Part 1. The Entryway and Living Room
A thick, sickly-sweet cloud of someone else’s perfume lingered in the air—like overripe fruit left baking in the sun. Polina stopped in the doorway without even taking off her coat and slowly let her eyes drop to the floor.
Where her shoe rack usually stood, with her pumps lined up like soldiers, there was now an enormous plastic suitcase in a vicious shade of hot pink. Its wheels had dragged muddy tracks across the pale laminate, a grimy trail leading from the hallway deeper into the apartment.
She’d returned from her business trip three hours earlier than planned. The jewelry catalog shoot had drained her: two days of dealing with temperamental models and diamonds that caught every glare demanded absolute focus. She’d been dreaming of silence, a cool shower, and the luxury of staring at one spot without thinking about anything at all.
But silence was the one thing she didn’t get.
From the bathroom came the rush of running water and the off-key humming of some radio-hit tune.
Polina stepped forward, carefully crossing the dirty smears. The bathroom door swung open, releasing a burst of steam. Rada—Anton’s sister—stood there.
She was wearing a silk robe—Polina’s robe, the one she’d bought in Italy and saved for special occasions. Now the wet fabric clung to Rada’s soft, heavy body, and on her head she’d built a wobbling tower from two towels.
“Oh, you’re back already?” Rada didn’t look embarrassed or surprised in the slightest. She brushed past Polina, bumping her shoulder, and dropped into an armchair in the living room, crossing her legs. “Anton said you wouldn’t be home till tonight. The fridge is empty, by the way. I ordered delivery—can you pay when the courier arrives? My card’s got nothing on it.”
Polina slowly unwound her scarf. Somewhere inside, near her solar plexus, a cold, needle-sharp flame began to kindle. It wasn’t irritation—not quite.
It was recognition.
A puzzle she’d refused to assemble for three years suddenly snapped into place all by itself.
“What is your sister doing in my apartment?” Polina asked her husband just as he walked out of the kitchen, wiping his lips with a napkin.
Anton looked at ease. His waiter’s uniform—black trousers and a white shirt—hung over the back of a chair, even though his shift started in an hour.
“Polina, don’t start,” he grimaced as if his tooth ached. “Radka divorced her husband. She’s got nowhere to stay. They’re selling the place, splitting the money, and until the court stuff is sorted, she’ll stay with us. I’m not going to throw my own sister onto the street.”
“With us?” Polina echoed softly. “I don’t remember us discussing this. And I don’t remember giving anyone permission to touch my things.”
Rada snorted loudly, studying her manicure.
“Oh, come on, don’t be so cheap. You’re seriously upset over a little robe? We’re one big family under one roof now. Try being nicer, Polina. Maybe that’s why you don’t have kids—because you’re so bitter. God sees everything.”
The words dropped into the room like stones into a well.
Anton said nothing, pretending he was intensely busy hunting for the TV remote. He didn’t correct his sister, didn’t apologize. He simply waited—like always—for Polina to swallow the insult, raise her voice for a minute, and then go cook dinner for three.
Polina looked at her husband.
Handsome, fit, with that permanent mask of mild exhaustion women found charming and rewarded with generous tips. He lived in her apartment, drove the car she’d given him, and acted as though his presence was contribution enough.
“Take off my robe,” Polina said. Her voice was level, almost empty.
“What?” Rada stopped swinging her foot. “Are you serious? I’m wet.”
“Take it off and put it on the floor. The towels too.”
“Toha, tell her!” Rada screeched, turning to her brother. “She’s lost her mind!”
“Polina, stop throwing a tantrum,” Anton stepped forward, his face slipping into its usual patronizing look. “You’re tired, I get it. But I’m not letting you humiliate my sister. Rada will stay as long as she needs. We’ll manage—close quarters don’t have to mean bad blood. There’s room for everyone. And the robe… buy yourself a new one. You’re the rich one here, remember?”
Polina nodded as if she’d just confirmed something to herself.
The anger that once would have made her scream and cry hardened into icy, crystal-clear certainty. She could see straight through them: a brazen, lazy man used to living off someone else, and his rude sister convinced she could do whatever she pleased.
