— Why are you sitting here in the dark? Dima? Hey! You won’t believe what I bought today—you’re gonna be blown away! Seriously, this is next-level, the girls at the boutique were green with envy when I whipped out my card. Why aren’t you saying anything? Turn on the lights, I want to show you—this isn’t just a thing, it’s a true work of art!
Alisa burst into the apartment like a tropical storm, smelling of expensive perfume and crisp winter air. She flipped the hallway switch, flooding the space with bright light that gleamed off the mirrored closet doors. Clutched in her hands was a massive, sturdy paper bag embossed with a golden logo. The bag was so huge, she had to hold it with both hands, pressing it to her chest as if it were a precious newborn.
Dmitry was sitting on the couch in the living room. He wasn’t reading, watching TV, or even scrolling through his phone. He just sat there with his hands on his knees, staring at one spot on the wall. When the hallway light hit his back, he turned his head slowly, with a disturbingly mechanical precision. His face was ashen, as if molded out of stale clay, and his lips were pressed into such a thin line it looked like he barely had any at all.
— I’ve been waiting for you, he said. His voice was steady, not loud, but within that calm there was something scraping—like metal dragged over concrete. — I’ve been waiting a long time.
— Oh, here we go! Alisa rolled her eyes, slipping off her heels. One stiletto clattered against the tile, the other spun away toward the ottoman. — Yes, I’m late, traffic was a nightmare, downtown is jammed. You know it’s harder to find parking there than it is to find life’s meaning. But just look at this! It’s a limited collection, only three in the whole city. I basically snatched it from some over-Botoxed hag. Honestly, she already had her claws on it, and I…
— Where’s the envelope, Alisa? Dmitry cut her off. He didn’t get up or come to greet his wife. He just stayed sitting—like he was nailed to the couch by invisible metal clamps.
Alisa froze, not having taken off her coat yet. Her smile faltered for a second but quickly returned, just a little more strained and artificial. She knew exactly which envelope he meant, but her habit of playing dumb always helped her out in minor domestic squabbles. She figured it’d work again. All she had to do was turn on the charm and change the subject.
— What envelope? You mean the one with the tax letters? Those are in the drawer, I didn’t touch them, she giggled, trying to lighten the mood, and finally slipped off her coat, tossing it on the ottoman. — Dima, don’t pout. Just look at this leather! It’s calfskin, special treatment. Smells absolutely divine.
She walked into the living room, holding the bag in front of her like a shield. Dmitry finally stood up. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man—used to being decisive and tough—but tonight his movements were slow, as if he was afraid a sudden move might break something. Or someone.
— That money was for the car insurance and the rent, and you blew it on a designer bag! Are you out of your mind?! How are we supposed to pay for electricity? You
“I’m not talking about the mail,” he said, stepping right up to her. There was no smell of alcohol on him, and that scared Alisa more than anything. Sober, cold anger was much more dangerous than drunken rage. “I’m talking about the gray craft envelope. The one that was in the safe. On the bottom shelf. Under the folder with the apartment documents. I put one hundred fifty thousand in there this morning. An hour ago, I opened the safe to take it out. And you know what I found? Nothing.”
Alisa frowned. She didn’t like his tone. Dmitry had never spoken to her like she was his subordinate screwing up a quarterly report before. Usually, he’d just grumble and grab his card.
“So, I took it—big deal,” she snorted, deciding that attack was the best defense. “Why are you making such a drama out of this? I didn’t steal from the neighbor, it was my own husband! I didn’t have enough. The price was… well, let’s just say, it was steep. And my card limit was reached, since you put those dumb restrictions on it. What was I supposed to do? Lose out on such an opportunity?”
She carefully set the bag down on the glass coffee table and started slowly, almost savoring it, to pull out a box tied with a silk ribbon.
“Do you even realize what that money was for?” Dmitry looked at the box like it held a severed head, not a trendy accessory. “I told you, Alisa. I told you in plain Russian over dinner on Sunday. My car insurance payment is due tomorrow. And we’re three months behind on the apartment, because last month we spent everything on your spa treatments.”
“Oh, come on!” Alisa tugged on the ribbon and the bow unraveled. “You’ll figure something out. You’re smart, you’re the businessman. You’ll borrow, get an advance, I don’t know… But I couldn’t wait! Just look at this color! It’s ‘dusty rose,’ Dima! It’s perfect for my new boots.”
