“I dropped by my husband’s workplace and froze at the door. He was assuring a friend that soon I would hand over the apartment willingly.
Arina met Igor at a contemporary art exhibition. It was an ordinary acquaintance—talking in front of one of the paintings, exchanging impressions, discovering shared interests. Igor seemed like an interesting conversationalist, well-read, with a good sense of humor. He worked as a manager at a trading company and earned a steady income. Arina worked as a marketer at an advertising agency; her salary was average, but it suited her.
They had been dating for eight months when Igor proposed. He said he had met the very woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Arina said yes. For her, it was her first serious marriage, and she believed that a relationship with this man would become the foundation of a happy family.
They had a modest wedding—relatives, close friends, a small restaurant. An ordinary celebration without extravagance. After the wedding, the man moved into Arina’s apartment—a three-room place in a good area of the city. The woman had inherited the home from her grandmother before she ever met Igor.
The apartment was registered only in Arina’s name. Igor said at the time that it was normal, that the main thing was that they were together. Arina was happy that her husband was not fixated on property. She thought that for a family, it did not matter whose name the home was in.
The first year passed peacefully. They built their daily life together, got used to each other, made plans. Arina believed their marriage was an example of harmony and mutual understanding. Every evening they spent time together, discussing work, watching movies, walking around the city.
The only subject that clouded her happiness was the dream of having children. Arina imagined becoming a mother, raising a baby. She often started conversations about having a child.
‘Igor, maybe it’s time to think about children?’ the wife would ask over dinner.
Her husband would put down his fork and look thoughtfully to the side.
‘Now isn’t the time. Things are unstable at work, projects are falling through.’
‘But when will the time come?’
‘Later. Let’s sort out our finances first.’
Arina tried not to push, but disappointment kept growing inside her. A month later she would bring it up again—and again there would be excuses. Work, lack of money, the need to solve other issues. For Arina, a child was not just a wish, but a real need of the soul. She had always dreamed of a big, close-knit family. She pictured taking children to school, everyone gathering around one table on holidays, the house filled with children’s laughter. In her dreams there were at least two children, or better yet three, so they would grow up in love and never feel lonely.
But every time Igor found a new reason to postpone that decision.
Another six months passed. Arina noticed that conversations about children were beginning to take on a strange tone. Igor started saying that he did not know how to start a family in a home that did not even belong to him.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’ his wife would ask in surprise.
‘Well, I’m basically just a guest here,’ her husband shrugged. ‘The apartment is yours. What am I supposed to tell the children when they grow up? That I lived off my wife?’
Arina did not understand.
‘But we’re a family. What difference does it make whose name the apartment is in?’
‘It makes a difference to me.’
‘But I’ve never rubbed it in your face. I’ve never humiliated you or set conditions.’
‘You haven’t,’ Igor agreed. ‘But the fact remains. It’s your home. I just live here.’
Every conversation about children inevitably turned into a discussion about the apartment. Arina began to feel growing tension between the spouses. She could not understand why her husband had become so obsessed with the housing issue.
The wife was truly shocked that Igor was still angry that the three-room apartment belonged only to Arina. After all, she had inherited it from her grandmother. She had never considered it a reason for arguments.
Arina had always believed that family meant being one whole. It did not matter whose name the property was in. They were building a common life together. She sincerely could not understand why Igor could not simply enjoy what they had.
It seemed absurd that a housing issue could stand between a husband, a wife, and their future children.
But Igor brought up the home more and more often, and more insistently. He hinted at the unfairness of the situation. He said that he felt inferior.
Arina even began to think about transferring part of the apartment to her husband. She reasoned that maybe it would calm Igor down, give him confidence in tomorrow. And then perhaps the spouses could finally start planning for a child.
The wife decided to give her husband a share in the apartment—half of it. So that Igor would feel like a full-fledged owner. On one weekday, a Wednesday, Arina took time off work. She told her boss she needed to handle urgent personal matters. She went to a notary to find out how best to transfer half of the apartment to Igor.
The notary, a middle-aged woman, listened carefully. She explained the procedure for gifting a share in detail. She listed the required documents—an extract from the property register, both spouses’ passports, the marriage certificate, the consent of the second spouse.
