Igor let his fork slip from his fingers, the silver utensil clinking loudly against the plate, leaving a smear of sauce across the white porcelain. Yet, he remained oblivious, eyes glued to the screen of his phone, a vacant, unfamiliar smile fixed on his face.
“Is something interesting there?” I ventured, striving for a tone that felt effortless and casual.
“Oh, just work stuff,” he muttered, reluctantly putting the device down. “More reports, endless figures… I’m so drained by it all.”
He exhaled deeply, as if bearing the invisible burden of countless worries. My gaze lingered on him, contemplating the transformation he’d undergone over the previous twelve months. Our year.
At the beginning of our marriage, he was not quite the man he had become. Perhaps I simply chose to see him differently.
Back then, he spoke earnestly about love — about how my identity and income were irrelevant.
And I, an unassuming accountant employed at a modest firm named “Horns and Hooves,” trusted his words. I yearned to believe in them.
“Can you imagine? Our commercial director’s wife just bought herself a new car,” Igor remarked abruptly.
“Out of the blue. That’s how it felt,” he said, poking at his cold chicken disdainfully. “When was the last time we went to the seaside?”
I remained silent, recognizing this was a rhetorical strike, aimed at me. At us.
At our humble and snug apartment situated on the outskirts of town — the place he contemptuously dubbed “the birdhouse.”
Conversations like this had grown commonplace between us, centered increasingly on money — mainly other people’s wealth. A dazzling world beyond the windows of our “birdhouse,” a life that felt entirely separate from ours.
“Today I met some fascinating people,” he said suddenly, his eyes igniting with a familiar intensity I once mistook for affection. “Serious investors with promising ventures.”
His voice brightened, especially when mentioning one woman — Karina. Intelligent, driven, accomplished, living alone and having built her success from scratch.
“She owns a downtown apartment, can you imagine? Panoramic windows, sweeping city views. Designer touches, Italian furnishings…” he said, rolling his eyes as if savoring every detail.
Listening, a chill settled inside me. The way he admired this ‘Aquamarine’ apartment was unmistakably familiar — because I was the person who rented it to Karina.
“We’re galaxies away from that,” he said bitterly, glancing around our kitchen. “Sometimes I feel buried in this… mundanity. This despair.”
His gaze met mine, devoid of warmth and instead filled with cold, calculating judgment — as though assessing my value and finding it wanting.
“Is this truly all there is?” he asked in a quiet, almost whispered tone, seeming to peer right through me. “Is this the essence of our life?”
The experiment I’d embarked upon a year prior ended in crushing failure.
My naive dream — to be cherished for who I genuinely was, not for my father’s fortune — collided with the harsh reality of human avarice.
Igor revealed himself to be not the person he pretended to be. Or perhaps more painfully, he was exactly the man he had always been; I simply hadn’t seen it.
His returns home were becoming increasingly delayed.
The musky scent of unfamiliar, expensive perfume clung to him, a fragrance I recognized all too well.
He carried with him an air of cold detachment. Our “birdhouse” visibly repulsed him now.
“Can’t we invest in a decent coffee machine?” he complained one morning, eyeing our old drip maker.
“Karina’s machine grinds fresh beans and creates ten varieties of coffee. We even talked about it during a meeting at her place,” he said.
“This one also makes coffee,” I responded calmly, constricting inside.
Though I could have easily purchased an entire café chain, I remained trapped in my assigned role.
“That thing doesn’t brew coffee. It produces brown sludge,” he snapped sharply.
Karina had become his benchmark for all things. She wore designer clothes.
She dined at Michelin-starred restaurants. She drove the newest Audi model.
Karina, Karina, Karina… He spoke reverently about her, as though she were a goddess descended to reveal to him, a mere mortal, the true image of success.
One evening, I overheard his phone conversation from the next room. His laughter, carefree and happy, was a sound I hadn’t heard in years.
“No, of course she doesn’t know,” he whispered. “She’s just… simple.”
“You get it? She lacks ambition, drive. With her, it’s just survival.”
Leaning against the doorframe, the floor seemed to give way beneath me. The word “simple” stung far worse than any insult.
All my efforts — my attempt to foster an honest relationship — had been erased by one adjective.
I resolved then that it was time to end the pretense.
That same evening, as Igor entered, I waited in the kitchen. His eyes avoided mine as he discarded his jacket onto a chair.
“We need to talk, Igor.”
“About what?” he replied, opening the fridge, then slamming it shut with disgust. “About how we’re broke again? I’m exhausted.”
“I want you to leave.”
He turned slowly, expression unreadable — more relieved than shocked, as if I had spared him starting this unpleasant dialogue.
“Seriously?” he sneered. “You’re kicking me out of this dump?”
Gesturing dismissively around our modest kitchen, he locked eyes with mine, saturated with disdain and concealed triumph.
“I was going to leave anyway!” he barked. “Do you think I want to waste my life here, pinching pennies?”
“I’ve found someone who appreciates me, who can provide everything I dreamed of! I’m leaving for wealth, and you can stay behind in your poverty!”
His words dripped venom and cruel satisfaction, as though punishing me for all his own failures.