Dmitry ran his hand over his face, as if wiping away invisible cobwebs. He was starting to tremble. A slight shiver began somewhere in his gut and pulsed hotly through his veins. She wasn’t listening. She absolutely, totally wasn’t listening. To her, the world was made of store windows, fitting rooms, and ecstatic likes on social media. Reality, with its bills, obligations, and deadlines, existed in a parallel universe that Alisa was barred from by her own immaturity.
“I can’t just borrow more,” he said slowly, enunciating every word. “My business has a cash gap, I barely pulled that money out just to cover our personal holes. That was earmarked money, Alisa. Not for entertainment. Not for clothes. It was for security. Do you understand the word ‘security’? If I get into a car accident tomorrow, we’ll have nothing to fix the car with. If they cut our electricity, you won’t be able to blow dry your hair with your fifty-thousand-ruble hairdryer.”
Alisa finally opened the box. Inside a pile of rustling paper lay a bag. Small, elegant, impeccably crafted. She took it out, hung it on the crook of her elbow, and turned toward the mirror hanging above the dresser.
“You’re so boring when you start counting every penny,” she threw at her reflection, admiring how the bag looked with her dress. “Absolutely unbearable. ‘Security,’ ‘cash gap’… Deadly dull. We only live once, Dim! We have to treat ourselves. That’s what I’m doing. And I’m treating you, too, by the way. You want a gorgeous woman by your side, not some frumpy lady in a market puffer, right? Beauty comes at a price. Think of it as an investment in my image. And my image is your status.”
Dmitry stared at her profile, watching as she flirtatiously adjusted her hair and smiled at herself, acting as if nothing was wrong—as if she hadn’t just stolen from him. Yes, stolen. Taking money from the safe without asking, a code he’d given her only for emergencies—illness, a fire, a war—felt like betrayal. She treated the emergency fund like it was her own pocket money.
“Put the bag on the table,” he said. His voice was quieter now, but it carried a threatening rasp.
“Why?” Alisa turned, clutching her new bag to her side. “I haven’t even taken the tags off yet—I want to get a photo for my stories.”
“Put. The. Bag. On. The. Table.”
The air crackled like ozone before a storm. At last, Alisa realized she’d pushed too far, but her pride and confidence in how much power she held over her husband wouldn’t let her back down. She clicked her tongue for show and carelessly tossed the bag onto the glass table next to the torn packaging.
“Here, choke on it. Look at it and calm down. Just don’t touch it with your hands—they’re probably sweaty from all that anger. The leather is delicate; you’ll leave stains.”
Dmitry stepped up to the table, his eyes fixed on that piece of beige leather—a bag that cost as much as two months’ rent for their apartment. Something snapped in his mind. The safety fuse that had held back his irritation at her endless spending for years had burned out, leaving nothing but black smoke and seething rage.
Dmitry looked at the bag lying on the glass table. Under the chandelier, the gold hardware glinted mockingly, almost winking at him. One hundred and fifty thousand rubles. Not just scraps of paper, but his nerves, his sleepless nights working on projects, the humiliation of chasing down payments from clients. That bag was his assurance he could drive to work tomorrow—not have to walk—and that there’d be light in their apartment at night. Now, that assurance had turned into a piece of beige leather that wouldn’t even buy bread.
“Do you think this is okay?” he asked, his voice sounding muffled, as if from the bottom of a barrel. “You raided my safe, took money I’d set aside for mandatory bills, and bought… this?”
Noticing that her husband had stopped yelling, Alisa relaxed. She walked back over to the mirror and started fixing her hair again, making it clear the storm had passed and it was time to slip back into their usual routine.
— Dima, don’t start, okay? — she whined, dragging out the words. — You talk like I blew this money at a casino or spent it on drugs. This is an item! It stays. It’s an investment. You know how brands are appreciating these days? In a year I could sell it for even more if I wanted to. You should be proud your wife has taste, not nag me over every penny.
— A penny? — Dmitry took a step toward her, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. — That was the insurance money, Alisa! Insurance! If some moron crashes into me tomorrow, who’s going to pay? Will you pay with your handbag? Or maybe offer the guy at the auto shop a sniff, so he can appreciate how good this “special calfskin” smells?
Alisa spun around sharply. Her perfectly-groomed eyebrows drew together in annoyance. She was done. She was done having her celebration ruined by endless nagging. In her world—ruled by glossy magazines—a man had no right to whine. A man was supposed to solve problems, not create them over “a bunch of papers.”
