— And now, turn like this,” Svetlana said, not taking her eyes off the camera as she continued to run around Olya.
“— How about this?” asked the girl, lifting her chin.
“— Perfect, and now like this, and also like that,” the camera clicked away like a machine gun.
“— Maybe that’s enough?” Olya asked curiously, already a bit tired of posing in front of her friend who had enrolled in the art institute last year and was now studying photography.
“— I need this for practice, and you need it for your story,” Svetlana replied. “Now, go a little farther… Stand by the window… Oh, excellent, backlighting is just right!” And again the camera clicked.
“— You’re a darling! Now come on, I’ll take your picture against the paintings.”
Olya had never been photographed like this before—only occasionally on her phone. But now she felt like a real star.
“— Okay, stand here,” declared Svetlana. She put the camera aside, approached, unfastened her dress, and exposed her shoulder.
“— Isn’t that too much?” Olya inquired and tried to cover her shoulder.
“— Don’t touch it!” Svetlana snapped indignantly and once again let the edge of her dress fall below her shoulder. “I’m a photographer; I know what’s best!”
For another half hour, they ran through different rooms: at one moment Olya was drinking coffee in the kitchen, then combing her hair in the bathroom, then entering the bedroom and, slapping herself, gazing at the ceiling.
“— That’s it,” Svetlana said in a tired tone. “Do you mind if I post these on my page?”
“— Show me,” Olya requested, and her friend immediately brought up the camera screen and began scrolling through the shots.
“— Great, but I’ll edit them a bit. You really look like a star here!”
“— Sure,” Olya replied with a smile. She liked the pictures herself. “Okay, post them,” she said, and pecked her friend on the cheek.
The next day turned out to be unusually sunny. In the university corridors, there was a buzz—students were hurrying to lectures, exchanging news, laughing. Neither Svetlana nor Olya had expected that the boys would react so strongly to the new photos. Of course, the girls immediately felt a pang of envy and a bit of silly jealousy. But the boys… They first swarmed around Svetlana, since the photos were on her page. And then, once she had lost her composure a little, she began to spin a tale.
“— Oh, you should see the hall! And there’s this office…” Svetlana said in a singsong voice, arms outstretched.
Everyone imagined something different: some pictured a vast room, others an expensive interior; in short, everyone had their own ideas.
In a spacious university lecture hall, Viktor sat, absorbed in his phone. He came from a well-to-do family—his father owned dozens of stores, his mother managed a sewing factory. Money was never an issue, but when it came to brides there was a problem. Ever since school, his father had firmly declared, “No dowry-less girls!” And that was not up for debate. His mother, too, did not want any girl without a dowry by her son’s side. Perhaps that is why Viktor clung to Svetlana’s page, spending hours scrutinizing Olya’s photos.
“— Beautiful,” he finally murmured thoughtfully, though they had been classmates for two years and he had never really paid her any attention.
“— Beautiful,” Viktor repeated, scrutinizing the interior behind her.
The lecture ended. He had missed everything and didn’t even know what the professor had been saying—his attention was completely fixed on the screen. The students got up and headed for the exit. Viktor also stood, began searching for Olya with his eyes, and noticed that Igor and Nikolai were already surrounding her.
“I must hurry,” he thought to himself, figuring out how to approach her.
“— What’s the matter, are you frozen?” prodded Alyona, standing behind him, waiting for the passage to clear.
“— Yes, yes,” he replied, flustered, and stepped aside.
“I must make my move,” Viktor thought again and began running through different scenarios for an introduction.
Svetlana lingered after classes, enthusiastically discussing something with the professor. Finally, after a goodbye nod, she headed for the exit. At the door, Viktor was already waiting for her.
“— Hi,” he said.
“— Hi,” the girl replied. “Zip up your bag.”
“— Your photos turned out beautifully.”
“— Oh, you mean of Olya?” She immediately understood what he was referring to.
“— Yes, and besides that, are there any others?”
“— Many, but Olya doesn’t allow them to be shown; they’re just too…” She playfully looked upward, as if hinting that the photos were not for public display.
“— Listen, I was just thinking…,” he hesitated, carefully choosing his words.
“— Just come over and introduce yourself already; you’re always sitting in the corner scoping everyone out,” Svetlana said, heading out.
“— I mean, I was thinking about what kind of gift to give her, so that she…”
“— Hooked on you?” Svetlana finished his sentence.
