Twelve machines hummed in perfect harmony—steady, rich, confident. Artyom walked down the line, listening to the buzz like someone listening to good news. Shavings curled in silver ribbons, lights blinked green, and the monthly plan was already met by Wednesday. Everything was turning out just as he had dreamed ten years ago, when all he had was stubbornness.
«They’re running beautifully,» said Kirill as he approached, wiping his hands with a rag. «Like an orchestra.»
«Like a printing press,» Artyom grinned. «Only instead of paper, it makes money.»
«Did you talk to your wife?»
Artyom slowed his pace a bit. Suddenly, the hum seemed louder than necessary.
«Not yet.»
«Come on, how long is this going to go on?» Kirill stood in front of him, blocking the way. «Alisa won’t wait forever. She’s twenty-nine, she probably has half the city in her contacts. You’re lucky she even noticed you.»
«I remember.»
«No, you don’t. You’re dragging things out. If you’ve made up your mind—do it. Are you a man or a curtain blowing in the wind?»
«I’ll do it this weekend,» said Artyom. «Stop rushing me.»
«I am rushing you. Because my sister isn’t furniture to just stand in a corner and wait for you to figure things out.»
Kirill walked away, and Artyom was left standing by the second machine. Alisa had come into his life six months ago—light, cheerful, already making plans two continents ahead. With her, he felt fifteen years younger. Only one thing cast a shadow over this celebration—his wife.
Veronika had come into his life with just one suitcase. Back then, he only had a two-room apartment in a good neighborhood—the one he got from his late father, and his father from his grandfather. The family nest, as his grandmother called it. Veronika washed the windows on her very first day there and had taken care of the whole home ever since.
Artyom got into his car and drove to his mother’s. He never liked asking for advice, but this time he just couldn’t start the conversation without a warm-up.
Larisa Petrovna listened to her son in silence, not interrupting, just folding her hands on the table.
«So, divorce,» she finally said.
«Divorce.»
«And does this reason of yours have a name?»
«Alisa. Kirill’s sister.»
«Pretty name,» his mother nodded. «Probably an expensive one, too.»
«Are you on her side or mine?»
«I’m on the side of you thinking things through. Artyom, do you even realize Veronika isn’t a tenant? She’s lived in your house for nine years.»
«She lives in my apartment,» he corrected. «In my father’s place.»
«Uh-huh,» Larisa Petrovna drawled. «So you’ve already started keeping score. You men have learned to count fast.»
«Don’t start.»
«I never interfered in your family. Not once. The home stands because of her, and that’s your luck, not your achievement.» She paused. «Now, just listen to one piece of advice. Get ready for a siege.»
«What do you mean, a siege?» Artyom snorted. «She’ll cry a bit and go stay with a friend.»
«You lived with her for nine years and still think all she knows how to do is cry? Then you really do need a divorce, son. You two don’t know each other at all.»
«Thanks for the support.»
«I’m not holding you back,» his mother said calmly. «But I’m not endorsing this, either. Go.»
Artyom left, slammed the building door, and started his car. Larisa Petrovna waited for the sound of the engine leaving, then dialed her daughter-in-law’s number.
«Veronika, hello. How are you?»
«Everything’s fine,» she answered in surprise. «Did something happen?»
«Nothing happened. But today, you’ll have a conversation. Be ready for it.»
«What kind of conversation?»
«Artyom will tell you himself. Just don’t get flustered, girl. You’re smart, and that’s the most valuable thing you own.»
She hung up. The whole call had lasted twenty seconds, but that was enough for Veronika.
Artyom walked in and didn’t even have time to take off his jacket—his wife was already waiting for him in the hallway.
«Talk,» she said. «I don’t like waiting.»
He had no idea what his mother had told her, so he decided not to beat around the bush.
«There’s no avoiding a divorce. There’s no point in dragging this out. Leave today.»
Veronika didn’t say a word. She turned, went to their room, and locked the door. Artyom took off his shoes, sat in the chair, and turned on the TV with the sound off. She needs time to process, he thought, women always do.