— Will you stop with the insurance talk! — she exploded, stomping her foot. — Are you a man or what? Solve the problem! Borrow, steal, earn—do something! Why do I have to care about your junk? I’m a woman, Dima! I need emotion, I need beauty! I’m withering in this apartment, suffocating from your penny-pinching!
— Penny-pinching? — he repeated, feeling his pulse start pounding in his temples like a hammer. — We went to Dubai last month. For your birthday, I gave you a bracelet that cost as much as my kidney. You’ve never worked a day in your life, Alisa. You don’t even know how much a carton of milk costs because I do the shopping. And you have the nerve to call me stingy?
— That was last month! — she shot back, as if that explained it all. — But we have to live now! Just look at me! I’m young, I’m beautiful. Men can’t stop staring at me. And you expect me to walk around with a shopping bag? Lenka’s husband gave her a Porsche for their anniversary, and you’re making a scene over a purse? Miser! You’re just a petty miser who doesn’t appreciate the treasure he’s got!
The word “miser” hit him harder than a slap in the face. Dmitry worked twelve-hour shifts. He paid the mortgage, supported her mother, funded their trips, and covered her endless “self-improvement” courses that she quit after a week. He denied himself everything. He’d been wearing the same jacket for three years just so she could show off her new fur coat. And now he was a miser.
— So, Lenka’s husband gave her a Porsche? — he said quietly as he walked over to the table. — And I bet Lenka respects her husband, doesn’t she? I bet Lenka doesn’t steal money from his stash while he’s in the shower?
— I never stole! — Alisa screeched, sensing the conversation taking a dangerous turn. — We’re a family! What’s yours is ours! Your money is our money! And my needs are your responsibility! That’s how things are in normal families!
“In normal families, Alisa, wives actually discuss spending a hundred and fifty thousand with their husbands first,” Dmitry snapped. “In normal families, people understand the word ‘no.’ In normal families, there’s respect for hard work. But you… you’re just a parasite. A beautiful, well-groomed, expensive parasite.”
Alisa gasped in outrage. Red blotches spread across her face, breaking the perfect mask of indifference.
“How dare you?!” she screamed, rushing over to him and snatching the bag from the table, clutching it to her chest like she was protecting a child from a monster. “I’ll leave you! I’ll find someone who’ll treat me like a queen! Someone who won’t count every penny! You’ve ruined my whole life with your boring ways!”
Dmitry looked at her, and suddenly the veil fell from his eyes. He didn’t see the woman he once loved so much he would move mountains for her. He saw a stranger, a greedy person who viewed him as nothing more than a function. Just an ATM that had suddenly dared to display an ‘insufficient funds’ error. And now, this ATM was ready to permanently cut off all cash withdrawals.
His gaze fell on the sewing kit that Alisa had left on the nightstand a couple of days ago, after trying (unsuccessfully) to sew a button back onto her coat. Big, heavy tailor’s scissors with black handles stuck out of the open box. The sharply honed steel glinted in the dimly lit room.
“Give me the bag,” Dmitry said. His voice was perfectly calm, and that calmness sent a chill down Alisa’s spine. This wasn’t a request. It was a command.
“No!” she clung to the handles with a death grip, backing up toward the window. “You’re crazy! You’re insane! Get away from me! This is my bag! I bought it!”
“You bought it with my money. Money that was supposed to pay for electricity, so you wouldn’t be sitting in the dark. Money for the apartment, so we wouldn’t end up on the street. So technically, Alisa, it’s my bag. And I have every right to do with it as I see fit.”
He stepped forward. Then another step. Alisa’s back hit the windowsill. There was nowhere left to run.
“Don’t you dare!” she shrieked, and for the first time real fear flashed in her eyes. Not fear for herself, or for their relationship. For the bag. She was terrified he would take it and return it to the store. “I won’t give it up! Just try and touch it!”
“I said: give me the bag!” Dmitry barked, and his shout made the window panes rattle. “Or I’ll throw it out the window along with the rest of your junk!”
He reached out and grabbed the leather handle. Alisa held on to the bag with both hands, her nails digging into the soft leather and leaving marks. An ugly, shameful struggle began. They yanked the expensive bag back and forth, breathing heavily, staring into each other’s eyes with open hatred.
