The door lock clicked surprisingly quietly. Dasha held the heavy metal handle tightly, every muscle tense so that no sound would escape. In the hallway, the smell of food wafting from the kitchen mixed with an overly strong lavender scent—an unmistakable sign that Zinaida Fedorovna had once again dropped by unannounced.
Dasha carefully slipped off her suede boots. The icy dampness of the doormat seeped through her thin cotton socks, chilling the soles of her feet unpleasantly. She hung her coat on the rack as dull noises filtered through from the kitchen.
“Do you understand, my son, an opportunity like this must not be missed,” Zinaida Fedorovna whispered excitedly, as the teaspoon clinked against the porcelain cup. “She’ll sell her two-room apartment and give the money to you. We’ll immediately put the new apartment in my name.
You can say it’s to avoid taxes. And she’ll believe it—she’s so naive.”“Mom… what if she refuses?” Maxim’s voice was uncertain, but there was no hint of guilt. “She’s been paying off the mortgage for five years, even before we met. She can barely manage the payments.”
“So what? You’re family now!” the mother-in-law huffed, the creak of the chair in the silence sounding almost ominous. “The man should be the master of the house. Otherwise, the woman feels like the boss in her own territory. We put it in my name, and if she doesn’t like it,
we’ll send her off with a suitcase. We’ll find you a proper, obedient wife. Svetočka from the neighboring building has already shown interest in you.”Dasha recoiled. Something icy and viscous squeezed her chest. She clutched the wool of her coat with her hands.
No tears fell—only a bitter realization: she had spent the past three years living with these people.She backed quietly into the stairwell, closed the door, and pressed the elevator button. She needed to get out, to breathe fresh air and calm her racing heart.
The calm, calculating words of the closest people, who wanted to throw her out on the street, still rang in her ears.When she reached the first floor, Dasha stepped out into the cold, snowy street. The icy wind whipped her hair and slapped her face.
She just walked, ignoring the path, while fragments of memory swirled in her mind: how she had denied herself small joys, saved every penny for the apartment deposit, stayed up late wallpapering, massaging her aching shoulders.
How happy she had been when she first met Maxim—he had genuinely been attentive and caring in the first months, bringing cheap but sweet bouquets of chrysanthemums, making breakfast on weekends. Then came the endless searches for herself.
She remembered last night: Dasha was standing in the kitchen, whipping thick cream for the wedding cake, her tired hands shaking. Maxim entered and clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction at the empty pan:“Dasha, where’s dinner? I’ve been at job interviews all day like a dog, and there’s nothing to eat.”
By “job interviews,” he meant drinking with old classmates, discussing the “brilliant” plan for a car wash network.Dasha worked as a pastry chef for hours on end, fulfilling private orders until midnight, baking multi-tiered masterpieces. The kitchen was always filled with the scent of vanilla, cinnamon, and caramel.
Her hands were often red and blotchy from the heat, her back ached from long hours on her feet, yet she never complained. She believed it was only temporary hardship.She lay down on a bench under a tree in a park and took out her phone. The cold stiffened her fingers, but she eventually found the right number.
“Hi, Olya,” she said, trying to sound calm. “Are you free today? I really need your help. As a lawyer and as a friend.”“Dasha? What’s this rush?” Olya’s voice was lively, cars humming in the background. “Come to my office, I’m free until noon.”
Forty minutes later, they were sitting in a small office with Olya. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mixed with paper dust filled the air. Dasha clutched a hot paper cup and recounted the entire conversation she had overheard.
Olya listened quietly, tapping her pen on the desk.“Alright,” Olya began. “Her mother wants to secure her son at your expense. Classic case. And what are you doing? Screaming? Breaking things?”“I don’t know…” Dasha stared at the dark coffee grounds at the bottom of her cup. “Tell her the truth? Kick her out today?”
“You’ll always have time to kick her out,” Olya smiled. “But if you yell, she’ll deny everything. She’ll say you misunderstood. No, my dear, we have to act subtly. Let them think you’re a naive little girl, and keep them believing it to the end.”
“What do you suggest?” Dasha raised her head, a tiny spark of hope igniting inside her.“Tomorrow morning, cheerfully tell your husband you agree to the expansion. Say you found a buyer for your apartment. And meanwhile…” Olya pulled out a clean sheet of paper and quickly began to sketch.
“Do you have a cousin in a nearby town you completely trust?”“Yes, Kostya. We grew up together.”“Perfect. We’ll handle the real deal within the family. You sell the apartment to Kostya, the money goes into a secret account. Maxim won’t have a say.
But we’ll print an official-looking preliminary contract for your husband with the ‘imaginary buyer,’ put it on the table, let him admire the stamp and the ‘good life.’”The plan seemed risky, but Dasha felt this was the only way to protect herself and punish the traitors.
On the way home in the evening, she bought fresh eclairs from the bakery, the thought already sweetened by a sense of revenge mingled with the scent of vanilla.