The workshop door screeched unbearably as it swung open. The smell of gasoline and motor oil hit my nose—the scent of my past, the one I had spent so long trying to escape.
In the middle of the garage, under a Ford suspended on chains, stood him. Sergei. My ex-husband.
Same as ever—greasy overalls, a filthy rag dangling from his back pocket. He was yelling at a boy, practically still a child, and the sound of his voice made my jaw clench.
“…your hands must be growing out of nowhere, not your shoulders! I explained it to you in plain Russian!”
I stepped toward a small glass-walled office where the shop owner sat—an old, tired man with lifeless eyes. He looked up at me.
“Can I help you? If it’s about that dent, you’ll have to see the mechanics.”
“It’s not about a dent,” I said, settling into the chair across from him. “It’s about your sign—the sale.”
The man straightened, interest sparking.
“Ah, so you’re a buyer? Really serious?”
“More than serious.” My eyes flicked back to Sergei. He had just swatted the boy on the back of the head—not hard, but humiliating.
The owner followed my gaze and let out a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, my guys aren’t angels. Especially that one,” he nodded toward my ex. “Shouts at everyone, scares off the clients. But he’s a real specialist, no denying it. Handles a wrench like a god.”
I smiled inwardly. Oh, yes—he could handle a wrench. He could also tell me my place was in the kitchen, that my ‘little programs’ were worthless. That without him, I was nothing.
“How much do you want for the place?” I asked, sweeping my eyes over the grimy walls, the old lifts, the scattered tools.
He named a figure. For him, a small fortune—enough to retire to his dacha and live out his years in peace.
For me—barely a fraction of what I’d made from my engine diagnostics software.
Just then, Sergei noticed me. He wiped his hands on his overalls and strode to the glass door, peering inside.
Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by that familiar sneer.
“Well, look who it is! What brings you here, Anya? Car trouble? I told you you’d kill it within a month.”
It hadn’t even crossed his mind that I could be here for another reason. In his world, I was still the helpless woman he’d shoved out with a single suitcase.
I kept my eyes on the owner, ignoring Sergei.
“I agree. Draw up the papers.”
The man blinked, stunned. Clearly, he had expected a long round of haggling.
“R-right now? Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I rose. A thought cut through me, sharp as a scalpel: the best revenge after a divorce is to quietly buy the garage where your boorish ex-husband works.
I walked toward the exit, feeling his stunned gaze burning into my back. He shouted something after me, but I wasn’t listening anymore. Each step across the asphalt was firm and steady. The game had only just begun.
