Holding a bunch of keys in his hand, Nikita stood before the entrance to his own apartment. As a pilot for international airlines, three weeks away on a business trip felt unusually long. However, a contract with a new airline required his attendance at training sessions in Dubai.
Upon entering the hallway, a scent unfamiliar to him greeted Nikita. The air carried the sharp notes of bergamot intertwined with an unknown cologne. Frowning, he noticed the absence of the gentle floral fragrance that Varvara, his wife, typically favored.
Before Nikita could even insert the key, the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was a man around thirty-five years old, appearing fit and dressed in an expensive shirt. His watch seemed to be worth half of Nikita’s annual salary.
“Who are you?” Nikita took a step back, eyeing the stranger carefully from head to toe.
The man smiled calmly, with a hint of condescension. “I am Svyatoslav. And you must be Nikita, right? Varya has told me a lot about you.”
The use of “Varya” struck Nikita; such intimacy was reserved only for those very close to her.
“Where is my wife?” Nikita’s voice hardened.
From deep within the apartment, Varvara appeared. She was dressed in a new emerald green silk robe, her hair loose instead of tied back as usual at home. “You were supposed to come back tomorrow,” she said.
“The flight was rescheduled,” he replied, glancing between Varvara and Svyatoslav. “Could you explain what’s going on here?”
Varvara moved closer but stopped beside Svyatoslav, not Nikita.
“We need to talk. Please, come in.”
“In my own apartment? Thanks for the permission.” Nikita walked past them, dropping his backpack by the entrance.
The living room had undergone changes. Heavy dark red curtains hung, and on the coffee table were two mugs and a plate holding partly eaten croissants. A man’s jacket lay over the sofa.
“Sit down,” Varvara gestured toward his favorite armchair, where he usually watched football.
“I’ll stand.”
Svyatoslav settled on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, clearly comfortable.
“Nikita, I understand this is shocking,” Varvara began cautiously. “But Svyatoslav and I have been together for two months now.”
“Two months,” Nikita echoed bitterly. “So, while I was flying and working hard, you…”
“Don’t oversimplify it!” Varvara snapped, lifting her chin. “You’re always away on flights, barely home for a week each month. I was tired of being alone.”
“We talked about this. Just another year or two and I’d switch to domestic flights. We were saving for a house outside the city…”
“You were saving. I was just surviving within these four walls.”
Svyatoslav then rose and placed his hand possessively on Varvara’s shoulder.
“Nikita, let’s handle this calmly. Varvara deserves to be happy.”
“With you?” Nikita scoffed. “Who are you to decide what my wife deserves?”
“I own the ‘Olymp’ fitness club chain. Maybe you’ve heard of it. I can provide Varvara with the life she wants.”
“So, it all comes down to money?”
“Not just money,” Varvara averted her gaze. “Svyatoslav is present. He sees me, hears me. With him, I feel like a woman, not just part of an empty apartment.”
Nikita slowly sank into the armchair. Seven years of marriage—now it seemed like an illusion.
“What’s next? A divorce?”
“Yes. I’ve already prepared the documents. They’re on the bedroom table.”
“How thoughtful of you.”
“The apartment will stay with you,” added Svyatoslav. “Varvara is moving in with me. I have a penthouse in ‘Golden Keys’.”
Nikita knew that property prices there equaled the cost of a three-bedroom apartment in their neighborhood.
“How generous of you to leave me with MY apartment.”
“Nikita, don’t start,” Varvara grimaced. “We’re trying to resolve this peacefully.”
“Peacefully? You betrayed me, and now you talk about peace?”
“I didn’t betray. I chose happiness.”
“With Svyatoslav? Do you even know each other?”
“Enough to know we are meant for each other,” Svyatoslav wrapped his arm around Varvara’s waist.
Nikita rose.
“I have one condition. Varvara, I want to speak to you alone.”
“Why? It’s all decided.”
“Seven years, Varya. Just ten minutes.”
She looked at Svyatoslav, who nodded approvingly.
“Fine. Svyatoslav, please wait in the kitchen.”
Alone, Nikita moved to the window. Below, a white Porsche was parked at the entrance. Of course.
“Remember our wedding?” he asked without turning. “You said you were willing to wait for me from the edge of the world.”
“People tend to misjudge what they can endure.”
“And Elsa? You wanted a child. We even picked a name.”
