Katya
Leaving a family for a wealthy man is not the same as for an ordinary person: you can't just grab a suitcase and sign papers at the registry office—it's not that simple. Our divorce was handled meticulously and thoroughly, leaving no room for error. And with each passing day, it felt like I was the "error" here.
The lawyers drafted a preliminary settlement agreement, outlining priorities: Vadim made it very clear that his relationship with his daughter was the most important thing to him. But I am her mother, so of course Nika would stay with me, though custody would be shared equally. She would have to live between two homes. Stressful, of course—but seeing her father only on holidays would be an even greater emotional shock.
The apartment would go to me—this would be officially documented. Where did Vadim go? I don't know. He didn't leave me a new address. Maybe to his mistress. Or maybe he just decided to enjoy his freedom. He owns one of the largest development companies in the country. He knows how to build real estate, loves it, lives it. Surely, he must have already built himself a proper bachelor's den. Probably prepared a cozy nest for his new woman as well. The thought made me shudder, but I had to get used to it. In this equation, I was the extra number.
I grimaced while Nika wasn't looking, finished the paragraph, and glanced at her. After a three-hour training session, she had fallen asleep before I could finish reading the chapter. I got up, turned off the light, and walked out. Sveta had already "thinned out" the cheese plate and moved on to the prosciutto.
"Wow!" she exclaimed when I pulled out a bottle of Hennessy XO. "You're serious."
Champagne, martinis, cocktails worked when we were just gossiping, but now we needed heavy artillery for some serious psychoanalysis.
"So, do you know who she is?" Sveta asked seriously after half an hour of actively emptying our glasses. We had known each other for years, since university. She had witnessed the beginning of my relationship with Vadim. She was my daughter's godmother. Sveta Voropaeva knew perfectly well that the worst thing she could do now was pity me. I couldn't stand pity. It made me shake—sometimes even triggered my asthma.
"Nope," I replied, draining my glass in one gulp. Good cognac. If I ever wanted to drink myself to death, I'd do it with aged French liquor. No wonder I love Kilian—they know how to make both cognac and perfume.
"Not curious?"
I gave her a heavy look. Of course I wanted to know—to see, to understand! What kind of woman drove him crazy? Who did he cheat on me with? Vadim was my husband, but he got involved with her. He said he loved me, yet came home reeking of betrayal. He didn't want to lose his family, but he left. He wasn't planning to divorce, yet the lawyers were already preparing documents. Yes, I wanted to meet that woman—to look at that "wonderful" specimen.
"Some colleague," I said shortly. It was easier to blame her—she enchanted him, confused him, seduced him—than to accept that my husband simply stopped loving me. Because when you love someone, you don't look for distractions on the side, right?
"Katya," Sveta squeezed my hand, "are you sure it's serious? Maybe it was just stupidity, a mistake…"
"Vadim isn't stupid enough to accidentally stick his dick into a woman!" I snapped. She too?! "And you divorced Ilya in a month!"
Sveta had been through a divorce herself and never regretted it. She worked as a sales director at a fitness club on Ostozhenka—earned well and looked amazing. She wasn't even thinking about remarriage: vacations, parties, men. Free as the wind.
"That was us, this is you," she said calmly. "You know, there was always something between you and Vadim…" She gazed dreamily upward—well, at the ceiling.
"We definitely weren't a perfect couple," I said. Like any people living together for a long time, we had our difficulties. We weren't all lovey-dovey.
"Maybe," she agreed easily, "but the tension between you was always… wow."
"It was—and now it's gone sour," I replied gloomily.
"So things are that bad… in that department?" she gestured indecently.
"Not really," I said, though I started to think. Was everything really fine between us? "Like everyone else's. Probably."
"Go on," Sveta perked up.
"When Nika started school, I got really tired. One thing after another. And Vadim came home exhausted from work. So it all dwindled down to two or three times a week."
Sveta made a sour face, and I felt uneasy. Yeah… it didn't sound great. In light of recent events, it sounded like a verdict. Now everything looked different: in recent months Vadim had been tense, irritated, distant. I blamed it on problems with the construction project, but now I realized that wasn't the only reason. Maybe that's when she appeared…
"You know, a month ago I would never have believed my husband had another woman, but now… saying it out loud, analyzing it… it's all so obvious. How could I be so stupid?" I poured more cognac but only sighed instead of drinking. A rhetorical question. I'm sure many women have asked it before me—and will after.
"Ah, screw him!" Sveta burst out. "Look at it positively."
I raised an eyebrow skeptically. What, did I just get lucky and didn't notice?
"Katya, you're only twenty-nine! Your whole life is ahead of you! Look at you—slim like a ballerina, great ass, firm breasts, hair Rapunzel would envy. You've basically known no men except Vadim. You can fall in love again—or just change lovers like gloves, remarry, even have another child if you want!"
"Are you crazy?!" The thought felt almost offensive. I had made vows…
"Oh, stop pretending to be a saint! Your husband turned out to be a jerk—you don't owe him anything!" Sveta wagged her finger. "Besides, you know where to find men," she winked. "You've seen the kind of guys who come to our club. For the soul—or for the body." She ran her hand down her curves. "Your husband may be a cheating bastard, but he won't throw you out or leave you without money. You're not a girl looking for a sponsor—you're a luxury woman. There'll be a line for you." Then she got serious. "Forget Vadim. Don't torture yourself if you're not going to forgive him. You need to cool off, get through it. It'll get easier. Trust me—I'm a veteran of the divorced women's front."