The young man smirked—she really got what he wanted.
“— Well, something like that…”
“— Golden fish,” she said, referring to Olya, “so your gift should be appropriate—and on a completely different level. I’m sure you understand.”
Viktor wasn’t stupid; he understood perfectly well. Right now, there were tons of boys around Olya—choose any, and that’s only the ones he had seen. Surely there were others in her circle who would really give her a special gift. Svetlana ran off, leaving Viktor in confusion.
“— Should I give you a ride?” he shouted as Svetlana was disappearing.
“— Sure,” she replied, glancing out from behind the doorframe and waving her hand. “Then don’t lag behind; we have lots to do!”
Within minutes, Olya and Svetlana were seated in his expensive jeep. Svetlana whistled, while her friend, reclining in the back seat, closed her eyes as if none of it really affected her. She hadn’t expected the photos to have such an impact on the boys, and she even felt a bit hurt—after all, it was all just fluff.
After about half an hour, winding through streets and bypass roads, the car entered an upscale suburb. Olya pulled an electronic pass from her pocket and, holding it to the automatic gate, opened the entrance.
Viktor was dumbfounded—there was indeed a sight to behold: two-, three-, even four-story cottages nestled among well-kept gardens. Approaching the house Svetlana had indicated, he couldn’t help but think, “How much does this cost?”
“— Come on, I’ll treat you to coffee,” Olya offered Viktor, and he happily ran after the girls.
A spacious hall greeted them with warmth and coziness. Svetlana, in her own way, slipped into the bathroom, then dashed off to a room, while Olya immediately headed into the kitchen.
“— Mind if I snap a picture of you too?” Viktor cautiously offered, taking out his phone.
“— Snap away!” came Svetlana’s distant voice.
Olya herself said nothing. Yes, she appreciated the boys’ attention, but somehow it all felt too fake.
Within five minutes, they were sitting at a table, devouring the sandwiches Olya had managed to prepare and sipping aromatic coffee. The modern kitchen was bathed in soft light, and outside the panoramic windows the dusk was setting in.
“— That’s enough, you’re off!” Svetlana commanded, nodding toward the exit, urging Viktor to keep moving.
“— Thanks,” the young man said to Olya, setting his cup on the table.
Thus ended the day, leaving each of them alone with their thoughts and hopes.
Olya thought that was the end, but she was mistaken. Yes, Igor was circling around her just as Nikolai was, but Viktor… he was different. No, he didn’t give her flowers or bring candy, but he knew how to hold her hand like no one else could.
“He’s like everyone else,” Olya mused, reasoning that the boys were just playing around. And so Viktor decided to play the role of the suitor too.
“Well, let’s humor him,” she thought.
Later, Olya recounted to her friend, “I just smiled, and he immediately lit up.”
“How curious,” she mused, playfully shrugging.
Soon enough, Viktor began inviting her to cafés, treating her, and even gifting her large bouquets of flowers.
“— Look, don’t get too carried away,” Svetlana warned her as they sat in their favorite coffee shop. “Otherwise, he might suddenly propose.”
“— Oh,” Olya gasped, realizing that he might indeed be playing around too much.
“— But then again, he’s got the car, the clothes…”
“— And that smile,” Olya added.
Three months passed. Igor and Nikolai tried harder than ever, as if they were afraid of being too late—some kind of rivalry had developed between them. Viktor watched them warily. He was afraid of his competitors, aware that they weren’t all the ones Olya had, so every day he drove her to the cottage suburb along with Svetlana.
This time, Olya’s friend turned Viktor around and sent him home. Viktor did not insist on coffee and agreed to be just the driver. However, Olya, albeit slowly, was falling in love with this young man. There was something special about him, something different that drew her to him.
And then one day, when Svetlana wasn’t around, they kissed. After Viktor drove off, Olya lay on the bed thinking, “I’ve fallen in love…”—what else could she say? Yes, she was head over heels in love, as if it were her first love. Now, she thought only of him—her Viktor.
It seemed that Viktor, too, had fallen for her. So, the very next day, he waited until Svetlana, her faithful friend, had disappeared beyond the horizon, took Olya’s hand, touched her lips with his, and quietly said:
“— Will you marry me?”
Olya had been expecting this proposal, yet at the same time she was frightened. She remembered Svetlana’s words: “Don’t get carried away.” The girl was silent. Viktor was silent, too. Outside, he appeared calm, but inside he was in turmoil—terrified that she might say “no.”