“Svyatoslav doesn’t want kids. I realized I don’t either. He’s enough for me.”
Nikita turned around.
“He’s married.”
“What? No. He’s been divorced for three years.”
“Check his phone. Look at the pictures. Or does he hide it from you?”
Varvara frowned.
“That’s silly. Why would he lie?”
“For the same reason many married men with affairs lie. Beautiful stories, expensive gifts, promises. You think you’re the first? Or the last?”
“Enough! You’re just jealous. Can’t accept that I chose someone else.”
“I’m trying to warn you. On the twelfth floor of ‘Golden Keys’ lives Svyatoslav Igorevich with his wife Angelina and children Miroslava and Elisei. You can verify.”
“How do you…”
“A colleague rents nearby. He’s seen them more than once.”
Varvara shook her head.
“No. You’re lying. You want to ruin everything.”
“Believe or check. But when you’re standing on the street with a suitcase, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Svyatoslav emerged from the kitchen.
“Is everything alright, darling?”
“Yes,” Varvara took his arm. “Nikita is leaving.”
“The papers are on the table,” Svyatoslav added. “Sign them, and the lawyers will handle the rest.”
Nikita entered the bedroom they once shared, now filled with unfamiliar cologne and a stranger’s shirt. On the table lay a folder of documents. Without reading, he grabbed it.
“I’ll sign and send it by mail,” he said as he left.
“Nikita!” Varvara called out. “Leave the keys.”
He took the keys from the keychain and placed them on the hallway table. Nearby lay a man’s wallet—likely Svyatoslav’s. On impulse, Nikita opened it. Among the credit cards was a photo of Svyatoslav embracing a beautiful blonde woman with two children beside them. On the back, a note read: “To my beloved husband and father. Sochi, 2024.”
Nikita returned the wallet and left.
“Years can shatter illusions, but truth always surfaces.”
Processing the Shock
The hotel room at the “Ivolga” was costly, but Nikita sought solitude, avoiding explanations to friends and family. He needed time to consider everything.
He spread the divorce papers on the bed. A standard agreement: property divided equally, but Varvara relinquished her share to Nikita—a generous gesture since the apartment was already in his name.
His phone vibrated; a message from an unknown number: “This is Svyatoslav. I hope you make the right decision. Varvara will be well with me.”
Nikita deleted it without replying.
The next three days progressed in a daze. He went to work, talked with colleagues, yet thoughts continued to return to Varvara—to their first meeting at the airport, where she worked in duty free, their engagement atop a Barcelona observation deck, and their now dashed future plans.
- Memories of their wedding day
- Dreams of owning a house outside the city
- The harsh reality of betrayal
On the fourth day, his mother-in-law, Zinaida Pavlovna, called.
“Nikita, is it true? Varya told me you’re divorcing?”
“She didn’t share the details?”
“She said she found someone else. But I don’t believe it! You had such a good life.”
“Apparently, it wasn’t as good as I thought.”
“Come over. Maybe something can be fixed.”
Zinaida lived in an old five-story on Veresaeva. She greeted Nikita in an apron, cooking.
“Come in. I cooked borscht, your favorite.”
During the meal, she sought details, but Nikita kept answers brief, not wanting to tarnish Varvara’s image in her mother’s eyes.
“And this… Svyatoslav? What kind of man is he?”
“Wealthy. Successful. He can give your daughter whatever she desires.”
“Happiness can’t be bought with money.”
“Varvara thinks differently.”
Zinaida sighed.
“I will talk to her. She’s passionate and might have made a mistake.”
“No need. She’s an adult and made her choice.”
After lunch, as Nikita prepared to leave, Zinaida stopped him.
“Wait. I want to show you something.”
She brought out an old photo album, opening to a page with wedding pictures. Young and happy Nikita and Varvara stood there, she in a simple white dress, he in a rented suit. Their eyes sparkled with joy.
“She truly loved you.”
“That love has faded.”
“Or maybe something else overshadowed it. Nikita, don’t give up. Fight for your family.”
“Fight against what? Money? Svyatoslav’s penthouse? Him being present while I’m in the sky?”
“Against lies. I’ve found out about him. He has a questionable reputation.”
“How so?”
“My neighbor works at the tax office. There are several cases against Svyatoslav for fake schemes and tax evasions. He’s holding on thanks to good lawyers, but it won’t last forever.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“What if Varvara gets involved? She lives with him now. If something surfaces, she’ll be affected too.”
