You know, I’ve always dreamed of having my own place,” I said with a faint smile, looking at the keys he held in his hands. “And I’ve always had my own place,” he replied with that same smile, which now only caused me disgust.
It was already 9:30 PM. I checked my phone again—no messages from Sergey. Dinner had long gone cold, the candles had burned out, and the wine I had opened two hours ago had lost all its aroma, just like our relationship.
Suddenly, the front door slammed so hard that the glass in the china cabinet rattled. Sergey burst into the apartment, carelessly removing his tie. He smelled of expensive perfume—not the one I gave him for our anniversary.
“Why are you late?” I asked, trying to stay calm. “What, do I have to report to you now?” he threw back, tossing his briefcase on the sofa. “I work, you know. Someone has to support this house.”
I bit my lip. Six years of career growth at a major company, three promotions, and still, to him, I remained just a “woman with career ambitions.”
“I made dinner. I wanted to discuss something important…” I started.
“You know what, Anya?” he interrupted. “I’m tired. Tired of these endless complaints, your constant dissatisfaction, these staged candlelit dinners. You live in some kind of romance novel, but it doesn’t work.”
I froze. A lump formed in my throat, but I wasn’t going to show him my tears.
“You’re right,” my voice sounded firmer than I expected. “I do live in a novel. Only it’s not a love story. It’s a detective story. And you’re the main antagonist.”
His laugh sliced through the air like a whip. That sound painfully echoed inside me.
The divorce process went quickly, as if Sergey had prepared for it in advance. The apartment we created together, where I invested not only money but also a piece of my soul, remained his. “Legally, it belongs to me,” he said calmly, as if it were an old t-shirt.
Marina, my best friend, helped me find a temporary rental apartment in a nearby district. Small but cozy. “It’s only temporary,” she repeated, and I nodded, trying to believe her words.
“You know what the worst part is?” I asked, pouring wine into glasses in the new tiny kitchen. “I really loved him. Not the apartment, not the status, not the lifestyle, but him himself.”
“And he only loved himself,” Marina handed me a napkin. “And you know what? It’s time you learned this art too.”
I looked at my reflection in the window. Before me was a tired woman with a dimmed gaze. Was this really me? The same Anna who once dreamed of conquering the world at university?
“You’re right,” I said resolutely, finishing the wine in one gulp. “It’s time to learn to love myself. And something else.”
“What’s that?” Marina inquired.
“Revenge,” I answered, and for the first time in a long time, my smile was genuine.
A month after the divorce, I existed as if on autopilot. Work, home, back to work. I tried not to think about the past and avoided the temptation to check Sergey’s social networks. Marina joked that I had become like a zombie from “The Walking Dead,” only dressed. Perhaps she was right.
“You can’t isolate yourself in this apartment forever,” Marina declared one evening, bursting in with a bottle of wine and a box of pizza. “And no, working until midnight doesn’t count as normal social activity.”
“I’m not isolating,” I countered, closing the laptop. “Just… adapting.”
“Adapting?” She snorted, pulling two glasses from her bag. “Honey, you’re not a coral reef, needing centuries to adapt. By the way, remember the presentation of the new project next week?”
I groaned. Of course, I remembered. The project I had been working on for the last six months was supposed to be either my triumph or my downfall. Honestly, the latter seemed more likely, given the current state of my life.