“Let go! You’re hurting me!” Alisa screamed, though he wasn’t even touching her hands, just the bag. “You’re going to tear it, you idiot! It cost a fortune!”
“I don’t care how much it cost!” Dmitry growled. He pulled so hard that Alisa couldn’t keep her balance and, releasing her prize, almost tumbled to the floor.
Dmitry stood in the middle of the room, trophy in hand. The bag, now shapeless, hung limply from his grip. His breathing was heavy, each breath making his chest rise and fall violently. Adrenaline pounded in his head, demanding to escape. Just to return it to the store? No, that wasn’t enough. She wouldn’t understand—she’d just think he was sulking for a while. She wouldn’t learn anything from this. He needed to destroy the very symbol of her power over him.
He threw the bag onto the parquet floor. Without taking his eyes off his terrified wife’s face, he strode over to the drawer and grabbed the heavy tailor’s scissors. The metal rings felt ice-cold against his fingers.
“What are you doing?” whispered Alisa, her voice trembling. “Dima, don’t… please…”
“You wanted emotions?” he asked, testing the blades with his thumb. “You wanted me to act like a man and solve problems? I’m solving it. I’m removing the source of the problem.”
He stepped toward the bag lying on the floor and dropped to one knee.
The scissors snapped predatorily, tasting the air. Alisa was frozen, unable to believe this nightmare was actually happening. She watched as the steel touched the perfect, smooth surface of the dusty rose leather, but her mind refused to accept what she was seeing. This couldn’t be real. No sane person would destroy something worth several average salaries in the country.
“No! Stop! You wouldn’t dare!” she shrieked, throwing herself at her husband as his hand made the first cut.
A sickening, wet crunch rang out. The thick calfskin, saturated with oils and tannins, resisted with a mournful squeak, but the sharp tailor’s steel was relentless. Dmitry squeezed the scissors’ rings with all his might, and where the bag had been flawless, now gaped an ugly, ragged gash. From the cut spilled bright red silk lining, like the insides of a slashed belly.
“You’re insane! You’re a lunatic!” Alisa clung to his shoulder, trying to pull him away, her nails digging into his t-shirt. She was sobbing, but these were not tears of grief, only frenzied panic. “Stop! We could sell it! We could get the money back!”
Dmitry jerked his shoulder, shaking her off so hard that Alisa flew back onto the couch, hitting her hip on the armrest. He didn’t even look at her. His eyes were fixed on the object he was destroying. There was something ritualistic in his actions. With every cut, he felt a spring unwind inside him—a spring that had been compressed by years of patience and silent agreement.
“Sell it?” he laughed hoarsely, stabbing the scissors into the bottom of the bag. “No, dear. Selling means wriggling out again. It means you win. You won’t learn your lesson if we just return the money. You need to see your whims turn into garbage.”
“That was money for car insurance and rent, but you blew it on a designer bag! Are you out of your mind? How are we going to pay the electric bill? You don’t care about anything except your clothes!”
Alisa slid down to the floor, covering her face with her hands. She couldn’t bear to watch. Every sound of the fabric being cut felt like physical pain. To her, that purse wasn’t just an accessory—it was a symbol of belonging to the elite, a passport to an exclusive world, proof that she was worth something. Now, that symbol was being ripped apart with kitchen scissors on a dirty parquet floor.
“I’m going to cut it into pieces so you remember this day for the rest of your life!” her husband screamed, rearranging the scissors in his hand because his fingers were slick with sweat. She had taken the money he set aside for bills without asking and spent it on yet another trinket—and now that trinket was dying.
Dmitry reached the handles. They were thick, stitched with sturdy thread. He leaned his full weight, pressing both hands into the scissor rings. The metal creaked, resisting him. With a loud snap, one handle broke off, then the other. The golden brand-logo buckle clattered to the floor and rolled under the wardrobe.
“I hate you!” Alisa wailed, rocking back and forth. “You petty loser! You’re jealous of me! You just want me to be a colorless nobody like you! I’ll never forgive you for this! It cost one hundred and fifty thousand! One hundred and fifty! You burned it!”
“I didn’t burn the money, I burned your arrogance!” Dmitry answered, breathing heavily.
He stopped cutting. A formless heap of scraps lay on the floor. Leather, silk, cardboard reinforcements, threads—everything was mixed into a pile of garbage that no longer had any value. The former gloss was gone. Only the smell of expensive leather still hung in the air, blending with the scent of sweat and electrified rage.
