The sharp, crystalline voice erupted abruptly, like glass slicing through silk, shattering the heavy, medicine-saturated silence that enveloped the bedroom.
“I was with your husband while you lay pale and fragile, hooked up to tubes,” Veronika declared with a smug smile. Her perfectly manicured fingers casually adjusted the flawless wave of her chestnut hair. She spoke with a lazy, composed air, as if narrating a trivial gossip rather than crushing two decades of life into dust.
Elena turned her head on the pillow with immense effort; her body felt burdened, alien, as if weighed down by wet sand. The stale, cloying air filled with the scent of medicine, sweat, and fear suddenly yielded to the abrupt, bold fragrance of Veronika’s perfume — “California Fury.” This scent seemed woven into the very fabric of the room, seeping into the drapes, furniture upholstery, and the house’s soul itself, ruthlessly erasing all that was familiar to Elena.
“Now, I’m taking him and all of this,” Veronika announced, her predator’s gaze sweeping the room with territorial authority. Her eyes lingered on an antique dressing table made of Karelian birch — the sole heirloom passed down from Elena’s grandmother. The smile on her lips sharpened like a scalpel’s blade, ready to expose festering wounds. “Artem has signed everything. Don’t worry; they will take care of you. A social taxi has been arranged.”
Elena looked at the woman she had called sister for twenty years — a lifetime of shared New Year’s celebrations, whispered secrets until dawn, tears comforted on shoulders, and uncontrollable laughter that had ached her stomach. All those years condensed into a small, poisonous lump hurled in her face within this suffocating, illness-stained room.
“You… couldn’t have,” Elena whispered, her cracked voice foreign, echoing as if from beneath the earth — a ghost’s voice.
“Why not?” Veronika retorted, fluidly drawing the heavy drape aside with a lively motion. Bright, merciless daylight flooded the room, causing Elena to close her eyes, stung by the pain. “You were always too proper, Lena. Too convenient. Did you truly believe self-sacrifice was a virtue? Sadly, dear, in our world, that’s just weakness — a resource cunning people exploit.”
In the doorway appeared Artem, her husband, a ghostly figure. Avoiding her eyes, he stared at the parquet’s intricate pattern, as if searching for an answer to his own cowardice. In his hand hung Elena’s old, worn suitcase — the one she once took confidently on business trips full of hope and strength.
“Artem?” she called, her voice a droplet carrying a desperate, final hope — a lifeline.
He flinched, his shoulders sagging further, yet his eyes never met hers. They were empty.
“I’m sorry, Lena… This… this is better for everyone,” his muffled voice sounded from beneath layers of icy water.
Veronika chuckled triumphantly, a metallic clang in her laugh.
“See? He doesn’t even argue. Men are drawn to strength, to action, to fire. And you… you were just a cozy, warm—but utterly faded—background that made my flame burn brighter.”
She stepped close to the bed, bending so low that Elena felt the warmth of her breath, sweet with expensive coffee, brush her cheek.
“I slept in your sheets, wore your silk robes while you fought for every breath. He looked at me with a hunger — do you hear? — unlike anything he ever gave you. Raw, animal desire… something your righteousness could never evoke.”
Each word was a precise, honed dagger strike—calm, venomous, without tears or hysteria. Just a poisonous whisper amid the tomb-like silence from the man who once swore eternal fidelity.
“Leave,” Elena’s voice barely a whisper, like dying leaves rustling.
“Oh, I’m leaving. But not alone,” Veronika straightened, regal posture commanding. She shot Artem a commanding look. “Darling, don’t just stand there. Pack Elena’s things. She must avoid all stress.”
Like a puppet, Artem entered the room. At last, his eyes met Elena’s. She saw no pain or remorse — only a grey, viscous void. He took the suitcase quietly, dragging it past furniture as if afraid to awaken the ghosts around them.