Nikita pondered; despite everything, he wished no harm upon Varvara.
“What should I do?”
“Talk to her again. Warn her. Then let her decide.”
Confronting the Truth
Varvara was reluctant at first, and Svyatoslav seemed opposed. Yet, Nikita insisted a meeting to discuss property division—some belongings held sentimental value.
They met at the “Mirabel” café, neutral ground.
Varvara arrived wearing an expensive designer dress, diamond earrings new to Nikita’s eyes, and flawless makeup conveying confidence, yet dark circles betrayed hidden turmoil.
“Hello,” she greeted, sitting opposite him.
“Hi. You look good.”
“Thanks. Did you want to talk about something?”
“Yes. First, how are you really?”
“Great. Svyatoslav is very caring. He took me on a spa weekend yesterday out of town.”
“Does his family not mind?”
A sharp movement from Varvara. “I told you, he’s not married.”
“Varya, I saw a photo in his wallet—recent, from this year.”
“You’re lying!”
“Why would I? I’m worried about you.”
Varvara pulled out her phone and dialed. “Svyatoslav? Where are you? At a meeting?… With whom?… Okay, understood. Yes, I’m at the café with a friend… No, all’s well… Bye.” She hung up, hands trembling.
“He’s at a business meeting.”
“On a Sunday?”
“He has a business, Nikita. Unlike you—off for three weeks with no issues.”
“Your mother told me there are serious tax cases against Svyatoslav.”
“She’s just trying to drive a wedge between us. She’s always been on your side.”
“Or trying to protect you. If he gets convicted, you’ll get dragged into his schemes.”
Varvara stood up.
“I’m tired of your attempts to destroy everything. Sign the papers and leave me alone!” She left without a farewell. Nikita remained, staring at her unfinished coffee.
Starting Over and Facing the Fallout
A month passed. Nikita signed the divorce papers and sent them to Varvara, beginning anew. He rented an apartment near the airport and took extra flights, using work to distract from pain.
One evening after returning from Istanbul, he found Zinaida waiting at his door.
“Nikita! Thank God you’re back.”
“What happened?”
“Varvara… she’s in the hospital.”
“An accident?”
“No. Nervous breakdown. Svyatoslav… that scoundrel…”
She calmed down after water, recounting:
“Three days ago, Angelina, Svyatoslav’s wife, came to see Varvara.”
Nikita nodded, expecting this.
“She caused a scene. Turns out Svyatoslav regularly has affairs. Varvara is his fifth in two years. All promised divorces and new lives but he always returns to Angelina—who has influential family connections helping him stay afloat.”
“And Varvara?”
“She didn’t believe it at first. But Angelina showed messages from previous girlfriends. Same words, gifts, guarantees.”
“He’s vile.”
“Varvara confronted him. He denied then got angry, blaming her for pushing herself on him. Said he never intended to divorce, only wanted fun.”
“What a beast.”
“Varvara gathered her things to leave, but the ‘Golden Keys’ security wouldn’t let her out—Svyatoslav accused her of stealing his watch. Police were called. Though she was searched and nothing was found, the humiliation broke her.”
“Which hospital?”
“Botkin, ward 507.”
Now weak and pale, lying with an IV, Varvara turned her face from Nikita upon his visit.
“Go away.”
“Your mother asked me to come.”
“Here to mock? To say ‘I warned you’?”
“To check that you’re alright.”
“Alright? I lost everything—husband, home, dignity. They searched me like a thief in front of neighbors.”
“You didn’t lose a husband. You left him.”
Looking at him with tear-filled eyes, she confessed:
“I was a fool. I fell for the allure of a glamorous life, for attention. Svyatoslav spoke sweetly, gave gifts, took me to restaurants. And you…”
“I was in the sky, earning for our dream.”
“Your dream. The house outside the city was your dream. Mine was simpler—to have my husband near.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did. Many times. But you only heard what you wanted.”
They were silent for a moment.
“What will you do now?” Nikita asked.
“I don’t know. Mom wants me to come home, but I don’t want to be a burden. I’ll find a job and rent an apartment.”
“They might take you back at duty free. I could put in a word.”
“After all I’ve done, you’d still help me?”
“Seven years, Varya. Not all bad.”
She cried quietly, covering her face with a pillow.
“Forgive me. For everything.”
“Already forgiven.”