An hour later, the door opened. Veronika came out—collected, composed, her eyes dry.
«Why are we getting a divorce?»
«Don’t ask that question.»
«Fine, I’ll ask another. Are you blaming me for something?»
«Not for anything. That’s all there is,» he said. «I’m giving you a week. Pack your things and move out.»
«How generous,» she nodded. «Really going all out. Maybe you’ll send me off with horses, too?»
«Don’t be sarcastic.»
«Artyom, for nine years I got up before you. I pulled you out when all you could find were debts. I fixed your machines when you had no money for licenses and couldn’t even hope for any.»
«So what?»
«So, someone who tells you to ‘leave’ that easily usually can’t do math properly.»
«Can you stop with the riddles?» he snapped irritably.
«I can. I’ll leave,» Veronika said. «But you’ll sign the apartment over to me.»
Artyom burst out laughing. He laughed long and hard, leaning back in the chair, slapping the armrest with his hand.
«The apartment? My father’s? Are you out of your mind?»
«Absolutely.»
«You came here with a suitcase! Just one! I took you in, I fed you, I clothed you!»
«You took me in?» Veronika tilted her head. «Wonderful. And here I thought I married you, not that you found me on the side of the road.»
«You’ve got some nerve.»
«I’m just practical. Nerve is dumping someone after nine years, taking everything, and leaving me with a single suitcase for ‘balance.’»
«You’re not getting anything!»
«Think about it until tomorrow evening,» she said softly. «It’s not a threat. It’s just a suggestion to think while thinking is still cheap.»
Artyom waved her off and walked out, still laughing in the hallway. Now he was absolutely sure: he was right to get rid of this greedy woman.
The machines were humming especially energetically that morning. A million dollars’ worth of leased steel was working like clockwork, all guaranteed under a contract signed by Kirill’s father, Valery Stepanovich—a tough, solid man.
«You’re glowing today,» Kirill noticed. «Did you have that talk?»
«I did,» Artyom smirked. «You know what she asked for as a parting gift? The apartment.»
«The apartment?!» Kirill burst out laughing. «A two-bedroom downtown, for nine years of soup?»
«Exactly.»
«Man, women’s imaginations are a whole art form of their own.»
That evening, Artyom came home. Veronika was sitting in the room, her phone in her lap.
«Did you think it over?»
Instead of answering, Artyom made a fig with his fingers and waved it in front of his wife’s face.
“I see,” she said, dialing the number. “Valery Stepanovich? Good evening, this is Veronika. Yes, that one. One question: have the machines under leasing been bought out yet?”
Artyom tensed up.
“About two more years,” came the reply through the speaker. “Then they’ll belong to the guys. Why?”
“And what will happen to the company if the machines stop working?”
“What do you mean, stop?” The voice grew sharper. “Well, downtime means losses. Rent, staff, interest. Around a hundred and fifty grand a day, to be honest.”
“Thank you. Have a good evening.”
She hung up. Artyom stood there, trying to figure out where all this was going, and couldn’t make any sense of it.
“This is the last time I’m asking: are you going to give up the apartment?”
Once again, she got a fig sign right in her face before he could even react.
“Understood,” Veronika quickly pressed something on the screen.
“What are you tapping over there?”
“Ordering dinner. By the way, I already packed up my things. And moved them out.”
“Moved them out? How?” he asked in confusion.
“By car. I knew your answer since yesterday, Artyom. You’re as predictable as a train schedule.”
He actually exhaled in relief. It all went easier than he had dared to hope.
“Submit the divorce papers online,” Veronika said at the door. “I’ll confirm.”
The door closed. Artyom immediately called his mother.
“She’s gone! On her own! No drama!”
“Good for you,” Larisa Petrovna replied dryly. “Buy some valerian tomorrow. And something stronger.”
“Are you feeling unwell?”
“I’m perfectly fine. You’ll be the one needing it.”