Elena watched them leave. The physical torment that had plagued her months retreated, replaced by a cold, hard crystallized resolve in the depths where love once lived. Suddenly, she realized she had dwelled for years in a beautifully decorated illusion — a cozy, self-made world that hadn’t collapsed today but had long been decomposing, rotting beneath her denial.
After the door clicked shut, isolating her from them, Elena lay motionless for several minutes before rising painfully from the bed. Her legs trembled and faltered, every step echoing through her body. At the dressing table, her reflection was ghostly: sunken face, waxy skin, dark bruises under weary eyes. But the eyes — they were different now. Devoid of tears, fear, or pleas, replaced by a dry, scorched indifference — a cold peace as unyielding as the moon’s surface.
She grasped her phone with trembling fingers but dialed a number with newfound firmness.
“Mark Semenovich? This is Elena Orlova, Artem’s wife. I need urgent assistance. My husband has made a deadly mistake. A grave one.”
The line fell silent. Mark Semenovich, Artem’s stern, no-nonsense old colleague, weighed his response carefully.
“Lena, what happened? Is Artem alright?”
“He’s fine—more than fine. He just carried my suitcase out with Veronika.”
The pause thickened, tensions tightly coiled.
“I understand. What about money? Documents? What did he sign?” Mark’s voice hardened into a business tone.
“She said “everything.” The house, probably the accounts too. She’s confident, Mark. This isn’t a mere affair; it’s a meticulously plotted scheme.”
“Where are you now?”
“Still here, but I won’t stay. I’m heading to my grandmother’s apartment by the embankment.”
“Good. Don’t touch anything or contact anyone. I’ll be there within an hour. And Lena… try to recall any details Artem mentioned about work these past six months — projects, names, anything. Wait for me.”
She hung up, knowing she had one hour. Her gaze swept the bedroom, twisted into a hostile, alien place within minutes. Weakness threatened again, but now a cold, merciless fury propelled her forward, spreading wings through her hollowed soul.
- Veronika’s clothes hung intertwined brazenly among Elena’s own in the wardrobe.
- Elena did not destroy or throw anything; instead, she accessed a hidden panel behind her closet, revealing a small safe, known only to her and Artem.
- Inside lay documents and several USB drives; she selected the newest, tucked it quietly into her robe pocket.
She messaged an old acquaintance — an information security specialist — requesting urgent, thorough analysis of the drive concerning Artem.
Without looking back, Elena left behind two decades of marriage and the naive woman who forgave and hoped. That Elena was gone; a new self emerged.
At her grandmother’s apartment, Elena found comfort in the familiar scents of aging books, wax polish, and faint dust — tokens of warm ancestral care. Sitting at the sturdy kitchen table, she felt shielded by these relics.
Mark arrived exactly an hour later, his face serious as he sat across from her, setting his leather briefcase before him.
“Tell me everything from the beginning, don’t leave out a detail,” he urged.
Elena recounted her prolonged illness, Veronika’s insidious integration into the family, Artem’s growing distance cloaked in talk of a “highly confidential and promising project.”
“The project…” Mark rubbed his brow tight. “He called it Phoenix. I opposed it strongly — it smelled like a scam. Artem was obsessed and deaf to reason.”
“Was it her idea?” Elena asked quietly and firmly.
“Of Veronika? No doubt now. She once worked at the rival company we bankrupted last autumn. This is her revenge, perfectly orchestrated. She found the weakest link — your husband, blinded by greed and her influence.”
Mark pulled out a folder.
“Worst of all, Artem used my electronic key to sign loan documents collateralizing all our joint assets. I was in Switzerland receiving complex treatment. He called, claiming urgency, life-or-death stakes for the company. I trusted him—foolishly.”
Elena’s clear, icy clarity hardened.
“He couldn’t have done it alone. Lacked the wit and cunning,” she said with unwavering certainty.
“But the fact remains.”
“No,” she shook her head decisively. “He was a puppet. She pulled the strings. I found her drafts in our cloud storage—financial schemes, instructions, step-by-step details for Artem.”
