“School? Seriously?” Valentina Sergeyevna grimaced as if she’d tasted something sour. “Artyom could have found a more suitable wife.”
I poured tea into the porcelain cups, trying not to let my hands shake. They trembled with anger, but I couldn’t let it show in front of my mother-in-law.
Three months of marriage had taught me one thing: in this house, I would always be an outsider.
“Mother, that’s enough,” Artyom squeezed my hand under the table. “Katia is a wonderful wife.”
“Wonderful?” My father-in-law scoffed, glancing up from his tablet. “Son, you could have married our business partner’s daughter. And instead you bring home… a schoolteacher.”
He spat out the word like it was something disgraceful. I wanted to get up and walk out, but Artyom held my hand.
“I love Katia, and that’s what matters. Right?”
“Love,” Valentina Sergeyevna scoffed. “In our world, marriages are built on other foundations. But you’ve always been the romantic one.”
She scanned me from head to toe—my modest blouse, my neatly tied hair. Her look was openly disdainful.
“Katerina, dear,” she said sweetly, “what exactly do you do at your… school?”
“I teach literature and Russian,” I replied calmly.
“Ah, literature!” She raised her hands theatrically. “So you spend your days reading fairy tales to children?”
“Mom!” Artyom’s voice rose.
“What? I’m simply curious about your wife’s profession. And Katerina, do you even understand the kind of family you’ve entered? We have standards.”
I took a sip of tea to buy time. A lump was rising in my throat, but I kept my voice steady:
“I understand, Valentina Sergeyevna. I’m doing my best to live up to them.”
“You’re trying?” she laughed. “My dear, you have no idea what it means to be a Morozov wife. It’s not like a parent-teacher meeting.”
My father-in-law nodded in agreement. Artyom squeezed my hand tighter.
“That’s enough,” he said sharply. “Katia is my wife, and I expect you to respect her.”
“Respect is earned,” his father said, setting his tablet down. “So far, all I see is a small-time girl who made a good catch.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I forced a smile. I couldn’t show weakness. That’s what they were waiting for.
“I’m not a small-town girl, Viktor Petrovich. I was born and raised in Moscow—just like you.”
“Moscow?” Valentina raised an eyebrow. “Which district, if I may ask?”
“Biryulyovo.”
The couple exchanged a glance, a triumphant gleam flashing in their eyes. To them, Biryulyovo meant low-class.
“I see,” my father-in-law muttered. “Just remember your place in this family.”
“And what place is that?” Artyom couldn’t help himself.
“The place of a wife who must match her husband’s status,” Valentina cut in coldly.
The rest of the week passed in tense silence. Artyom apologized for his parents’ behavior and promised to speak to them, but I knew it wouldn’t help.
To them, I’d always be the ambitious girl from Biryulyovo, chasing money. Ironic—they didn’t even know I fell for Artyom long before I ever learned about his wealth.
We met in a bookstore, argued over Dostoevsky, laughed at the same jokes. Back then, he was just a guy in worn jeans with soft eyes.
Thursday morning, Valentina called while I was preparing lessons.
“Katerina, come to the house at four. We need to talk. Seriously.”
Her tone promised nothing good. I left work early despite my principal’s disapproval—exam season, papers to grade.
But family comes first, I told myself. Though a heavy sense of dread crept in.
The Morozov mansion was unusually quiet. Even Marina, the ever-present housekeeper, was gone.
Valentina awaited me in the sitting room—flawless hair, expensive suit, cold smile.
“Sit, Katerina. Tea?”
I shook my head. My throat was so tight I couldn’t have swallowed a drop.
“I’ve thought long and hard about how to say this,” she said, reclining in her chair, eyes locked on mine. “This marriage is a mistake.”
“A mistake for who?” I asked, more calmly than I felt.
“For everyone. But especially for Artyom. He’s the heir to an empire, and you…” she grimaced, “you drag him down.”
Anger surged inside me. How many humiliations did I have to endure? But I stayed silent, letting her speak.
“I’m willing to make you an offer,” she leaned in. “Five million to divorce him. Quietly. No scandal. You just tell Artyom you don’t love him anymore.”
“No.”
“Ten million.”
“Valentina Sergeyevna, I am not for sale.”
Her face twisted. The noble-lady mask slipped, revealing her true self.
“Then listen carefully,” her voice turned razor-sharp. “If you stay, you’ll serve my husband. Cook, clean, obey. No rights. No inheritance. No children without my permission. You’ll be a shadow. Understood?”
I stared at her, stunned. A servant? In the 21st century?
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll make sure Artyom leaves you. It’s not hard to manufacture an affair… especially with a fool like you.”
She stood, dismissing me. I stood too, legs trembling.
“You have one week, Katerina. Think about it.”
Outside, I stood by my car, hands shaking so much I couldn’t get the key in the door.
Tell Artyom? He might not believe me. And if he did, what would change? She had the money, the power, the influence.
I decided to stop at the mall to clear my head. Crossing the parking lot, I saw a familiar figure.
Valentina Sergeyevna. Stepping out of a silver Mercedes.
Not alone. A tall man held her waist as she laughed, head thrown back. It was not Viktor Petrovich.
Instinctively, I ducked behind a pillar, heart pounding. They walked toward a restaurant. He whispered in her ear.
She giggled, tugged his tie, and kissed him.
My phone was in my hand before I realized. Click. Click. Click. Each frame sealed.
They went inside. I remained frozen, staring at the photos.
So much for her morals.
All the way home, I asked myself: should I use this? Sink to blackmail?
But wasn’t that what she intended for me?
My eyes burned—not from sorrow, but helpless fury.
Family dinner, Friday. A Morozov tradition—business over steaks. I usually kept a low profile.
Not tonight.
My purse held the phone. My heart, steel.
“Katerina’s lost weight,” Viktor Petrovich noted. “Artyom, are you too hard on your wife?”
“Papa, what are you talking about?” Artyom looked at me, concerned.
“Just too much work,” I muttered.
“Ah yes, school,” Valentina sneered. “By the way, have you thought about my offer?”
I looked her in the eye. Sitting across from me—perfect wife, perfect mother, perfect lie.
“What offer?” Artyom asked.
“Just a little chat between women,” she waved it off. “Katerina, remember our agreement? About your place?”
Viktor Petrovich was still on his phone. Artyom’s brow furrowed—he sensed danger.
I pulled out my phone.
“I remember, Valentina Sergeyevna. But first, I’d like to show you something.”
She paled at the sight of the screen.
“This is you. Last week. With a… very close friend.”
The phone made its rounds. Viktor froze mid-bite. Artyom whistled, stunned. Valentina turned scarlet.
“How dare you…”
“How dare you treat me like a maid? Threaten to destroy me? You preach honor, but look at you.”
“What’s going on?” Viktor finally spoke. “Valentina?”
“It’s not what it looks like…”
“What is it, then?” He flung the phone on the table. “Thirty years of marriage, and you—”
The rest was lost in shouting. She protested, he no longer listened.
Artyom gripped my hand under the table, eyes full of shock—and pride?
“Let’s go,” he whispered.
