnight isn’t a valid social activity.”
“I’m not isolating,” I muttered, shutting my laptop. “I’m adapting.”
“Sweetheart, you’re not a coral reef. Adapt faster.”
She was right. I had a major presentation coming up, one that could either define my career or unravel it completely. It had to be perfect.
The morning of the presentation started with me spilling coffee on my white blouse. A bad omen? Perhaps. But after losing a husband and a home, what was a little coffee stain?
“Anna Viktorovna,” my boss called out as I walked toward the conference room. “A word?”
My heart pounded. Was he canceling the presentation?
“I reviewed your project,” he began. “And I have an offer.”
I braced for bad news.
“How would you feel about heading a new department?”
My breath hitched. “Excuse me?”
“The Strategic Development Department,” he clarified, smiling. “Your project is exactly what we need, and you’re the perfect candidate to lead it.”
By the end of the day, I still couldn’t believe it. The presentation had been a triumph, the promotion was secured, and my phone buzzed with congratulatory messages.
“I told you so!” Marina toasted over champagne. “You were always better than him.”
I laughed. “He took everything we built together and left.”
“And now?” she smirked, signaling for another bottle.
“Now?” I mused. “Now I’ll buy myself an apartment. One I truly love. And I’ll hang pink curtains.”
“He hated pink.”
“Exactly.”
Six months later, my new home—complete with pink curtains—felt entirely mine. No compromises, no ‘What would Sergey think?’ Just me.
“You’ve changed,” Marina noted during lunch. “It’s not just the new haircut.”
She was right. I had changed. I no longer sought validation. I made my own decisions, for myself.
“You know what’s funny?” I stirred my coffee. “I’m grateful to him.”
“Sergey?!” Marina almost choked on her salad.
“Yes. If not for him, I wouldn’t have discovered my own strength.”
Then life threw me a final twist.
“Did you hear?” someone murmured as I passed by the office reception. “The entire Moscow branch will now report to Anna Viktorovna.”
I stopped in my tracks.
“You mean where Sergey works?”
A slow, knowing smile spread across my lips. Oh, I knew exactly who worked there.
The first meeting with Sergey as his new boss was surreal. His face turned ghostly pale as I stepped into the conference room.
“For those who don’t know me,” I announced, “I am Anna Viktorovna, your new director. I look forward to working with you all.”
Sergey chased me down after the meeting. “Anya, this has to be a mistake.”
I raised a brow. “Sergey Vitalievich, do you have work-related concerns?”
His hand gripped my arm. “You were always just—”
“Remove your hand,” I said, each word cutting like ice. “And be mindful of your language. I wouldn’t want to file a misconduct report.”
His hand dropped. “You’ve changed.”
“No,” I said with a smirk. “I was always like this. You just never noticed.”
Weeks passed, and Sergey struggled under the weight of my expectations. His past arrogance crumbled.
Then, one evening, he cornered me in the parking lot. “Anya, I was an idiot. I didn’t appreciate you. Let’s try again.”
Once, those words would have shattered me. Now, they meant nothing.
“You know what’s ironic?” I mused. “A year ago, I would have begged for this moment. But now? I’ve outgrown it.”
His face fell. “And now?”
“Now,” I smiled, unlocking my car, “you should submit your resignation. I’ll give you excellent references.”
Marina and I clinked glasses that evening, the city lights reflecting in my wine.
“To revenge?” she teased.
I shook my head. “No. To becoming strong enough not to need it.”