“I Found Someone Else”
“I found someone else. Pack your things and get out of my apartment,” said Svyatoslav, standing in the middle of the living room with his hands in his pockets. Triumph flickered on his face.
Zlata slowly lifted her eyes from the book she’d been reading, curled up in an armchair. She squinted, as if examining an exotic insect.
“Your apartment?” she repeated, drawing out the words. “Svyatoslav Arkadievich, darling, are you sure you remember whose apartment this is?”
“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped, twitching his shoulder. “I paid the mortgage all these years. Every month. I’ve got all the receipts.”
“You did pay,” Zlata agreed, setting the book down on the coffee table. “Only, you weren’t paying for this apartment.”
A shadow of unease crossed Svyatoslav’s face, but he quickly masked it with irritation.
“Enough games. You have a week to find yourself a new place. Vitalina’s moving in ten days.”
“Vitalina?” Zlata rose from her chair, smoothing the folds of her dress. “You mean the same Vitalina from your sales department? The one with the lash extensions and the silicone C-cup?”
“None of your business,” he barked. “And don’t you dare insult her.”
“Insult? Heaven forbid.” Zlata chuckled softly. “I just want to understand who you traded me for after twelve years of marriage.”
“Vitalina is young, beautiful, and doesn’t nag me every five minutes,” he said, puffing up his chest. “With her, I feel like a man again.”
“How touching.” Zlata turned toward the window, watching the city lights. “How long has this romance been going on?”
“Six months.”
“Six months,” she repeated. “Right around when you started working late on that ‘big Chinese contract.’”
“What difference does it make? It’s over between us. I’ll file for divorce, the apartment stays with me, and you—”
“And I what?”
“You can go back to your mother in the suburbs. Or rent a studio. You make enough as an interior designer.”
“You’ve really thought this through,” she said evenly. “Almost sweet. Too bad you missed one tiny detail.”
“What detail?”
Zlata walked to the writing desk and pulled out a folder of papers.
“Remember three years ago, when I asked you to sign some documents? I told you it was for the tax office — to get a deduction.”
“So what?” He frowned.
“So it was actually a deed of gift. You transferred this apartment to me, dear husband. Irrevocably and unconditionally.”
“That’s nonsense!” He snatched the folder and flipped through the pages. “This can’t be real!”
“Oh, it’s very real. You were drunk after that office party and signed without looking. I told you it was an agreement for the bathroom renovation. You waved your hand and said, ‘Do whatever you want.’”
His face turned ashen. He reread the document again and again, as if it might change.
“You… you set me up!”
“Set you up?” Zlata tilted her head. “No, sweetheart. I just protected myself. Your little flings didn’t start with Vitalina, remember? There was Karina from accounting. And Milena from HR.”
“How do you—”
“Women always know, Svyatoslav. Sometimes we just pretend not to. Give men a chance to come to their senses.”
He dropped onto the sofa, clutching his head.
“This is illegal. I’ll contest it in court!”
“Try it. The deed is flawless. I had three lawyers review it. And there’s a video of you signing it — sober, coherent, and in full possession of your faculties.”
“Video? But I was drunk!”
“Doesn’t look that way on camera. You’re calm, composed, and even glance at the document — for a whole two seconds — before signing.”
“You conniving witch!” He leapt to his feet. “You planned this!”
“Not from the beginning. Just for the last three years — ever since I caught you and Karina in your office. You said she was helping you with reports, remember?”
“I’ll ruin you! Take every last penny!”
“On what grounds?” Zlata sat back in the armchair, unruffled. “The apartment’s mine. Oh, and speaking of money — do you know where your payments have been going these past three years?”
He said nothing.
“To my mother’s account. She’s been saving up for a little cottage in Crimea. Thank you for your generosity.”
“What?!”
“You never checked the bank details. I told you I’d changed banks, gave you new numbers, and you never looked twice.”
“I can prove I was sending the money!”
“Of course. To my mother. She’ll confirm you were supporting her out of pure kindness. You’re such a saint.”
He grabbed his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“My lawyer!”
“Mstislav Borisovich? Excellent choice. Too bad he’s my lawyer now. I hired him last month.”
“I’ll find another!”
“Go ahead. Just remember — I’ve got photos, messages, even a couple of videos. Your boss won’t be happy to find out you’ve been sleeping with his niece.”
“His what?” The phone fell from his hand.
“Vitalina. Vitalina Sergeevna Krymova. Niece of Anton Vladimirovich Krymov, your company’s CEO. He asked you to keep an eye on her. And you really did.”
“She told me it was just a coincidence!”
“Oh, Svyatoslav… you’re either too trusting or too stupid. Maybe both.”
He paced the room like a trapped animal.