Polina didn’t argue. She didn’t beg or demand.
She turned and walked toward the door.
“Hey! Where are you going? And the groceries?” Rada shouted after her.
“I’ve got a shoot,” Polina lied—and slammed the door behind her.
Part 2. Monochrome Photo Studio
The studio welcomed her with the familiar scent of chemicals and cooling equipment. This was her kingdom, a place where she controlled every beam of light and every shadow. Polina didn’t switch on the overhead lights, settling for the small lamp at her desk.
She sank into the chair but didn’t relax. An invisible calculator clicked in her mind—not tallying money, but counting the scale of her own stupidity.
Three years.
For three years she’d pretended not to notice: Anton’s budget was “his money,” and Polina’s budget was “our money.” She paid the bills, vacations, gas, groceries. He spent his tips on fun, gadgets, and—apparently—supporting his sister.
Polina opened her laptop and logged into the banking app. Her fingers flew over the keys. Anton had an extra card linked to her main account—“for household expenses,” as they’d agreed.
The last two days were full of transactions:
Gourmet Supermarket — 8,400 rubles
Gradus Liquor Store — 5,200 rubles
Wild Orchid Lingerie Shop — 12,000 rubles
Yaposha Food Delivery — 3,500 rubles
Polina let out a short, dry laugh.
Rada had arrived with no money? Right. She’d arrived with unlimited access to Polina’s wallet. And Anton—this “generous” brother—hadn’t refused her anything.
Polina’s rage wasn’t hot anymore. It became a tool—precise and sharp as a scalpel. She opened the account settings.
Block cardholder: Anton S.
Transfer limits: 0
Remove from trusted devices
Then she opened the government services site. The apartment had been bought by her a year before the marriage—her grandmother’s inheritance plus a mortgage she’d paid off herself, working twelve-hour days. Anton wasn’t even registered there; his official address was still in the region, at his parents’ place.
She called the owner of a car-service company she often worked with.
“Artyom, hi. It’s Polina. Listen, I’ve got a strange question. If I want my car—the black Audi that someone else drives under a power of attorney—to stop starting tomorrow morning… can that be arranged remotely? Yes, that one. Thanks. I owe you.”
After the calls, she went to the large mirror in the makeup area. A woman with tired eyes looked back at her, but her mouth was set in a hard line. Polina remembered Rada’s words about children and “God sees everything.”
“He does,” Polina said to her reflection. “And now I do too.”
She felt no pity, no fear of being alone. Only disgust for her former self—the one who’d let those parasites feed on her life. Anton would read her quiet disappearance as weakness, surrender. He was used to Polina “cooling off” and coming back with bags of food.
She opened the safe and took out a folder with the property documents, along with her security contract for the studio. There was a clause about “physical assistance in emergency situations.”
Tonight was going to qualify.
Part 3. L’Dolphin Restaurant
The restaurant where Anton worked had a reputation for pretension. People came here less to eat than to be seen. Polina walked into the dining room with steady confidence. She rarely showed up—Anton hated her seeing him carrying a tray. It ruined his carefully crafted image of a “successful man” who was “just temporarily helping a friend with a business.”
She chose the best table by the window and signaled the floor manager.
“An espresso and mineral water, please. And ask my husband to come over—he covers this section.”
A minute later Anton appeared. He looked irritated, scanning the room nervously.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, leaning in as if he were fixing her napkin. “I’m on shift.”
“I’m hungry,” Polina said with a small, sharp smile. “You told me we’re one big family. I thought I’d visit our provider.”
Anton rolled his eyes.
“Go home. Rada’s probably bored. Order pizza, make peace. She’s fine, she just has a temper. Be smarter, Pol.”
“I got smarter, Anton. About two hours ago. Bring me the bill.”
“For what? The water? I’ll pay. Just go.”
“No. Bring the terminal. I want to see if the card works.”
With a sigh he pulled a portable terminal from his apron pocket—against protocol, but he wanted her gone.
“Give me your card.”
