Who’s messaging you at 2 AM?” the husband asked. His wife showed him the screen, and his face went pale

“I’ve always dreamed of having a place of my own,” I said with a faint smile, my eyes fixed on the keys he held.
“And I’ve always had one,” he replied, flashing that same smile that once made my heart skip a beat but now filled me with nothing but disgust.
It was already 9:30 PM. I checked my phone for the hundredth time—still no messages from Sergey. The dinner I had carefully prepared had gone cold, the candles had burned out, and the wine, uncorked two hours ago, had lost both its aroma and its meaning—just like our relationship.
The sudden slam of the front door made the glass in the china cabinet tremble. Sergey stormed in, pulling at his tie with irritation. His expensive cologne filled the air—but it wasn’t the one I had given him for our anniversary.
“Where have you been?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
He scoffed, tossing his briefcase onto the couch. “Do I have to give you a full report now? I work. Someone has to pay the bills.”
I bit my lip. Six years of climbing the corporate ladder, three promotions, yet to him, I remained just a woman with “career ambitions.”
“I made dinner. I wanted to talk to you about something important,” I started.
“Oh, Anya, not this again.” He sighed dramatically. “I’m tired of the complaints, the staged candlelit dinners, the constant dissatisfaction. You live in some fantasy world, but life isn’t a romance novel.”
A lump formed in my throat, but I refused to let him see my pain.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice unexpectedly firm. “It’s not a love story. It’s a detective novel. And you, Sergey, are the main villain.”
His laughter cut through the air like a knife, sharp and cruel.
The divorce was swift, as if he had been planning it for months. The apartment, the one I had poured my heart and money into, stayed with him. “Legally, it’s mine,” he said casually, as if discussing an old jacket he no longer needed.
With Marina’s help, I found a small but cozy rental in a different district. “It’s only temporary,” she reassured me. I nodded, pretending to believe her.
“The worst part?” I admitted one evening, pouring wine into two glasses in my tiny new kitchen. “I really loved him. Not the apartment, not the status—him.”
“And he only loved himself,” Marina said, handing me a napkin. “Maybe it’s time you learned to do 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 conquering the world?
“You’re right,” I said, downing the wine in one gulp. “It’s time to love myself. And something else.”
“What’s that?” she asked curiously.
“Revenge.”
For the first time in a long while, I smiled—and it felt real.
—
A month after the divorce, I moved through life on autopilot. Work, home, repeat. Marina joked that I had become a zombie from ‘The Walking Dead’—just one in designer heels. Maybe she was right.
“You can’t stay locked in here forever,” she declared, bursting into my apartment with wine and pizza. “And no, working late doesn’t count as socializing.”
“I’m not isolating,” I argued, shutting my laptop. “I’m adapting.”
She rolled her eyes. “Honey, you’re not a coral reef—you don’t need centuries to adapt. By the way, remember the project presentation next week?”
I groaned. Of course, I remembered. The project I had spent six months on would either be my triumph or my downfall. Honestly, the latter seemed more likely.
—
The morning of the presentation started with me spilling coffee on my white blouse. A sign, perhaps? A year ago, this would have thrown me off. Today, I just laughed. What could be worse than losing a husband and an apartment?
“Anna Viktorovna,” called Alexey Petrovich, our director. “A moment?”
I braced myself as I followed him into his office. Was this the moment he would cancel my presentation?
“I reviewed your materials last night,” he said. “I have a proposal.”
I swallowed hard, expecting the worst.
“How do you feel about leading a new department?”
“Excuse me?” I blinked, sure I had misheard.
“Our strategic development division. Your project is exactly what we need, and frankly, you’re the best person to lead it.”
“But… what about Mikhail Stepanovich?” I asked, still in shock.
“He took an offer from the competition. Honestly? I’m relieved. Your approach is far more innovative.”
By the end of the day, my head was spinning. The presentation was a triumph, the promotion offer sat in my inbox, and my phone buzzed with congratulations.
“I told you so!” Marina beamed over champagne in our favorite bar. “You were always better than him. He just dimmed your light.”
I smirked. “And now, I think I’ll buy my own apartment.”
“With pink curtains?” she teased.
“Absolutely.”
—
Six months later, my new apartment (yes, with pink curtains) felt like home. No compromises, no “What would Sergey think?”—just what I wanted.
“You’ve changed,” Marina observed over lunch. “And not just the haircut or the wardrobe.”
She was right. I had changed. The timid woman who once revolved around a man was gone. Now, I made decisions for myself—and owned them.
“You know what’s funny?” I mused. “I’m actually grateful to him.”
“To Sergey?!” She nearly choked on her salad.
I nodded. “If not for his betrayal, I’d still be in his shadow.”
That day started like any other. But as I passed through the office lobby, I overheard whispers.
“…Confirmed by headquarters. The entire Moscow branch is moving under her leadership.”
I stopped in my tracks.
“Anna Viktorovna will oversee thirty employees.”
A slow, triumphant smile spread across my face. Thirty people. A new challenge. A new chapter.
And then I heard something that made my blood sing.
“You know who works there, right? Sergey Vitalievich. Her ex-husband.”
Oh, fate had a sense of humor.
That evening, I stared at my reflection. The power suit fit like armor. My confidence radiated from every inch of me.
“Well, Sergey Vitalievich,” I whispered. “Ready to meet your new boss?”
Marina’s text vibrated on my phone:
‘Heard the news! How do you feel?’
I smirked, typing back: ‘Life is the best screenwriter. It just wrote the perfect ending to my story.’
‘Ending?’ Marina replied. ‘I think it’s just the beginning.’
The first meeting with Sergey was like stepping onto a battlefield. His face drained of color when he saw me standing at the head of the conference table.
“For those who don’t know,” I began smoothly, “I’m Anna Viktorovna, your new manager. Looking forward to working with you all.”
Sergey was too stunned to speak.
After the meeting, he caught me in the hallway. “Anya, this has to be a mistake!”
I arched a brow. “Do you have work-related concerns, Sergey Vitalievich?”
He gritted his teeth. “You’ve changed.”
I smiled. “I’ve always been like this. You just never noticed.”
A few months later, Sergey resigned. That evening, Marina and I toasted under the soft glow of my pink curtains.
“To strong women,” she said.
“And to those who underestimated them,” I added, raising my glass.