She placed the USB drive on the table.
“My friend analyzed it thoroughly. It’s Artem’s working archive — backups of all transactions and communications from the last year. Though not directly with her, but anonymous addresses. Experts will trace the authorship.”
Mark’s surprise shifted slowly to admiration.
“Elena… I don’t think I ever truly knew you.”
“No one did, Mark Semenovich,” she replied with calm steel. “That was their fatal mistake.”
In the following days, the embankment apartment became a command center for a calculated operation. Mark enlisted his top lawyer, the meticulous Zakharov. They worked relentlessly. Despite physical frailty, Elena drew strength from the core of her cold rage, cross-referencing dates, memories, files, and financial flows.
The unfolding picture was grand and cynical: Veronika played multiple games. Her goal was not just revenge but to bankrupt Artem’s company and creditors, then funnel the freed assets offshore. Artem was a disposable pawn in her elaborate plan.
Key Insight: A well-executed scheme can unravel even the strongest of bonds when deception and ambition collide.
Zakharov removed his glasses.
“We have grounds for criminal charges — massive fraud. The case is clear.”
“That’s not enough,” Elena declared firmly. “Prison is too quick a punishment. They must experience the same crushing void I feel — to lose everything they chased.”
Mark studied her intensely.
“What’s your plan?”
“Arrange a meeting tomorrow at our old office. Tell Veronika Swiss investors interested in Phoenix are coming. She won’t miss the chance to witness our downfall firsthand.”
The next day in the spacious conference room, Artem and Veronika entered. He looked pale, nervous—a trapped animal. She, radiant in a costly couture dress, able to support an entire family for years.
Only Mark and Elena sat at the massive oak table.
“Where are…” Artem began, confused.
“There will be no investors,” Mark said coldly. “The only investor here is me.”
Veronika scoffed.
“Mark Semenovich, enough of these cheap theatrics. Everything is legal. Documents are signed. The house is transferred to me as a gift.”
She cast a venomous glance at Elena.
“You should have watched your husband better instead of moping in sickness.”
Elena remained silent and activated the projector. Documents appeared: asset diversion schemes, detailed signing instructions for Artem, screenshots of offshore communications where Veronika cynically plotted to cheat creditors and Artem himself, leaving him bankrupt.
Veronika’s face turned pale; her makeup smeared alarmingly. Artem stared with mounting primal terror before turning hateful eyes to Veronika — eyes so fierce she recoiled. He understood he was not only deceived but betrayed with his own weapon.
Mark placed two folders on the table.
“One is a police complaint. The other transfers Artem’s business share to me to offset company losses. You will sign now.”
“I’ll sign anything,” Artem stammered, trembling. “She… it’s all her fault! She deceived me! I knew nothing!”
The end was neither heroic nor dramatic. Instead, it was pitiful and humiliating: a traitor abandoning the accomplice to save himself.
Veronika leapt up, rage distorting her lovely face.
“You’ll regret this, old witch! I will destroy you!”
“No,” Elena stood calmly, her quiet voice cracking the room like a whip. “You’ll be sorry, Veronika, for mistaking silence and composure for weakness. Now leave my sight — both of you.”
They left: Artem broken and aged beyond years, Veronika bent under the weight of collapse, choking on powerless fury.
Mark slumped into his chair, suddenly weary.
“Congratulations, Elena Viktorovna. The company is saved. We avoided disaster.”
Looking out the window at the vibrant city life below, Elena felt neither triumph nor malice — only a vast, cleansing relief, like a fever gone and the crisis finally passed.
A month later, she returned briefly to her former house to collect personal belongings. Empty and echoing like a crypt, it no longer reeked of Veronika’s arrogant perfume, surrendering instead to dust and solitude. She felt no nostalgia, no sorrow. The grand home was merely an expensive set in the drama of her previous life.