Dmitry slowly stood up from his knees. His legs were numb, his back ached. He tossed the scissors onto the pile. They landed with a dull thud, marking the end of the execution. He looked at his hands—red marks from the scissor rings streaked his fingers.
Alisa went quiet. She sat on the floor, staring at the remains of her dream with empty, glassy eyes. Her mascara had run, turning her face into a tragic clown’s mask. She reached out for one of the scraps, picked it up, clenched it in her fist, and pressed it to her chest.
“You destroyed everything,” she whispered. “Not the purse. You destroyed us. How can I look at you now? You’re dead to me.”
Dmitry walked over to the window and flung open the vent. He needed a breath of fresh air, or he’d suffocate in this concentration of feminine ego and his own cruelty. The cold night wind hit his face, cooling his burning cheeks just a bit.
“You’re not going to look at me,” he said without turning around. “You can look at the receipts from Pyaterochka instead. If you don’t respect my work, I won’t respect your toys. The fairy tale is over, Alisa. Cinderella turned into a pumpkin, and the fairy godmother won’t be coming back.”
He turned to her. His eyes no longer held love, compassion, or even anger. There was only an icy emptiness and the resolve of a man with nothing left to lose.
“Get up,” he commanded. “And clean up this mess.”
“I’m not touching that,” she hissed, her eyes flashing with venom as she looked up at him. “Clean up the mess from your breakdown yourself.”
“Oh, you will,” Dmitry replied calmly. “Or tomorrow you’ll find these scraps in your bed. I’m not joking, Alisa. I’m done joking.”
He stepped over the pile of cut-up leather and headed for the kitchen. He needed water. Lots of icy water. His hands were still shaking—not from fear, but from the rush of adrenaline. He felt drained, like a scorched battlefield after a war. Yet somewhere deep inside, beneath layers of ashes, a strange and long-forgotten feeling began to flicker—a sense of self-respect that he’d traded for her fake smiles and the peace at home for far too long.
Alisa stayed sitting in the living room. She stared at the shiny gold lock, miraculously still attached to one of the scraps, and realized that something irreversible had just happened. He hadn’t just cut up a bag. He’d severed the lifeline through which he’d been feeding her resources all these years. And the scariest part was that she had absolutely no idea how to live without that support from now on.
Dmitry stood in the kitchen, leaning his back against the cold countertop. In one hand he gripped a glass of water, in the other—his smartphone. The screen glowed bluish in the dimness, lighting up his tired face. His finger moved confidently through the banking app icons. “Block card.” Confirm. “Change PIN.” Confirm. “Set limit: 0 rubles.” Done.
He did it with the cold precision of a surgeon amputating a gangrenous limb. There was no pity. Only a clear understanding: if he didn’t cut now, the infection would spread and destroy the whole body. The body called “the family budget” was already in its death throes anyway.
After downing the water in one gulp, he slammed the glass into the sink and returned to the living room. Alisa was still sitting on the floor among the pieces of leather, but now there was no trace of dramatic tragedy in her pose. She sat with her legs tucked under herself, looking at her husband with the wary gaze of a frightened but still capable-of-biting animal.
“Get up,” Dmitry said coldly as he walked past her to the dresser where her handbag usually lay—a plain, everyday bag, nothing like the “luxury” one now spread like trash on the parquet floor.
“Don’t order me around,” she snapped, but her voice was hoarse. “You’re not my husband anymore. You’re a vandal. Tomorrow I’m filing for…
“Filing for what?” he interrupted, pulling a thick pink wallet from her bag. “For alimony? We’re not divorced, no kids. To split assets? The apartment is pre-marital, the car is leased to my company. You’ll get exactly half of the credit card debt you racked up. Want that? I can arrange it.”
He dumped the wallet’s contents onto the dresser. Plastic cards spilled out in a fan—gold cards, platinum cards, boutique and spa discount cards. Her whole life, packed into scraps of colored plastic.
“Don’t touch that! It’s private!” Alisa jumped up, trying to snatch back her treasures, but Dmitry caught her wrist. Firmly—not painfully—pinning her in place.
— There’s nothing here that’s yours, Alisa. Everything here is mine. My work, my time, my health. And from this moment, the shop is closed.
He gathered up the bank cards into a neat stack.
— They’re all blocked, — he said in a casual tone, as if discussing the weather. — Every single one. The phone link is canceled too. Apple Pay won’t work. You’re in a financial vacuum now.