“No. Yours. The one I gave you. Pay for my coffee.”
He stared at her, confused, but pulled out the card and tapped it.
“Declined. Insufficient funds.”
“Must be a glitch,” he muttered and tried again.
“Card blocked.”
Anton’s face went gray. He looked at Polina, and for the first time there was real understanding in his eyes—something disastrous was coming.
“What did you do?”
“I shut down the charity ride,” Polina said calmly, taking a sip of water. “By the way, the car won’t start either. Mechanical failure.”
“You’ve lost it!” His voice jumped into a high pitch, drawing glances from nearby tables. “Rada has a doctor tomorrow! I need to buy groceries! Put everything back the way it was!”
“Rada can take the bus. Or a taxi—if she has her own money. And you…”
Polina stood, leaving a large bill on the table for the water.
“And you, darling, aren’t sleeping at home tonight. Or tomorrow. I’ll pack your things.”
“You won’t dare,” he hissed, grabbing her elbow. “We’re married. The apartment is shared.”
“You’re wrong. The apartment is mine. Bought before the registry office. You’re nobody there—just a guest who overstayed.” She shook his hand off with visible disgust.
“Don’t touch me. Or I’ll call security and make a scene that gets you fired from this place too.”
She walked out, feeling his hatred burn into her back. Anton didn’t chase her. He stood there with a useless piece of plastic in his hand, realizing he’d just lost more than a wife—he’d lost the sponsor who made his life comfortable.
But he still hoped.
He hoped Rada would help him pressure Polina at home. He thought the two of them could break her.
Idiot.
Part 4. Mall Parking Lot
Polina sat in her car watching the stream of people outside. She needed to kill time. She didn’t want to go home alone. She was waiting for a call from the head of security at her studio—an iron-solid man named Gleb—who sometimes took private side jobs to ensure “safety during difficult negotiations.”
And tonight, negotiations would involve relatives.
Her phone buzzed. Anton. Once. Twice. Five times. Then came messages:
“You’re a finished b****.”
“Turn the card back on—I can’t even put gas in the car.”
“Rada is shocked by your behavior.”
“You’ll come crawling back—no one needs you with that attitude.”
Polina read them with the detached curiosity of someone studying insects under glass. How quickly the varnish of “love” peels off when the feeding trough is taken away. The fear of losing money had turned her “beloved husband” into a market-stall shouter.
Then Gleb called.
“Polina Sergeyevna, me and two guys will be at your building in twenty minutes. Should we come up right away or wait for your signal?”
“Wait by the door. When I go in, come in a minute later. I’ll leave the door open.”
“Understood. Use force?”
“Only if there’s a direct threat. I just need the trash taken out. Oversized. Alive.”
She started the engine. Her hands didn’t tremble. If anything, she felt strangely light.
She remembered how Anton had once given her a stand mixer for her birthday—bought with her own money—then bought himself a gaming console that same day. How Rada had visited last year and sneered at the renovation Polina had done with her own hands. “Gray is the color of poverty,” her sister-in-law had declared while stuffing herself with caviar sandwiches.
Greed.
Greed was what defined them. They mistook Polina’s restraint for weakness, and her generosity for obligation.
Polina drove into the courtyard. The windows of her apartment were glowing—bright, festive. They clearly believed her threats were empty, just a woman’s tantrum.
They were feasting.
Part 5. The Apartment — Finale
The entryway smelled like food again, but now there was alcohol mixed in too. Polina entered quietly. The lock clicked, but the loud music and laughter drowned it out.
Anton and Rada were in the kitchen. On the table were leftovers from the earlier delivery, a bottle of whiskey (from Polina’s own stash—an expensive gift bottle), and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
Right on the kitchen table.
Polina never allowed smoking in her home.
“She’ll come back. Where’s she going to go?” Rada was saying, waving her glass. “She’ll freak out and then crawl back. Women need a pair of pants in the house. And you, Toha, you’re a catch. She’s almost thirty—who’ll want her then?”
“You’re right,” Anton leaned back smugly, dragging on a cigarette. “I just need to put her in her place. She’s gotten too much freedom. ‘My apartment,’ she says. Like without me she wouldn’t die of boredom in here.”