‘The processing time is about a month,’ the notary said. ‘You’ll need to submit documents to the state registry and pay the government fee.’
Arina listened attentively and wrote everything down. The notary printed out sample documents and a list of what would be needed for the official оформление of the transaction.
With the documents in hand and a joyful sense of anticipation, Arina left the notary’s office. She looked at the clock—half past two in the afternoon. Igor was still at work. She could stop by her husband’s office and surprise him.
The wife imagined how happy Igor would be. How her husband’s eyes would light up. How he would hug her and say that now they were definitely ready to become parents.
She called a taxi and went to the office center where Igor worked. The ride took about twenty minutes. Arina got out at the familiar building—a modern business center with glass facades.
She went up to the third floor. Walked down the familiar corridor to her husband’s office. Igor worked in the sales department and shared the office with two other employees.
Arina approached the door. She was about to go in, but then she heard her husband’s voice. The door was slightly ajar. Igor was talking on the phone.
The woman froze at the door. Instinctively she pressed herself against the wall. There was something unfamiliar in her husband’s voice. Something unpleasant. Smug notes, a mocking tone.
‘Oh, come on, everything is going according to plan,’ Igor was saying. ‘Soon Arina will hand over the apartment to me willingly.’
His wife’s hand, holding the documents, froze in midair. Her heart started beating faster.
‘I told you,’ Igor went on. ‘I’m pressuring her little by little. She’s already thinking about how to please me. She’ll transfer the apartment—and that’s it, the job’s done.’
Arina stood frozen, unable to move. She pressed her back against the cold wall of the corridor. Her hands were shaking. The documents almost slipped from her fingers.
‘And then I’ll divorce her,’ Igor laughed. ‘Why do I need her? The apartment—that’s what matters. A three-room place in the city center, you understand how much that’s worth.’
Every word her husband said was like a knife wound. Igor did not love his wife. He had never loved her. All this time he had simply been using her.
‘Why would I want children? I’m not an idiot!’ Igor continued. ‘I’m just pressuring her with that topic. She dreams so much about motherhood that she’s ready for anything. So I manipulate her. I tell her I can’t have children in someone else’s apartment. And she falls for it!’
Igor boasted about his ‘brilliant’ strategy. He laughed as he told the other person the details.
‘Naive girl,’ Igor said. ‘She’ll bring everything to me on a silver platter herself. I can already see it in her eyes—she’s thinking about how to please me. Soon she’ll transfer the apartment, I’ll divorce her, sell the place—and fifteen million in my pocket. Not bad, right?’
The other person said something, and Igor laughed again.
‘Of course she won’t get anything. The apartment was hers before marriage, then it’ll become mine through a gift—so it won’t be marital property either. We won’t divide anything in the divorce. Clean and neat.’
Arina listened and felt her whole world collapsing around her. A lump rose in her throat. Tears blurred her eyes, but she did not allow them to fall.
‘All right, we’ve talked enough,’ Igor said. ‘I still have work to do. We’ll talk on the weekend in the evening, grab some beer, celebrate. Soon I’ll be a rich bachelor!’
Igor hung up. Arina heard the chair creak—apparently the man had leaned back, satisfied.
The wife did not stay to listen further. She quietly turned around. Trying not to make a sound, she quickly walked toward the exit of the building. Tears clouded her eyes, but Arina refused to let them fall right there, in the office.
She went down the stairs and outside. Stopped and leaned against the wall of the building. She was breathing heavily. One thought pounded in her head: ‘How could I have been such a fool?’
She called a taxi. Sat in the back seat and remained motionless the whole way, staring at one point. She tried to grasp the scale of the betrayal. Three years together. Three years of life. Three years of love that had turned out to be a lie. Igor did not love his wife. He simply wanted to take over the apartment.
She got home. Went up to her floor. Opened the door with trembling hands. Entered the hallway.
She looked at the apartment. The very apartment because of which all this was happening. Her grandmother had left it to her granddaughter as an inheritance. She had thought she was helping. But instead it had become the cause of betrayal.
Arina walked into the bedroom. Stopped in front of the wardrobe. For several minutes she simply stood there, looking at her husband’s clothes.
Then, without wasting a minute and acting almost automatically, she began packing Igor’s things. She took out suits, shirts, jeans. Folded them into a suitcase.