Her true refuge became her grandmother’s apartment on the embankment. Trained as an art restorer, Elena returned to her craft, beginning with rescuing an ancient dresser coated in layers of paint. As she revived forgotten treasures, she pieced together and healed herself bit by bit.
One evening Mark stopped by, bringing an envelope with the first dividends from Artem’s business share, now rightly hers.
“Thank you, Mark Semenovich,” she said, pushing the envelope aside. “But I have another proposal — allow me to invest this money in the company and work for you, not as an advisor or secretary. You have a vast archive neglected for decades. Let me organize it.”
Mark raised an eyebrow, then smiled genuinely.
“Elena Viktorovna, you never cease to surprise me. Consider it settled.”
As he left, Elena returned to the window, watching the city lights glow like countless stories. She was no longer weak or compliant. She was simply Elena — hardened by betrayal, purified like fire. She had lost the battle for illusion only to triumph in reclaiming herself.
Two Years Later
Now, in her own restoration workshop, filled with the rich aroma of wood, turpentine, varnish, and freshly brewed coffee, Elena presided over brick walls left raw and honest, just like in her apartment.
Within six months, she had impeccably organized Mark Semenovich’s company archive, unearthing lost contracts that unexpectedly profited the firm. He offered her a permanent position as financial consultant, but she declined politely yet firmly.
Instead, she invested her earnings into her dream workshop, employing three talented apprentices. Her reputation grew in elite circles as the restorer capable of reviving the soul of seemingly hopeless antiques.
Occasionally, Elena recalled her past — not with pain but detached curiosity, like studying an artifact. Artem had fallen hard, working menial jobs, plagued by debts and failures. He never comprehended that his success had rested silently on Elena’s care, guiding and protecting him from fatal mistakes. Without her, he was an empty, noisy shell bouncing through life’s hardships.
Once, Artem called, stammering apologies and tales of enchantment by Veronika, begging for money—for his mother’s expensive medicine. Elena answered calmly:
“You had money, Artem. A house. A whole life you willingly traded for a bright but poisonous shell. Learn to live with your choices. I have.”
And hung up. He never called again.
Veronika’s fate was bleaker: spared jail due to powerful connections but stripped of everything — reputation, work, apartment, car, and jewelry sold to cover debts. Elena last saw her in a rundown part of town, carrying a plastic bag from a discount store, her eyes dim and angry, dressed in a tasteless outfit now more pitiful than flashy. Their eyes met briefly — in Veronika’s only hatred remained, jealousy and blame unyielding despite her ruin.
Elena calmly nodded as if acknowledging a stranger and the taxi drove on. Nothing was left — no friendship, hatred, or resentment. Only scorched earth barren of life.
That same evening, Mark visited Elena’s workshop, seeking solace after work—not as a boss, but as a friend. Sitting in an old leather chair, breathing the scent of wood and creativity, sipping her signature coffee, they talked not of business but books, music, and cherished old films.
“I’m tired, Elena Viktorovna,” he admitted, stretching in pleasure. “Sometimes I wish I could quit it all and start sanding and varnishing something myself.”
“It looks simple,” she smiled, caressing the silky surface of the Art Nouveau desk she was restoring, “but demands infinite patience and absolute honesty with the material.”
“I know. You taught me that the most precious things require both,” he said warmly, deeply respectful. “I’m glad you called me that day, two years ago.”
“Me too, Mark Semenovich,” she sincerely replied.
Their relationship remained warm, pure, and friendly — neither sought more, both found in each other rare, genuine human warmth unburdened by obligations or passions.
Alone in her workshop, Elena put on melancholic music, donned her paint-stained apron, and picked up her carving tool. Ahead lay a long night of meticulous, beloved creation.
She no longer feared solitude. She understood the difference between loneliness and wholeness. One can feel utterly alone amid a crowd or profoundly at peace with oneself. She chose the latter and for the first time in years felt truly, deeply, peacefully happy.