“— Don’t answer immediately… think it over,” he whispered, and kissed her hand again.
“Oh,” Olya murmured to herself with a sad smile.
“— How about I show you my house?” he asked, trying to hide the tremor in his voice.
Olya paused for a moment.
“— Okay,” she simply replied.
They headed toward his shiny new Mercedes, parked by the sidewalk. This time Olya sat in the front passenger seat. Lost in her thoughts, she absentmindedly gazed out the window at the passing scenery.
“— Let’s go,” the young man said happily, stepping out of the car and gallantly opening the door for his companion. He took her hand.
The building’s lobby smelled of fresh paint. After ascending to the eighth floor, they entered a spacious corridor. Olya reached to take off her shoes, but Viktor stopped her:
“— No need, come as you are.”
Clicking her heels, the girl entered the living room. The luxurious setting was striking: impeccable dark parquet, expensive paintings in massive frames, crystal chandeliers, an eccentric designer torchiere, a leather armchair—everything exuded wealth and refined taste.
“— Beautiful,” Olya murmured, not bothering to lavish praise. She silently walked through the rooms. Viktor enthusiastically showed even his parents’ bedroom.
“— I have to go,” Olya said calmly, heading for the exit.
“— I’ll drive you,” Viktor offered.
“— Yes,” she replied sadly, and as soon as the door opened, she stepped onto the landing.
Viktor noticed Olya’s downcast mood but misinterpreted it. His heart sank, and fear returned—fear of being rejected.
Outside, dusk deepened and the first raindrops began to tap on the eaves.
A few days passed after Viktor’s visit to the apartment. The girl did not tell Svetlana about the proposal; she wandered through the spacious rooms, pondering her future.
The luxurious mansion, shrouded in evening fog, guarded her doubts. The weekend passed unnoticed. Viktor did not call, and she couldn’t bring herself to dial his number. On Monday, when a headache kept her from going to the institute, Olya stayed home.
In the evening, as dusk enveloped the cottage suburb, the phone rang.
“— Hello, can I come in?” a familiar voice asked on the other end.
“— Come in,” she replied, pressing the door button.
Massive gates slowly opened. Viktor, elegant in his sharp suit, entered the house.
“— Coffee?” Olya asked in a tired voice.
The young man approached, took her hand, and, as before, kissed her. Olya smiled, reached for him, and touched his lips.
“— This is my wedding gift,” Viktor said as he retrieved an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to the girl.
“— What is it?” she asked, pressing the envelope to her chest.
“— It’s yours,” Viktor said without further explanation.
Olya placed the envelope on the table without even opening it. She then approached the young man, embraced him, and quietly said:
“— I agree.”
“— Then let’s have the wedding,” he suggested, pulling his now-fiancée close.
“— Let’s,” Olya replied, casting aside all her doubts.
After that evening, Olya and Viktor spent almost all their free time together. The exquisite decor of his home—with antique furniture and expensive paintings—created a special atmosphere.
Settled on a sofa in the living room, the young couple passionately discussed the upcoming celebration. Glossy magazines filled with wedding dresses lay on a glass table, and beside them were catalogs of prestigious restaurants.
“— Look at what a gorgeous dress,” Olya exclaimed in admiration, showing another page of the magazine.
“— Everything you choose will be wonderful,” Viktor replied, tenderly embracing his fiancée. “My family will cover all the expenses, don’t worry about a thing.”
Outside, the leaves rustled. In the evenings they would sit by the fireplace for hours, planning their future. Olya, pressed against Viktor, thought: “This is a real fairy tale…”
Meanwhile, Viktor, kissing his bride, silently congratulated himself: “I beat everyone else…”
The next day, after a class, Olya gathered her courage and decided to tell Viktor the truth. In the auditorium, only the two of them remained.
“— Do you want me to show you my house?” she asked quietly.
“— Of course!” Viktor replied enthusiastically, although he had been to her “cottage” many times and knew nearly every room by heart.
“— Then let’s go,” the girl suggested, naming an address.
It turned out that it was not a cottage suburb at all, but an ordinary residential area. Viktor didn’t think much of it. His car stopped near a five-story Khrushchyovka, but even at that moment he didn’t wonder why they were there.
“— Let’s go!” Olya said cheerfully, tugging Viktor along.
They climbed to the fourth floor. The girl pulled out her keys, opened the door, and stepped into the corridor.