She packed methodically. Shoes into a separate bag. Gadgets, chargers, headphones into another. Toiletries from the bathroom into a sack. Books from the shelf into a box. Everything that reminded her of Igor’s presence in Arina’s life.
The tears had already dried. Instead of pain, the wife felt cold determination. And rage. Quiet, scorching rage.
She worked for more than two hours. Three large suitcases, several bags. She carried everything into the corridor. Set it neatly by the front door.
She went to the kitchen. Poured herself some water and drank it in one gulp. Her hands were still shaking, but no longer from tears. From anger.
She looked at the clock—quarter to six. Igor usually came back around half past six. About forty minutes left.
Arina sat down on the couch. She waited.
Time dragged painfully slowly. The wife stared at the door, clenching her fists. Again and again she replayed the conversation she had overheard.
‘Soon Arina will hand over the apartment to me willingly.’
‘And then I’ll divorce her.’
‘Why do I need her? The apartment—that’s what matters.’
Every phrase came back with pain. But along with the pain came understanding. Arina had learned the truth in time. Before she transferred the apartment.
At last the key turned in the lock. The door opened.
Igor walked in, saw the suitcases, and froze on the threshold. His face went pale. His eyes darted in confusion from the luggage to his wife.
‘Arina, what is this?’ her husband muttered.
The wife stood deeper in the hallway. Arms crossed over her chest. Her face like stone.
‘Your things,’ Arina answered calmly.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Take them and get the hell out of my apartment!’
Igor tried to smile.
‘Arina, what are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke?…
Arina met Igor at a contemporary art exhibition. It was an ordinary meeting: a conversation in front of one of the paintings, an exchange of impressions, and the discovery of shared interests. Igor seemed like an engaging conversationalist—well-read, with a good sense of humor. He worked as a manager at a trading company and had a steady income. Arina worked as a marketing specialist at an advertising agency; her income was average, but enough for her.
They dated for eight months before Igor proposed. He said he had met the one woman he wanted to spend his whole life with. Arina said yes. For her, it was her first serious marriage, and she believed that a relationship with this man would become the foundation of a happy family.
The wedding was modest—relatives, close friends, a small restaurant. A simple celebration without extravagance. After the wedding, the man moved into Arina’s apartment—a three-room flat in a good part of the city. The woman had inherited the home from her grandmother before she ever met Igor.
The apartment was registered only in Arina’s name. At the time, Igor said that was fine, that the main thing was that they were together. Arina was happy that her husband was not fixated on property. She thought that in a family, it did not matter whose name the home was in.
The first year passed peacefully. They settled into everyday life, got used to each other, and made plans. Arina believed their marriage was a model of harmony and mutual understanding. Every evening they spent time together, talking about work, watching movies, and walking around the city.
The only topic that clouded their happiness was the dream of having children. Arina imagined becoming a mother, raising a baby. She often started conversations about having a child.
“Igor, maybe it’s time to think about children?” the wife would ask over dinner.
Her husband would set down his fork and look away thoughtfully.
“Now isn’t the right time. Things are unstable at work, projects keep falling through.”
“But when will the right time come?”
“Later. Let’s sort out our finances first.”
Arina tried not to push, but disappointment kept growing inside her. A month later she would bring it up again—and again there would be excuses. Work, lack of money, the need to solve other problems.
For Arina, a child was not just a wish, but a true need of the soul. She had always dreamed of a big, close-knit family. She imagined taking her children to school, gathering around the table on holidays, filling the house with children’s laughter. In her dreams there were at least two children, preferably three, so they would grow up surrounded by love and never feel lonely.
But every time, Igor found a new reason to postpone the decision.
Another six months passed. Arina began to notice that conversations about children were taking on a strange tone. Igor started saying that he did not know how to start a family in a home that did not even belong to him.
“How is that connected?” his wife asked in surprise.
“Well, I’m basically a guest here,” her husband said with a shrug. “The apartment is yours. What will I tell the children when they grow up? That I lived off my wife?”
Arina did not understand.
“But we’re a family. What difference does it make whose name the apartment is in?”
“It makes a difference to me.”
“But I’ve never thrown it in your face. I’ve never humiliated you or set conditions.”