Alisa stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes filled with a mixture of shock and horror. She gasped for air like a fish dumped onto the shore.
— You can’t do this… You have no right! I need to put gas in the car, I need to buy groceries, I have a manicure appointment on Thursday!
— Manicure’s canceled, — Dmitry cut her off, slipping the cards into his back jeans pocket. — The car can sit idle; gas is pricey these days. As for groceries… There’s food in the fridge. Grains in the cupboard. Chicken in the freezer. Maybe you’ll remember how to use the stove. If not, Google’s your friend.
— You’re a sadist! — she spat at him. — Are you trying to humiliate me? Want me to crawl at your feet?
— No, I want you to grow up. But since you don’t get it the easy way, we’ll have to teach you through your stomach and taking away your comfort.
Dmitry walked over to the desk, grabbed a blank notepad and a pen, and tossed them onto the couch next to Alisa.
— Starting tomorrow, not a single penny just because. You’ll have to beg me for pads and bread, turning in receipts. Want to buy tampons? Submit a request in this notepad. In the morning, I’ll review it, approve the budget, and hand out cash accordingly. In the evening — receipt and change. No receipt — no money for the next day. Lose your receipt — you go hungry.
Alisa eyed the notepad like it was a poisonous snake. Her face twisted in disgust.
— I’m not doing this. I’m not a slave.
— Slaves have food and a roof over their head, — Dmitry shot back, folding his arms across his chest. — You don’t have to do it. You’re free. The door’s right there. You can pack your things and leave right now—to your mom, your friends, to anyone who’ll buy you a new handbag. Just know this: you’ll only leave this apartment with whatever you’re wearing. Anything bought with my money stays here.
She was silent. Dmitry could see the gears turning in her head, weighing her options. She couldn’t go to her mother—it was cramped, and her mom would nag her non-stop. Friends? Lenka with the Porsche would laugh in her face if she showed up empty-handed asking for a place to stay. She didn’t have a lover—she was too lazy for affairs, and honestly she only loved herself. There really was nowhere for her to go.
— You bastard, — she hissed, her voice dripping with so much concentrated hatred you could poison cockroaches with it. — I hate you. I’ll make your life a living hell.
— You already have, darling. You already have, — Dmitry replied with a weary smirk. — Welcome to my hell. Only this time, I’m the chief devil, and you’re the sinner on the frying pan.
He walked over to the pile on the floor and nudged a scrap of leather with gilded brand embossing using the toe of his shoe.
“Clean this up. I want this place spotless in five minutes. If not, I’ll deduct the cleaning costs from your future food allowance. And my rates are brutal.”
Dmitry turned and walked to the bedroom. He could feel her scorching gaze on his back, feel how the air in the apartment thickened with anger, turning heavy and suffocating. They had crossed a line. There was no way back. If a family ever existed, it died the moment the scissors touched the beige leather. Now it was just two enemies sharing the same space. A communal war had begun.
Once in the bedroom, he grabbed a pillow and a blanket from the wardrobe. Sleeping in the same bed as a woman who looked at him like he was an enemy of the people was impossible. He’d spend the night in his office, on the fold-out couch.
From the living room came a sound—Alisa had thrown something heavy at the wall. Then the rustling—she was scooping up what was left of the bag. The tearing of a garbage bag followed. She was following orders. Not out of obedience, but because she had no other choice.
Dmitry lay down on the hard couch in the office, pulled the blanket over his head, trying to shut out the world. He knew that tomorrow the real war would start. There would be hysterics, manipulations, maybe even an attempt to steal something from the house and sell it. He’d have to put a lock on the office door, hide the car keys under his pillow, live like he was under siege.
But for the first time in months, he felt a strange, grim satisfaction. He was no longer a victim. He was no longer just a resource. He had taken back his voice, even at the cost of destroying everything they had built together.
The bathroom door slammed in the hallway. Water started running. Alisa was washing away the day, preparing for a new reality where she’d have to ask for money for toothpaste. The fight was over, but the silence that followed was more frightening than any screams. It was the silence of scorched earth, where nothing would ever grow again.
Dmitry closed his eyes. In his mind, he still saw the image: shiny scissor blades cutting into expensive leather. It was cruel. Yes. But it was fair. And if he had to become the monster in her stories to her friends—so be it. At least he’d be a solvent monster…