“— Come in.”
“— What is this?” Viktor suddenly realized.
“— This is my home,” the girl replied, carefully slipping off her sandals as she entered the hall. “I live here.”
“— And that over there?” Viktor asked involuntarily, referring to the cottage.
“— Ah, well,” the girl said with a giggle. “That’s actually Viktor Stepanovich’s cottage, the professor’s. I studied with him; he was in Australia for a year, and now he’s back.”
Viktor slumped into a chair, exhausted.
“— Where were you taking care of the house, watering, cleaning… And what were you thinking?” he asked.
Viktor was silent. Here he was, in this Khrushchyovka that his mother would have called a “hovel” and his father a “shack,” realizing that his fiancée lived here.
“— No, no,” he said in disbelief. “You’re joking?”
“— No,” she replied, adding, “This is my grandmother’s apartment. I renovated it. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“— Beautiful,” he repeated as if the word made him sick. “Beautiful,” he tried to infuse some kindness into it, but couldn’t, and then suddenly shouted, “— Disgusting!”
“— What?” Olya exclaimed, not expecting such a reaction, taking a sharp step back.
“— Disgusting!” Viktor screamed, grabbing a book from the table and hurling it against the wall. “— You deceived me!”
Olya pressed herself against a wardrobe, looking at him, no longer recognizing the man she had kissed that very morning.
“— You!” Viktor roared, pointing his finger at her. “— You led me on!”
“— No,” Olya managed to say once she came to herself.
“— You said that cottage was yours!” he cried, gesturing vaguely toward it.
“— I never said that,” the girl replied firmly.
“— And your Svetka…” Viktor prowled around the apartment like a caged animal. “— She told everyone that you lived there!”
“— Yes,” Olya agreed, “I did live there, but I never said it was my cottage.”
“— No!” Viktor yelled and strode quickly toward the exit.
“— What do you mean, ‘no’?” asked the girl as she ran after him.
“— No wedding!” he barked—not saying it aloud, but snarling it like a dog.
At his words, Olya froze.
“— No wedding!” he ranted, kicking the door so hard that the frame shuddered.
“I thought you loved me,” the girl whispered. “I don’t know what to do now…”
“— No wedding!” he repeated as a final remark and, leaving the apartment, slammed the door behind him with a bang.
In the small yet cozy apartment with its freshly redone décor, a heavy silence settled. Outside, the leaves of an old poplar rustled, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of passing cars could be heard.
In the dim glow of a night lamp, the apartment seemed especially empty and unwelcoming. Svetlana lay on the sofa, her face buried in a pillow. She was one of those people who usually kept everything inside, but now emotions had overwhelmed her. In her memory, her friend’s words echoed persistently:
“Don’t get carried away.”
But she hadn’t listened. She got carried away. The apartment was cold, and the radiators barely provided any heat.
“— Let the tears come,” she said into the emptiness of the room. “I should have told him everything right away, I should have…” she repeated over and over, like a mantra.
It was painful—painful both for herself and for Viktor. The old clock on the wall ticked monotonously as time passed, and she couldn’t calm down. The bedside lamp cast strange shadows on the walls, creating a sense of unreality.
She curled up into a ball, wrapped herself in a thin blanket, and finally managed to fall asleep with difficulty. In the morning, she awoke with a headache. The sun had already risen over the city, its rays piercing through the loosely drawn curtains and painting light stripes on the floor.
Svetlana, meticulous and attentive, immediately noticed her friend’s absence in class. She approached her fellow students who were gathered by the window.
“— Have you seen Olya?” she asked.
A group of students was joined by Igor, who silently nodded toward Viktor, who was passing by with a clearly unfriendly look.
“— Oh, the whole gang’s here,” Igor said with an unmistakable sneer, “and where is your party girl?”
Before anyone could answer, Viktor disappeared around a corridor turn. The friends exchanged glances. Svetlana was surprised by this change in Viktor—just yesterday he had seemed like a lovestruck young man, and today he had turned into a bitter person.
Olya never showed up at the institute. Meanwhile, Viktor, as if possessed, roamed the corridors, telling everyone he met about “debauched” Olya.
Unable to stand it any longer, Svetlana approached him near the cafeteria:
“— Why are you saying such horrible things?”
“— It’s none of your business,” snapped Viktor.
“— It is! Olya is my friend. Why are you saying such awful things about her?”
