The evening, rich with the scents of freshness, hung in the air after a brief but fierce summer rain. The city, washed to a shine, seemed to breathe more deeply, absorbing the spicy, almost electric smell of ozone. Drops still tapped on the windowsills, the asphalt steamed, giving off the warmth of the day, and somewhere in the distance, above the rooftops, heavy clouds gathered, as if hesitating to leave.
Mark entered the apartment, leaving traces of water and fatigue behind him. Tossing his wet coat onto the sofa—with a rough, almost contemptuous gesture, as if the fabric itself was repulsive to him—he went to the kitchen. There, in the warm, cozy light, stood Anya. Her movements were measured, like a musical piece she alone could hear. She carefully distributed mushroom risotto onto plates, and the air was filled with the rich aroma of broth, sautéed mushrooms, and butter.
“Smells good,” he said, opening the fridge. “I just hope you didn’t decide to spice up dinner with mushrooms from the forest edge? We already don’t have enough money for treatment if something grows where it shouldn’t.”
Anya slowly turned to him, holding a plate in her hands. Her gaze was calm, but something lurked inside it—something she had learned to hide over the years. His words were, as always, on a thin, almost invisible line—between care and reproach. Only now that line had long ceased to be a boundary. He crossed it with enviable regularity, as if testing how much she could endure.
“These mushrooms are from the supermarket, Mark. Ordinary champignons. No dangers. Only safety and comfort, just the way you like it.”
“Good,” he said, taking a bottle of mineral water, pouring himself a full glass and drinking it down in one gulp. “Today at the office I saw the new price list from the insurance company. You have no idea how much one day in the hospital costs now. It’s just a nightmare.”
She silently placed the plate in front of him. He was not hungry. He did not want to eat. He wanted to start a conversation that had long become a ritual. It was a prelude—to something bigger, to something painful. Anya knew all his preludes. She had learned them like an actress learns her monologues. Only in this play, she was not allowed to improvise.
They sat down at the table. Silence hung between them, dense like fog. Only the clatter of forks against the ceramic disturbed it, and the flame of the candle Anya had lit, hoping to add some coziness. But there was no coziness. The candle flickered as if sensing the tension filling the room.
“I was thinking,” Mark began, pushing aside his half-empty plate. “Your paintings… that’s just a hobby, right? You’re not planning to make money from it?”
Anya lifted her eyes. Her hands, resting on her lap, clenched slightly, but her face remained impassive. She knew what answer he expected. But not the one he was going to get.
“I sold two last week.”
He smirked—not cruelly, but condescendingly, like an adult listening to a child’s story about a sandcastle. But there was no warmth in his eyes.
“Sold? Anya, that’s not earning. That’s pocket money I give you myself, just in a different form. You buy paints with my money, canvases with my money. And then you get lucky, and some housewife buys your smudge to cover a hole in the wallpaper.”
Each of his words was precise. He struck exactly, without missing. He knew where it hurt more.
“That’s not smudge, Mark.”
“Oh? Then what is it? Art?” He laughed, no longer holding back. “You sit at home all day, warm and comfortable, which I provide. I work my ass off from morning till night to pay for this apartment, this food, your clothes! And you just… exist.”
His voice sharpened. He stood up from the table, looming over her. The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, becoming dense and heavy. Breathing became difficult.
“I don’t understand what you want,” she said quietly. Her voice was even, and that seemed to infuriate him even more.
“What do I want?” he shouted, and in his voice rang those very notes she had been expecting. “I want you to stop being dead weight! To appreciate what you have! You’re a poor talentless nobody living off me!”
A phrase that had become the leitmotif of their last year. The final chord in his daily symphony of reproaches.
Anya did not flinch. She slowly picked up her phone lying next to the plate. Her fingers confidently swiped across the screen. Mark froze, watching her actions in confusion. He expected tears, screams, hysteria. But not this. Not this icy, almost contemptuous calm.
She quickly typed something and hit “send.” At that same moment, a short notification sound rang on his phone lying on the sofa in the living room.
“What’s that?” he asked, puzzled.
“Just a link,” Anya replied, rising from the table. She looked him straight in the eyes, and in her gaze there was no fear or offense. Only fatigue. “Look. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Mark snorted and went to the living room to get his phone. He expected anything—an article about family values, stupid quizzes, silly memes. But when he clicked the link, a page opened before him. A strict, minimalist design in gray-blue tones. No ads. In the top corner—the logo: intertwined letters V and F. And beneath it, the headline: “Volkova Fund.”
[…]
(The story continues exactly as in your text, but now without the broken flow from ad insertions.)