He chuckled and hung up.
The phone rang at seven in the morning.
“Artyom Valeryevich, the machines aren’t working. None of them.”
“Restart them.”
“We tried three times. Same error on all the panels.”
“What’s the error code?”
The foreman gave the number, and suddenly Artyom was wide awake. That code meant only one thing: the machines’ control software was missing.
An hour later, he was at the workshop. Twelve machines were silent, people were aimlessly milling around. Kirill barged in—white-faced, lips trembling.
“Who accessed the controls?! Who?!”
“No one,” the foreman replied. “The blocks are sealed. Seals are intact, I checked myself.”
And then it hit Artyom. Remotely. She deleted everything remotely.
“It was her,” Kirill hissed. “Your wife!”
Artyom dialed his wife’s number.
“Veronika…”
“I’m at work, I don’t have time for this,” she replied and hung up.
They spent the whole day running in circles. Licensed software for twelve machines cost as much as a really nice apartment—or more. In desperation, Kirill uploaded an old backup to the control panel—the one he’d found who-knows-where. Forty minutes later, the manufacturer called: the system detected illegal tampering.
That evening they found Veronika at a café. She was eating dinner calmly.
“Do you realize this could get us in serious legal trouble?” Artyom sat down opposite her.
“Enjoy your meal, too,” she nodded. “No, I don’t see how. Explain it to me.”
“You disabled the equipment!”
“I deleted what was mine,” Veronika set down her utensils. “The copy Kirill dug up from who-knows-where was useless. I cracked it open, rewrote half the logic, added modules for your needs. That was my work and my copyright. I wasn’t paid a single ruble for it. I’m just taking back what’s mine. No claims against me.”
“And against us?” Kirill asked gloomily.
— But you do. The manufacturer and the leasing company both have issues with you. I’m not involved here, boys.
Kiril’s phone started ringing. It was Valery Stepanovich.
— Son, do you want me to step in?
— N-no, Dad, — Kiril stammered. — We’ll handle it ourselves.
Veronika calmly kept eating.
— This is payback for the divorce, isn’t it? — Artyom said through clenched teeth.
— I couldn’t care less who you sleep with. Even if it’s the whole orchestra. My work costs money. The apartment is already a family discount.
Artyom laughed, but the laughter faded away on its own.
— I’ll finish my dinner and then leave, — Veronika said, checking her watch. — After that, you sort it out yourselves. Or I’ll call Valery Stepanovich and tell him exactly where your copy came from.
Kiril turned completely pale. He pulled Artyom aside, and the two of them whispered heatedly by the window, gesturing wildly. Then Artyom came back to the table.
— Okay. Do it.
— Good boy, — Veronika said. — But here’s how it goes: apartment first, then the machines. Nine o’clock at the notary’s office.
By ten in the morning, she held both the deed of gift and a written statement from her husband declaring he had no claim to her property. She entered a code on her phone, and an hour later, the technician reported back: the production line was up and running.
But there was no celebration. The pirate copy Kiril had installed managed to send a report to the manufacturer. By evening, a notice arrived: the leasing contract was being terminated, and the equipment with those serial numbers had to be returned or the penalty paid.
Artyom got home late at night, after having a conversation with Valery Stepanovich, who spared no harsh words for either his son or for Artyom himself. The key spun uselessly in the lock. He called.
Veronika opened the door.
— The locks have been changed, — she said. — This apartment is mine. Come get your things tomorrow afternoon.
— Veronika, wait…
— Goodnight, Artyom.
The door closed. He stood alone in the empty hallway. The apartment was gone, the machines were working, but he couldn’t use them, penalties were piling up, and Kiril was already blaming him for not being able to handle the divorce properly.
Artyom blamed everyone but himself. He took out his phone and reluctantly dialed his mother’s number.
— I’m coming to you.
— Have you bought valerian drops? — Larysa Petrovna asked coldly. — I warned you.
He didn’t answer. Another day or two, and everything he had spent ten years building would collapse.