“— You…” Viktor, barely containing himself, extended his neck and glared at her, “— you staged that scene with your chick!”
“— You idiot!” Svetlana retorted, realizing that Viktor now knew the truth about Olya.
She didn’t bother to explain anything to the enraged man, deciding instead to go to her friend’s place, who was surely sitting at home in tears right now.
Viktor wasted no time. Dashing out of the institute building, he jumped into his car and drove to that very Khrushchyovka from which he had recently fled in a hurry.
“— Open up!” he banged on the door, shouting.
Olya was snapped out of her thoughts by the shouting. It wasn’t just the voice of her fiancé—it was an order to open the door.
Olya approached the door. She wanted to talk to him one more time, to explain that she wasn’t at fault, that she hadn’t deceived him, that she had been honest. He had let his imagination run wild, but she had nothing to do with it.
As soon as the door opened, Viktor stormed into the living room without even glancing at his fiancée. Olya followed him.
“— Where is it?” Viktor demanded, addressing the girl.
“— There’s nothing here,” she replied.
“— The envelope!” Viktor roared and, without waiting for an answer, grabbed Olya’s bag and dumped its contents onto the floor.
The girl silently observed this madness. He, as if possessed, threw books about, rifled through the wardrobes and nightstands, even looked under the sofa. He was searching for that very envelope he had given her as a gift. Olya tried to remember where she had put it, but her memory failed her.
“— Hand it over!” Viktor bellowed, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her.
“— I probably threw it away,” Olya answered, unable to recall where it had gone.
“— You fool!” Viktor yelled again and let go of her.
He dashed into the kitchen, where the old linoleum still recalled Soviet times. Opening a cupboard, he took out a trash bin, rummaged through it, but, finding nothing, returned to the living room.
“— Fool,” he repeated and spent another five minutes rifling through Olya’s things. Failing to find the envelope, he, for the third time, called her a fool and left, leaving behind complete chaos in the small apartment.
As Svetlana had intended, she headed to Olya’s place immediately after classes. After energetically ringing the doorbell, she saw her friend on the doorstep, who looked completely unlike herself.
“— Oh my gosh!” Svetlana exclaimed as she entered the living room, whistling. “What happened here?”
“— Viktor came,” Olya replied, holding back tears.
“— What an idiot he is,” Svetlana commented.
“— And you go there too,” Olya said, sitting on the sofa, burying her face in her knees and beginning to cry.
“— It looks like his rose-tinted glasses have finally shattered.”
“— Yes,” Svetlana agreed.
Her friend managed a weak smile.
“— Let’s tidy up here,” Svetlana said, getting up from the sofa and beginning to put the books back on the shelves. “And never open the door for that brute again—who knows what he might be planning.”
“— Okay,” Olya agreed, and, rising from the sofa, helped her friend tidy up.
“— How about we order pizza?” Svetlana suggested.
“— No, I don’t feel like it,” Olya replied and, taking the envelope, placed it on a shelf.
An hour later, Svetlana left home, and Olya was alone. She made herself some tea and, returning to the living room, remembered the envelope.
In the quiet room lit by the soft glow of a desk lamp, Olya stood by the shelf where the ill-fated envelope lay.
“— Perhaps this is it,” she whispered, and, picking it up, opened it.
Her heart was heavy; she had been trampled on, degraded, and discarded.
Removing a slip of paper from the envelope, she began to read. A gloomy silence filled the apartment, broken only by the rustle of leaves outside. The longer she read, the dumber she felt. Eventually, her legs gave way, and the world went dark. The girl fell unconscious on the floor.
She didn’t know how long she lay there. When she opened her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling, at the dancing shadows of the poplar outside the window. She sat up, took the paper, and read it once more.
“— I can’t believe it,” she whispered.
Quickly, she gathered herself, tidied up, and, running out of the house, headed to the nearest notary.
In a spacious office, where massive cabinets filled with documents lined the walls and folders were neatly arranged on the desk, she said:
“— Here,” Olya said, handing over the document. “Is it genuine?” she asked the woman who received her in the office.
After about five minutes of examining and flipping through her papers, making a call, the notary finally declared:
“— It’s an authentic document,” the woman said, adjusting her glasses.
“— Okay,” Olya replied uncertainly, and taking the slip of paper, carefully folded it and placed it back into the same envelope. “Okay,” she repeated.