“You haven’t,” Igor agreed. “But the fact remains. It’s your home. I just live here.”
Every conversation about children inevitably turned into a discussion about housing. Arina began to feel the growing tension between them. She did not understand why her husband had become so fixated on the apartment issue.
The wife was truly shocked that Igor was still so upset that the three-room flat belonged only to Arina. After all, she had inherited the apartment from her grandmother. She had never considered it a reason for conflict.
Arina had always believed that a family was a single whole. It did not matter whose name the property was in. They were building a life together. She sincerely could not understand why Igor could not simply enjoy what they had.
It seemed absurd that an apartment issue could come between a husband, a wife, and their future children.
But Igor brought up the subject of housing more and more often, and more insistently. He hinted that the situation was unfair. He said he felt inferior.
Arina even started thinking about transferring part of the apartment into her husband’s name. She wondered whether that might calm Igor down, give him confidence in the future. And then perhaps they could finally start planning for a baby.
The wife decided to give her husband a share in the apartment—half of it. So that Igor would feel like a full owner.
On a weekday, on Wednesday, Arina took time off work. She told her boss she had urgent personal matters to deal with. She went to a notary to find out the best way to transfer half of the apartment to Igor.
The notary, a middle-aged woman, listened carefully. She explained in detail the procedure for gifting a share of the property. She talked about the necessary documents—the extract from the state register, both spouses’ passports, the marriage certificate, the consent of the second spouse.
“The registration process takes about a month,” the notary said. “You’ll need to submit the documents to the property registry and pay the state fee.”
Arina listened attentively and wrote down all the details. The notary printed out sample documents and a list of everything needed to officially complete the transaction.
With the papers in hand and a joyful sense of anticipation, Arina left the notary’s office. She looked at the clock—half past two in the afternoon. Igor was still at work. She could stop by his office and surprise him.
The wife imagined how happy Igor would be. How his eyes would light up. How he would hug her and say that now they were definitely ready to become parents.
She called a taxi and went to the office center where Igor worked. The ride took about twenty minutes. Arina got out in front of the familiar building—a modern business center with glass facades.
She went up to the third floor and walked down the familiar corridor toward her husband’s office. Igor worked in the sales department and shared the office with two other employees.
Arina approached the door. She was about to walk in, but then she heard her husband’s voice. The door was slightly ajar. Igor was talking on the phone.
The woman froze by the door. Instinctively, she pressed herself against the wall. There was something unfamiliar in her husband’s voice. Something unpleasant. Self-satisfied notes, a mocking tone.
“Oh, come on, everything’s going according to plan,” Igor was saying. “Soon Arina herself will hand over the apartment to me without any fuss.”
His wife’s hand, holding the documents, froze in midair. Her heart began to pound harder.
“I told you,” Igor went on. “I’m pressuring her little by little. She’s already thinking about how to please me. She’ll transfer the apartment, and that’s it—the job’s done.”
Arina stood there, unable to move. She pressed her back against the cold wall of the corridor. Her hands were trembling. The documents nearly slipped from her fingers.
“And then I’ll divorce her,” Igor laughed. “Why would I need her? The apartment—that’s what matters. A three-room place in the city center—you know what that’s worth.”
Every word from her husband was like a knife. Igor did not love her. He had never loved her. All this time, he had simply been using her.
“Why would I want children? I’m not an idiot!” Igor continued. “I’m just pushing that subject to manipulate her. She dreams so much about motherhood that she’s ready for anything. So I use it. I tell her I can’t have kids in someone else’s apartment. And she buys it!”
Igor bragged about his “brilliant” strategy. He laughed as he told the other person the details.
“She’s such a naive girl,” Igor said. “She’ll bring me everything on a silver platter herself. I can already see it in her eyes—she’s thinking about how to please me. Soon she’ll transfer the apartment, I’ll divorce her, sell the place, and fifteen million will be in my pocket. Not bad, right?”
The person on the other end said something, and Igor laughed again.
“Of course she won’t get anything. The apartment was hers before the marriage, and once it becomes mine through a gift, that means it won’t be marital property either. In the divorce, there’ll be nothing to divide. Clean and simple.”
Arina listened and felt her whole world collapsing around her. A lump rose in her throat. Her eyes filled with tears, but she would not let them fall.
