My stepfather declared, ‘You’ll be a maid in my house,’ unaware that I had every intention of taking everything he owned,” I muttered under my breath, barely able to believe what he had just said.
As I stood in the entrance hall of what had once been my home, I grasped the handle of an old suitcase. After three long years away, the place felt foreign now.
Gennady Pavlovich stood towering before me, his presence imposing. His eyes, full of authority, gave off the unmistakable air of someone who viewed power not as an accident, but as their birthright.
“I need some time to collect my thoughts. It’s been a tough time for me,” I replied softly, perhaps too softly for my liking.
He scoffed. “Collect your thoughts? In my house, Anastasia, I’m the one who makes decisions. After your mother’s passing, everything belongs to me. Every single thing.”
Behind him, the living room—a place my mother had cherished—came into view. It was adorned with her personal touches: framed photographs, delicate embroidery, and cherished keepsakes.
One photograph caught my eye—a picture of my mother, smiling among the flowers she had lovingly cultivated in the conservatory she built with her own hands.
“If you stay,” Gennady Pavlovich continued, his tone dripping with self-assurance as he removed his expensive jacket and tossed it over an armchair, “you’ll serve as my maid. You’ll cook, clean, do laundry… as it should be.”
The word “servant” echoed in my mind, stinging like a slap to the face.
“Servant?” I repeated, my cheeks burning with both anger and humiliation.
“Yes, exactly,” he replied smugly, heading to the kitchen where he grabbed a bottle of Château Margaux, the same wine my mother reserved for special occasions. “Your room upstairs is just as you left it. You’ll settle in there. Tomorrow, you’ll get your list of chores.”
I trudged up the stairs, memories flooding my mind—the laughter of my mother and me as we passed each other on those very steps.
My room had remained frozen in time: the bed with its patchwork quilt, the bookshelves filled with Russian literature, the desk by the window overlooking the garden.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I looked down at my calloused hands—hands that had once held promise. Now, they were a reminder of all I had lost: my job at a prestigious publishing house, my apartment, my relationship with Maxim, who had deemed our love “a beautiful mistake.”
I could hear my mother’s calm voice in my head, as if she were sitting beside me. “Everything will be yours, Nastya. I’ve taken care of the paperwork.” That was a month before she passed. Despite her illness, she had continued to work, never showing weakness.
We had sat together in the garden, sipping blackcurrant compote under the old apple tree, and she had spoken matter-of-factly: “The house, the land, the business—they’re all yours.” I had shrugged it off then, thinking she was invincible. Four weeks later, she was gone.
Returning home, I felt like a shadow in the place that once meant everything to me. Penniless, without a plan, and with the growing suspicion that everything had gone wrong after her death. The house, the business, everything had been transferred to Gennady Pavlovich, despite the fact that my mother had always kept her distance from him.
The sound of an engine outside snapped me out of my thoughts. A black Range Rover pulled up to the porch, and two men stepped out—one in a sharp suit, the other holding a leather folder. They entered the house, and soon muffled voices reached my ears.
“… the land under the greenhouses is entirely at my disposal,” Gennady Pavlovich boasted. “I can start negotiating with the developers tomorrow.”
“What about the inheritance documents?” the guest asked. “Is everything in order?”
“Of course,” my stepfather laughed, clearly pleased with himself. “Who’s going to question it? His daughter? She can’t even remember what papers she signed.”
My heart raced. Papers? I hadn’t signed anything. The fog in my mind began to clear.
A plan began to form, sharp and clear—a plan that required patience.
I was not going to be a servant in my own mother’s house. I would become a hunter, and my prey would be my stepfather.
If my mother had left a will, I was going to find it.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of Gennady Pavlovich’s voice, cutting through my sleep like a blade. “Get up. Breakfast in fifteen minutes. Don’t forget the greenhouses.”
I dressed quickly, tying my hair in a bun. Looking at my reflection, I saw someone who had found a purpose—not the confused woman I had been the day before.
In the kitchen, Gennady Pavlovich was absorbed in the stock market reports, sipping coffee from my mother’s favorite cup. The sight was almost too much to bear.
He handed me a list of chores scrawled on a piece of paper. “And remember your place,” he sneered.
I nodded, trying not to let my trembling hands show.
I spent the morning completing my chores, but my mind kept returning to the mystery of the missing will. Where had it gone?
I checked every drawer, scanned every corner of the house. The stepfather’s study was locked. I needed irrefutable evidence before I could confront him.
By lunchtime, my suspicions grew stronger, but my breakthrough came when I found a business card for Viktor Semyonovich Klimov, a notary. It was a name my mother had mentioned when she spoke of the will. I tucked the card away carefully.
Later that afternoon, I feigned exhaustion as I passed Gennady Pavlovich, who didn’t even glance at me. “The floor in the living room,” I said, pretending to be nonchalant.
I retrieved the key from the old shed in the yard, where my mother had stored her personal records. After some searching, I found the antique oak buffet that had always been locked. Inside, I discovered a thick envelope containing the will—signed by my mother, though not yet formalized.
Just then, I heard Gennady Pavlovich’s voice. “What are you doing there?” he demanded.
I hid the will behind my back, playing it cool. “Just cleaning the shelves,” I lied. “Mother kept household items there.”
His suspicion was evident, but he said nothing more, allowing me to retreat upstairs.
That evening, as Gennady Pavlovich relaxed with a glass of whiskey, I gathered my courage. I had the evidence I needed.
The next day, I visited Viktor Semyonovich, the notary who had worked with my mother. His face went pale when he saw the will, and after hearing the confession recorded on my tape recorder, he agreed to help me.
With legal advice from Viktor Semyonovich and support from Irina Stepanovna, my mother’s friend, I began the process to expose my stepfather’s fraud.
The battle was long, but in the end, justice prevailed. Gennady Pavlovich was convicted of fraud, and my mother’s property and business were restored to me.
Three months later, I stood in the living room of the house where I had grown up, now mine again. The garden outside bloomed with life, the greenhouses were flourishing, and the family business, “Forget-Me-Not,” was once again thriving.
I visited my mother’s grave, feeling her presence as I whispered, “I’ve protected what you left me. I’ve become strong because of you.”
I am no longer a servant. I am the mistress of this house. I am Anastasia, and I’ve taken back what’s rightfully mine.