Stepping out into a long corridor that smelled of fresh paint and heard muffled voices from nearby rooms, she wondered what to do next. In the reception area, secretaries were clattering on keyboards, visitors shuffling papers, and outside, the city’s traffic roared.
In a noisy institute auditorium, where worn desks still bore the marks of student years and faded formula posters hung on the walls, Olya tried to forget Viktor. Now, ignoring his gaze, she sat as close to the lecturer as possible, while next to her sat Svetlana with her support group—Igor and Nikolai.
Viktor smirked, sprawled in the back row. He knew that the boys still didn’t have a clue who Olya really was.
“Try harder, try harder,” he thought to himself, tapping his foot in his expensive shoes, expecting that sooner or later, once they learned what kind of high-and-mighty Cinderella she was, they would all abandon her.
But time passed. In the institute corridors, students came and went; flyers for events appeared and disappeared on the bulletin board; and, surprisingly, the boys did not turn away from Olya.
Months flew by. The seasons changed outside the windows of the auditorium, and the library still reeked of book dust and old lecture notes.
In a spacious apartment overlooking the town square—with walls adorned with expensive paintings and tastefully selected furniture—Viktor and his wife Yana lay in bed after the wedding. Yana smiled contentedly, pressed close to her husband, who refused to let her go.
Then the doorbell rang.
“— So early,” Yana mumbled, not even checking the time.
“— Probably your parents have come to check on you,” Viktor said soothingly, rising and beginning to dress.
“— Then I guess I’ll see them too,” Yana mumbled, throwing aside the blanket and sitting up.
Seeing her, Viktor leaned over and kissed his wife once more. The doorbell rang again.
“— I’m coming, or else my mother-in-law will break the door!”
Viktor chuckled, adjusted his clothes, and strode quickly toward the door.
“— I’m coming, I’m coming!” he called, thinking he’d see his mother-in-law, and opened the door. His face froze immediately.
Olya only glanced at Viktor as she stepped inside without even taking off her shoes and quickly headed to the bedroom.
“— Stop!” Viktor shouted, but the unexpected guest did not stop. “— Stop!” he yelled again and ran after Olya.
The girl approached the door, flung it open, and entered the bedroom.
“— Oh my!” Yana shrieked, covering herself and looking at the stranger in horror.
“— Get out!” Viktor finally ran up to her, grabbed Olya, and dragged her toward the door. “— Get out of my apartment!”
Olya jerked her hand free, then turned to Yana and, in a commanding tone, said:
“— Get dressed and leave my apartment.”
Viktor was the first to recover:
“— What did you say?”
Olya turned to her former fiancé and repeated:
“— Get dressed and leave my apartment.”
In the corridor, Svetlana appeared. Unable to hide her smile, she approached Viktor and, rummaging in her purse, produced a copy of the document:
“— This isn’t your apartment; it’s Olya’s.”
“— What? What? What?” Viktor stammered a couple of times, beginning to understand.
“— You deceived me!” he shouted, but Svetlana came to her rescue:
“— Get dressed and get out of someone else’s apartment,” she said slowly, enunciating each syllable so that Viktor might finally understand.
Yana emerged from the bedroom. Not comprehending what was happening, she turned to her husband:
“— What is going on?”
“— Honey,” Svetlana said, now looking at her, “haven’t you gotten dressed yet?”
“— I’m calling the police,” Viktor declared as he reached for his phone.
“— I knew from the start that you wouldn’t get it,” Svetlana said, dialing a number on her phone. “— Come in,” she curtly instructed, then hung up.
Within moments, people appeared in the corridor—Svetlana’s brother and his friends.
“— Kick them out of that apartment,” she urged the group.
“— What’s happening?” Yana asked Viktor again, but he stood pale, unable to utter a word.
“— What’s happening?” she repeated as she moved between the bedroom and Viktor.
The guys who had arrived did not waste time with formalities—they took the lady by the arm and escorted her to the landing. After a few minutes, Viktor, struggling against them, was dragged out, and soon their belongings were thrown about.
“— Isn’t this not your apartment?” Yana asked in a trembling voice.
Viktor was silent. He realized that the envelope he had given Olya as a wedding gift hadn’t been discarded after all—it contained a deed, a deed to this apartment. He understood that he had lost her, lost his five-room apartment.
Yana asked once more:
“— What’s going on?” but, receiving no answer, she struck Viktor hard across the cheek, then, stepping down a couple of steps, declared:
“— I’m divorcing you!”