Polina stood in the doorway. The anger was gone. All that remained was revulsion—the way you’d feel if you discovered a nest of cockroaches in your bed.
“Party’s over,” she said loudly, and switched off the music.
Anton jerked, spilling whiskey on his shirt. Rada choked mid-sip.
“Oh, look who showed up!” Rada recovered fast. “We were just talking about you. What do you think you’re doing, huh? Blocking cards? Leaving my brother broke?”
“Get up and leave,” Polina said quietly, but with absolute clarity. “Both of you. Now.”
“What, you think you’re immortal?” Anton stood, his face flushing. “How dare you talk to my sister like that? This is my home too!”
“This was never your home,” Polina replied. “You’ve been squatting here. A warm body in my bed—barely. Same as your sister.”
Rada sprang up, her face twisting with rage.
“Listen, you half-baked photographer—who are you calling a squatter? I’ll rip your hair out!”
She lunged at Polina, fingers spread, nails long and sharp. In her eyes was the confidence of a street bully used to winning with noise and nerve. Anton stood there smirking, expecting his sister to “teach the uppity wife a lesson.”
But Rada hadn’t considered one thing: for two years Polina had photographed boxing gyms and took self-defense classes just to stay in shape.
When Rada’s hand reached for her face, Polina didn’t flinch. She snapped her grip around Rada’s wrist and twisted it hard to the side. Rada screamed from pain and surprise. A split second later Polina delivered a short, sharp slap—one loaded with every ounce of contempt she’d swallowed for years. Rada’s head whipped sideways.
Before she could recover, Polina grabbed her by the hair—yanking down that towel “turban” to reveal greasy strands underneath—and jerked her forward, forcing her to bend.
“Ow! Let go, you psycho!” Rada shrieked.
“You touched my things. You wore my robe. You ate my food and insulted me in my own home,” Polina said, and with each sentence she tugged harder, dragging the struggling woman toward the hallway. A clump of hair extensions tore free and stayed in Polina’s hand.
Anton, frozen in shock, finally snapped awake.
“What are you doing?! I’ll kill you!” he shouted, charging at her with his fist clenched.
At that exact moment, the front door—which Polina had left unlocked—swung open. Three broad-shouldered men in black uniforms stepped into the apartment.
“Trouble, Polina Sergeyevna?” Gleb asked calmly, blocking the corridor.
Anton stopped mid-step. His fist dropped uselessly. He looked from his wife, who held his screeching sister, to the grim security men. All his swagger and fake bravado deflated in an instant. He understood he’d lost—not just an argument, but his entire way of life.
“Get them out,” Polina said, releasing Rada. Rada collapsed to her knees, mascara streaking down her face. “And their things. The suitcase in the hallway. If they forgot anything, I’ll mail it. Cash on delivery.”
The guards worked quietly and efficiently. Rada, still kicking and shrieking, was lifted under the arms and carried out like a sack of potatoes. Anton tried to mutter something about rights and the police, but Gleb placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed—just enough. Anton’s face pinched, and he trudged toward the door without another word.
Five minutes later, the apartment was silent.
Polina stood in the middle of the wrecked kitchen. A bottle lay on its side on the table. On the floor was a clump of someone else’s fake hair.
She went to the window. Down below, two figures moved frantically near the entrance. Rada was yelling, flailing her arms, kicking the suitcase. Anton stood with his head lowered, trying to call someone—but Polina already knew: his phone was blocked for nonpayment. She’d disabled autopay earlier that day.
They weren’t punished by a judge, the police, or prison.
They were punished by reality—the reality where there was no longer a place for them on her shoulders.
Polina turned away from the window, took a trash bag, and swept in the cigarette butts, the bottle, the dirty plates. Then she picked up the clump of hair and tossed that in too.
She felt completely, perfectly clean.
Tomorrow she would change the locks. The day after, she would file for divorce. And tonight—tonight she would finally take a bath.
In her own apartment. Clean. Quiet. Entirely hers.