“All right, we’ve talked enough,” Igor said. “I still have work to do. Let’s call each other this weekend in the evening, grab some beer, celebrate. Soon I’ll be a rich bachelor!”
Igor hung up. Arina heard the chair creak—apparently the man had leaned back in satisfaction.
The wife did not stay to hear more. She quietly turned around. Trying not to make a sound, she hurried to the exit of the building. Tears blurred her vision, but Arina would not let them fall here, in the office.
She went down the stairs, walked out onto the street, stopped, and leaned against the wall of the building. She was breathing heavily. One thought pounded in her head: “How could I have been so stupid?”
She called a taxi. Sitting in the back seat, she stared at one fixed point the whole way, motionless. She tried to grasp the scale of the betrayal.
Three years together. Three years of life. Three years of love that had turned out to be a lie. Igor had not loved her. He had simply wanted to take her apartment.
She got home, went up to her floor, opened the door with trembling hands, and stepped into the hallway.
She looked around the apartment. The very apartment because of which all this was happening. Her grandmother had left it to her as an inheritance. She had thought she was helping. But instead, it had become the cause of betrayal.
Arina walked into the bedroom and stopped in front of the wardrobe. For a few minutes she just stood there, staring at her husband’s clothes.
Then, without wasting a minute and acting almost automatically, she began packing Igor’s things. Suits, shirts, jeans—into a suitcase.
She packed methodically. Shoes in a separate bag. Gadgets, chargers, headphones in another. Toiletries from the bathroom into a bag. Books from the shelf into a box. Everything that reminded her of Igor’s presence in Arina’s life.
The tears had already dried. Instead of pain, the wife felt cold determination. And rage. Quiet, searing rage.
She worked for more than two hours. Three large suitcases, several bags. She carried everything out into the corridor and placed it neatly by the front door.
Then she went into the kitchen, poured herself some water, and drank it in one gulp. Her hands were still trembling, but not from tears anymore. From anger.
She looked at the clock—quarter to six. Igor usually came home around half past six. About forty minutes left.
Arina sat down on the couch. She waited.
Time dragged agonizingly slowly. The wife stared at the door, clenching her fists. Again and again she replayed the conversation she had overheard in her mind.
“Soon Arina herself will hand over the apartment to me without any fuss.”
“And then I’ll divorce her.”
“Why would I need her? The apartment—that’s what matters.”
Every phrase echoed with pain. But along with the pain came understanding. Arina had learned the truth in time. Before she had transferred the apartment.
Finally, the key turned in the lock. The door opened.
Igor walked in, saw the suitcases, and froze in the doorway. His face went pale. His eyes darted in confusion from the luggage to his wife.
“Arina, what is this?” her husband muttered.
The wife stood farther down the corridor. Her arms were crossed over her chest. Her face was stone.
“Your things,” Arina replied calmly.
“What’s going on?”
“Take your stuff and get the hell out of my apartment!”
Igor tried to smile.
“Arina, what are you doing? Is this a joke?”
“It’s not a joke.”
The husband took a step into the apartment.
“Let’s talk. What happened?”
Arina looked at Igor coldly.
“I know everything.”
“What everything?”
“About your vile plan. About the manipulation. About how you never loved me. You just wanted to get your hands on the apartment.”
Her husband’s face went even paler.
“How… who told you?”
“You did. I heard you talking on the phone. Today. At the office.”
Igor opened his mouth, but could not say anything.
“I came to your work,” the wife continued. “I wanted to surprise you. I had even gone to the notary. I was going to transfer half of the apartment to you. So that you’d finally calm down and we could have children.”
Arina pulled the folded documents from her pocket and threw them onto the floor at her husband’s feet.
“Here. Sample contracts. A list of the papers required. I almost became that fool who would have handed you everything on a silver platter. Get out.”
Igor tried to say something.
“Arin, wait. You misunderstood…”
“Misunderstood?” Her voice broke into a shout. “You said that soon I would hand over the apartment! That you would divorce me afterward! That I’m a naive fool who falls for manipulation! What exactly did I misunderstand?!”
Her husband stepped back.
“That… that was just talk. I was showing off in front of a friend…”
“You lived with me for three years! Three years of lying about love! Three years of manipulating my dream of having children! And all of that for an apartment?!”