He stood arrogantly in the doorway, handsome and self-assured in his righteousness.
Yet he was unaware that this new “rich” life was situated in my apartment — and it would be on my terms.
I granted him two hours to pack. Then, I transformed.
Discarding my typical “simple accountant” attire, I donned a sleek cashmere dress and ordered a business-class taxi.
Forty minutes later, I arrived at the Aquamarine complex.
Without ringing the buzzer, I used my key and ascended the stairs. Music and laughter echoed from behind the door — their laughter.
I inserted my key again; the door opened silently.
By the panoramic window stood Igor and Karina, champagne glasses in hand. Igor held Karina by the waist, whispering something that drew laughter from her.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” I said, closing the door behind me.
The music halted abruptly. They both turned sharply. Igor’s expression morphed from confusion into anger.
“You?! What are you doing here? How did you get in?” he demanded, stepping toward me.
“I have the keys,” I stated calmly, placing my bag on the designer console. “To all of my apartments.”
Karina’s gaze darted between me and Igor, her hand trembling slightly with the champagne glass.
“What’s this about, Igor?” she asked icily.
“This… this is my wife,” he stammered, “Ex-wife.”
“Not quite,” I corrected him. “We’re still legally married. But that’s beside the point. The point is this apartment. Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
Glancing around the living room, Igor froze as realization dawned.
“What are you talking about? This is Karina’s apartment,” he hissed.
“You’re mistaken. It’s mine — the one I’ve been leasing to your Karina,” I informed her. “By the way, Karina, you’re behind on last month’s bills.”
“But that’s irrelevant. According to the lease terms, I can terminate it unilaterally if the tenant violates house rules.”
“Co-habiting with a married man is a breach. You have 24 hours to vacate.”
Karina’s complexion turned ghostly pale as she fixed Igor with a glare full of vitriol, forcing him to step back.
“You… you deceived me?” she whispered.
Yet Igor’s eyes were locked solely on me, wide with panic. His carefully constructed world was crumbling.
His confident smirk evaporated, replaced by a desperate and lost look.
“Wait… but you’re… an accountant…”
“I own the firm where I ‘work’ as an accountant,” I shrugged. “I wanted to find out if you could love me, not my money.”
The experiment failed, but I harbor no bitterness. Each person chooses what they are capable of. He selected the shiny façade.
Turning toward the exit, Igor’s broken voice trailed, “What about… me?”
I paused in the doorway without looking back.
“You may remain in poverty — just as you wished. Only this time, it’s genuine.”
I left and gently closed the door behind me. No triumph or revenge colored my emotions, only a quiet weariness and a stark clarity: one cannot reveal gold to eyes blinded by glitter.
“You can’t make someone see gold when their eyes are blinded by glitter.”
The first call came three days later. I did not answer. Then arrived the texts—dozens, pleading for forgiveness, mixed with blame and threats.
He claimed I had destroyed his life, professed love, and accused me of betrayal.
I received these messages with icy composure, blocking his numbers endlessly, though he continued to find new ones.
A week later, he confronted me outside my office.
His appearance was wasted; expensive clothes hung loosely on his worn frame. His eyes were filled with despair.
“Anya, we must talk!” he grabbed my hand.
“There is nothing to discuss, Igor,” I withdrew my hand gently. “I have filed for divorce. The papers will arrive by mail.”
“I won’t let you leave me!” he shouted. “I love you! I was a fool—now I understand!”
“That Karina… she was messing with my head! But I always thought about you, about us!”
“Us?” I laughed bitterly. “You thought about your future.”
“A future where I was an obstacle—until a better choice arrived.”
“Then you realized the best choice was beside you all along. But the problem, Igor, is I am not a choice. Not a lucky ticket.”
He stared at me, unable to comprehend. He believed it was about Karina, the affair. He did not realize it was about him—his true nature.
“I’ll fix it! I’ll prove myself! Just tell me how!”
At that moment, I understood I was finally free—not from him, but from the naive woman I had been a year ago.
I no longer sought evidence of love. I recognized what love should be—and what it should never become.
“Nothing,” I said. “There’s nothing you can do because you cannot mend what never existed. Most importantly, we never shared what matters most—respect.”
“You never respected me. You scorned my ‘simple’ life, my job, and our home. One cannot be loved by those who despise them.”
I walked past him toward my car. He called after me, but I no longer heard his voice.
A month later, the divorce was finalized. I sold both the Aquamarine apartment and our old “birdhouse.”
I acquired a small house outside the city and began managing my company remotely.
Sometimes, I reflect on him—not with bitterness or sympathy, but with distant curiosity, as though he were a character in a story I once read. He obtained what he sought — a lesson.
A harsh yet just lesson: chasing after mere glitter ends in darkness.
True prosperity lies not in possessions but in who you become when everything else is stripped away.
Conclusion
This story reveals how fragile love can be when tested by greed and illusions. It underscores that genuine affection cannot thrive in an environment of contempt and material obsession. Ultimately, it teaches us that true wealth and respect come from authenticity and self-worth, not outward appearances or possessions. The narrative reminds readers that chasing superficial success often leads to emptiness. Instead, it is the depth of character and mutual respect which sustain lasting relationships.