“What do you want? Money? I’ll pay!”
“I want nothing. Just take your things and go. You have three days.”
“But… where will I go?”
“To Vitalina, of course. She loves you. Or to your mother — though I doubt she’ll be thrilled about the divorce.”
“You wouldn’t tell her!”
“I don’t have to. She’ll find out herself. Oh, and I’ll share the photos of you and Karina too. Remember, that was her friend’s daughter.”
He collapsed back onto the sofa, shaking.
“Zlata, please. Let’s talk. We’ve been together so long…”
“Twelve years. And you cheated for at least four.”
“I was a fool. Forgive me. We can fix this.”
“Too late, Svyatoslav. You already decided. ‘I found someone else,’ remember? Then go to her.”
“But I love you!”
“No, you love comfort. A clean home, good food, pressed shirts. You love the life I built for you.”
“That’s not true!”
“When’s my birthday?”
He hesitated. “August?”
“October. My favorite color?”
“Blue?”
“Green. My best friend’s name?”
“I… I don’t remember.”
“Exactly. You don’t know me. You just used me.”
The doorbell rang. Zlata went to answer it.
Two men in uniforms stood outside.
“Good evening. Are you Svyatoslav Arkadievich Volkonksy?”
“What’s this about?”
“We have a court order to collect your debt of three million rubles in favor of Zlata Igorevna Volkonskaya.”
“What debt?!”
Zlata smiled sweetly. “Remember when you borrowed money for your car? Five years ago? You signed a note.”
“But that was between family!”
The officer showed him the document. “A loan agreement. Three million rubles at ten percent interest. Including penalties, that’s now four point two million.”
“I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Then we’ll seize your assets — your car, bank accounts, business shares…”
“I don’t have a business!”
“Oh, but you do,” Zlata said. “LLC SvyatoSlav. You own fifty percent. I bought the other half and added a few valuable patents to the capital. You signed the papers, of course.”
The officers went about their work efficiently.
When they left, Svyatoslav’s phone rang. He answered, pale.
“What do you mean I’m fired?” His voice trembled. “Wait, Anton Vladimirovich, please—” The line went dead.
He stared blankly at the phone.
Zlata tilted her head. “Oh, I forgot to mention — I sent Vitalina our vacation photos from Thailand. The ones you thought I deleted. She was… upset.”
“You’ve destroyed my life!”
“No, Svyatoslav. You destroyed it. I just helped speed things up.”
When the door finally closed behind the officers, he stood motionless.
“Why?” he whispered. “Why did you do all this?”
“You wanted to throw me out of my home, bring another woman into my bed. Did you really think I’d just pack up and leave?”
“I changed my mind! Don’t leave me!”
“In my apartment? How generous. You have three days.”
“But I have nowhere to go! Vitalina won’t answer, and my mother—”
“There are hostels. Or park benches. Be creative.”
“Zlata, please!”
“Three days, Svyatoslav. Then I change the locks.”
She turned and walked toward the bedroom.
He shouted after her, “What about our vows? You swore to be with me in joy and in sorrow!”
Zlata stopped in the doorway.
“I kept my promise. I was with you in joy — when you rose in your career, bought the car, went on vacations. And now I’m with you in sorrow. For three more days.”
He stared as she disappeared inside.
On the hallway table lay a note in her handwriting:
“Svyatoslav, I blocked your cards an hour ago. Joint accounts too. They’re mine now. Don’t thank me for the suitcase — it’s my farewell gift. — Z.”
Outside, rain drizzled. His BMW sat in the parking lot, taped with a sticker: Property Seized.
His banking app showed zeros. Cash on hand: three thousand rubles.
His phone rang again — the head of security.
“Return your badge and company laptop within the hour or we’ll call the police.”
By morning, drenched and shivering, he was standing at a bus stop with his suitcase — the same one he’d used for “business trips” with his lovers.
Everyone had blocked him — Karina, Milena, Vitalina. Even his mother refused to take his calls.
Weeks later, Svyatoslav worked as a warehouse loader. Minimum wage. No car, no home, no friends. But he didn’t complain.
On payday, he bought a small bouquet of chrysanthemums and mailed it to Zlata. No card, no note. He didn’t expect forgiveness — just wanted to say thank you. For the lesson. For the mirror she’d held up to his soul.
He would climb out of the hole he’d dug. Slowly, painfully — but he would.
Zlata received the flowers, smiled faintly, and placed them in a vase. Beautiful, innocent things — not their fault.
Then she turned back to her desk, where catalogs and color samples were spread out. The study that had once been his would soon become her creative studio.
For the first time in years, Zlata felt truly free.
She had her own fortress now — her home, her independence, and, most importantly, herself.