Healing and Moving Forward
Varvara was discharged a week later. Nikita met her and accompanied her to her mother’s apartment. She left behind most of Svyatoslav’s expensive gifts.
“Thank you,” she whispered at the entrance.
“Take care.”
As he turned to leave, she called out:
“Nikita! The divorce papers—I never submitted them.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe deep down, I knew it was a mistake.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know. It’s up to you. If you want a divorce, I won’t stand in your way.”
Nikita looked at her—confused and unhappy but still familiar.
“Let’s not rush. Time will tell.”
Six months passed.
Nikita switched to domestic flights, earning less but finally home every night. He rented a place near Zinaida to help with errands and small repairs.
Varvara found work as a medical center administrator. The pay was modest but steady. They occasionally met accidentally or to discuss legal matters concerning the apartment. These meetings turned more frequent—sharing coffee after work, walking in the park, and cautiously discussing the past without blame.
“You know what I realized?” Varvara said once. “We were both wrong—you for not hearing me; me for seeking a solution elsewhere.”
“People learn from their mistakes.”
“If they survive them.”
Then came news: Svyatoslav was arrested. The tax authorities gathered enough evidence. His father-in-law was also under investigation for abuses and could no longer assist him.
“Imagine, his lawyer called me,” Varvara shared. “Asked me to testify on his behalf, say he’s generous and caring. I refused.”
“You did the right thing.”
“Angelina filed for divorce, took the kids, and moved to her parents in Yekaterinburg. The fitness clubs are seized, debts of millions.”
“Poor children. They’re not to blame.”
“Miroslava and Elisei… beautiful names.”
They fell silent.
“Nikita, can I ask something?”
“Of course.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“No. And you?”
“No. After Svyatoslav… I can’t trust again.”
“That will pass. It takes time.”
“And if it doesn’t? If I’m broken forever?”
“You’re not broken, just more cautious. That’s not always a bad thing.”
Varvara gazed at him long and said quietly:
“Could we try again? Not now, later. When we’re both ready.”
“We could. But it would be a different story. Different people.”
“Maybe different is better than before.”
“Maybe.”
The Trial and Aftermath
The courtroom was stifling. Svyatoslav sat in the defendant’s cage, looking gaunt in a crumpled shirt, his luxury watch gone. The prosecutor read charges: tax evasion, large-scale fraud, money laundering—the list was extensive.
“The defendant organized a criminal network causing state losses of 380 million rubles…”
Svyatoslav stared blankly ahead. His lawyer scribbled notes, but defeat was evident.
During a break, Investigator Evdokia Arkadyevna approached.
“Mr. Vetrov, this is your last chance to reduce your sentence. Name all involved.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Eight years in a high-security colony are the minimum. Think of the children.”
“My mistake? Not the schemes, but thinking money could buy love, loyalty, happiness. Money fades; you’re left with nothing.”
“Philosophy won’t help you. Decide—cooperate or face full term.”
Svyatoslav lowered his head.
“I’ll think about it.”
Two months later, the sentence was announced: seven years in a high-security facility and property confiscation. Svyatoslav listened silently, emotionless. As they led him away, he glanced back at the courtroom.
A month after the trial, Varvara and Nikita met at the civil registry office to formally divorce, this time by mutual agreement and without drama. Varvara moved to her mother’s modest two-room apartment, working as a cashier at a grocery store—simple but honest labor. Evenings were spent helping her mother, watching television, and going to bed early. Life was peaceful yet grey. Occasionally, she missed the past—not the shallow shine of Svyatoslav, but the happier time with Nikita when youth and hope still burned. Yet she knew the path back was closed, and she had sealed it herself.
Meanwhile, Nikita remained in their apartment, removing all reminders of their shared life and renovating. He flew domestic routes, read in the evenings, went to the gym, and socialized with friends. Solitude didn’t weigh on him—in fact, after betrayal, silence and calm felt like luxury. Though colleagues tried introducing him to others, he declined politely, believing it was too soon. Perhaps one day he might find love again, but definitely not with the one who once betrayed him. Nikita learned a simple truth: it is better to be alone than with someone untrustworthy. Paradoxically, this realization brought him real freedom and happiness.
In summary, this story captures a journey through betrayal, loss, and eventual healing. It highlights the complexities of relationships impacted by absence, temptation, and harsh realities. Ultimately, it offers hope that even after profound pain, one can find peace and new beginnings by embracing truth and self-respect.