“Arin, calm down…”
“Be quiet!” The wife raised her hand. “Don’t you dare say another word! I was stupid and naive. I believed your lying words about family, about children, about love. But I’ve learned my lesson.”
Igor tried to come closer.
“Let’s discuss this…”
“No.” Arina shook her head. “There is nothing to discuss. Tomorrow morning I’m filing for divorce. And you will not get a single penny from me, not one square centimeter of this home.”
“But…”
“You can go to hell. Get out of my life right now.”
The wife grabbed one of the suitcases and shoved it into the corridor. Igor tried to resist, but Arina was stronger in her rage. She rolled out the second suitcase, then the third.
Her husband stood on the landing, confused, unable to understand what was happening.
“Arina, wait!” Igor shouted, trying to come back inside.
But the wife slammed the door shut. Hard. She turned the key in the lock. Slid the chain into place.
Igor banged on the door, rang the bell.
“Arin! Open up! Let’s talk properly!”
The wife stood behind the door, breathing heavily. She did not answer.
Her husband kept pounding for another ten minutes. Then it stopped. Apparently, he realized it was useless.
Arina listened. She heard Igor dragging the suitcases down the stairs. The sound grew fainter. Then the building’s front door slammed.
Silence.
The woman went into the living room. She collapsed onto the couch, hugging her knees. She stared at one point. She did not cry. The tears had run out earlier that day. She simply sat there. For how long, she did not know. She came to herself when it got dark outside. She got up, went into the bedroom, and lay down on the bed without undressing.
She stared at the ceiling. She thought about the three years of life that had turned out to be a lie. About dreams that had shattered. About trust that had been betrayed.
She fell asleep toward dawn. Heavily, without dreams.
She woke up when the alarm rang. Seven in the morning. A workday. Arina got up, took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast. She did everything mechanically.
She went and filed for divorce. The clerk accepted the documents and set a date—a month later.
“Will your husband object?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know,” Arina answered honestly. “But I’m divorcing him no matter what.”
Then she went to work. She told her colleagues she had been sick the day before, which was why she had been absent. Nobody asked questions.
She worked all day. She focused on her tasks. She did not allow her thoughts to go back to Igor.
Her husband called. About fifteen times during the day. He sent messages. Asked to meet, to talk. Arina did not answer.
In the evening, she returned home. The apartment felt empty without Igor’s belongings. But along with the emptiness came relief. She sat in the kitchen with tea and looked out the window. The city hummed; life went on.
Arina thought about how close she had come to giving away the apartment. How close she had come to becoming the victim of a scam. But she had learned the truth in time. She was lucky. Simply lucky.
A month passed. Igor tried several more times to contact her. He came to the building and waited for her. Arina did not speak to him.
In court, the husband tried to contest the divorce. He said it was all a misunderstanding, that his wife had misunderstood everything. The judge listened to both sides and asked Arina if she insisted on the divorce.
“Yes,” the wife answered firmly. “I do.”
The divorce was finalized. Igor received nothing. The apartment remained Arina’s, as premarital property and an inheritance. There was almost no jointly acquired property—they had lived together for three years, but her husband had bought nothing in his own name.
Arina walked out of the courthouse. She felt relief. At last, it was all over.
A few more months passed. Life gradually began to improve. Arina stopped flinching at the sound of the doorbell. She stopped looking over her shoulder on the street.
Work, home, meetings with friends. A simple, peaceful life.
Her dream of having children had not disappeared. But Arina understood that it was better to be alone than with someone who would betray her. Maybe someday she would meet a man she could trust. Or maybe not.
The main thing was that she had uncovered the deception in time. She had not lost her apartment. She had not become a victim.
One day a friend asked:
“Do you regret it?”
Arina thought for a moment.
“Regret what? Divorcing a man who wanted to rob me?”
“Well, you were together for three years…”
“Three years of lies,” Arina corrected. “No. I don’t regret it.”
And that was the truth.
Arina did not regret it. She regretted only that she had not recognized the deception sooner. But life had taught her to be more cautious. Not to believe beautiful words. To look at actions, not promises.
The woman went on living. In her own apartment. In her own life. Free from lies and betrayal. And that was good.