I thought about it—but not about lovers. About money. Vadim would, of course, support our daughter. I wouldn't even file for alimony—he would never hurt Nika. But I needed to live somehow. I couldn't imagine asking him for money for everything I was used to. With Vadim, I had been like behind a stone wall. Now it was just me and Nika. Time to make decisions myself.
Life is unpredictable. They say a man loves a child as much as he loves the child's mother. I don't think Vadim would forget about Nika if he had other children—but nothing can be ruled out. A few weeks ago, I was sure I was his only one. Now I wasn't even sure I was loved.
It's easy to say I'll start earning—it's much harder to actually do it. First I needed to understand what I could do. I cook well, know four languages, and have negotiation skills. Not much—but not nothing.
Once I dreamed of proving to the world that Russia is not just vodka, matryoshkas, and nuclear weapons on a gas station. Russia is a vast open country, rich in culture and intelligent, active people. But I had a child early, took academic leave, and graduated from MGIMO as a wife and mother. Nika was often sick as a child, and kindergarten was torture. I trusted her only to myself and Vadim. Of course, we had help—nannies, grandmothers, especially my grandma.
I finished my studies, but no longer dreamed of foreign policy. Instead, I could focus on domestic life.
Our family brought a new person into the world, and we gave Nika the best we had: our knowledge and skills. Languages came easily to me, and she inherited that. I developed her—and myself. Vadim provided the material base and love. And sports—definitely his influence.
At five, Nika spoke two foreign languages besides Russian, could read and write a little. We often lived in Europe for months at a time. It was easy for her—she absorbed everything like a sponge.
Katya
I hadn't abandoned my volunteer work either: I helped public organizations with civic initiatives, using the connections of my husband and father-in-law in the ruling circles. And with money, of course—money. Vadim didn't mind—it was a plus for his image. He was a pragmatist and a businessman, and altruism wasn't exactly his thing. It was important to him that I was the one raising Nika, shaping her inner world and instilling the right values (yes, at one time he valued me highly), and that I wouldn't get bored or live only for the child—because that way you could lose your mind. If that required spending money and donating to others—okay. That's how we lived.
It seemed like I wasn't idle, yet in reality none of my activities brought in income; on the contrary, they consumed it generously. Except maybe teaching Arabic online—but that was more for the soul and to keep the language fresh.
It was time to stand firmly on my own feet: my own, not my husband's or my parents'. They're very ordinary—doctor and teacher—but Nika and I wouldn't starve in the worst-case scenario. And my in-laws adored their granddaughter. Our divorce with Dim wouldn't affect their feelings toward her. Probably. Damn, I called him "Dim" again! It's hard to break habits, even when Dim turned out to be a jerk. Thanks, autocorrect, for the vivid image!
"Mom, is there something tasty?"
"Check the fridge," I said without looking away from the monitor. I followed my best friend's advice and started jotting down ideas on how to earn a living: from online and offline jobs for someone else to my own business—though that one felt more like a crazy idea.
"I don't really feel like ice cream," Nika sat down next to me, propping her face on her hands. "Maybe we could go somewhere?"
I looked at her, then out the window. The weather was nice today: early April, very spring-like and clear. And it was only seven in the evening.
"Let's go!" I needed some fresh air, otherwise my list would soon include a factory for collecting and analyzing bad ideas.
We walked to Bolshaya Bronnaya and went into an Italian pastry shop. We each took a small tart—very pretty and terribly expensive. My ex-husband is a wealthy man, and our family never lacked anything, but we always knew the value of money.
We returned to the pond and sat on a bench—the very one, as tour guides say, where Woland sat with Berlioz and Bezdomny.
The trees were slowly dressing in young, tender leaves; the wind gently stirred them, then moved down to the water, rippling its cool surface.
"So, how is it?" I asked my daughter.
"Not that great," she grimaced apologetically. We had spent money, yet she didn't like it. She's not picky about food, but this time expectations didn't match reality. I didn't like it either. "I wish we had Grandma Masha's buns… or bread with butter."
"Yeah," I agreed. But my parents lived far to the west, and it was already late. It would be nice if they lived closer—or if Grandma's pastries were sold everywhere.
The idea struck me with its simplicity and logic. I'll open a bakery with homemade pastries! Based on my grandmother's recipes—and my own!
I hugged and kissed Nika, sharing my plans with my любимая girl. She caught my excitement, laughed brightly, and started throwing out ideas—childish and spontaneous, but charming. I began to come back to life, and Nika felt it. She was happy that her mom wasn't crying anymore. We think children don't see or understand—but they notice everything, feel everything: sensitive and vulnerable, yet giving us strength. Nika is my anchor now. I'll do everything for her!
I threw myself into preparing a business plan: I believed in my idea, now I needed knowledgeable people to believe in it too. And I had to evaluate it objectively. In my head everything made sense, but I needed to look at the numbers. And then figure out where to get the money.
Sveta gave me another good piece of advice—to try to get used to life without Vadim. I followed it. We reduced our communication to the bare minimum, and small issues were handled through the driver and nanny. We rarely even spoke on the phone. I was the one who initiated this arrangement. Vadim accepted it and didn't try to push boundaries.
We set up a rough schedule for Nika for the rest of the school year: he picked her up on Friday after her evening training and brought her back Monday morning straight to school. From my daughter I learned that Vadim was living in Moscow City apartments. Alone. Sure. I wasn't naive—I understood he didn't want to traumatize the child with a potential stepmother. Nika loved Cinderella as a child and remembered exactly how that story went.
In the morning I called Mikhail, Vadim's driver, and canceled the ride. I'd take her myself—I had things to do anyway. I'm a businesswoman now: leave early, come home late.
I worked on my possible bakery for a month, fully immersing myself in it, and then showed the result to Sveta's new boyfriend. He owns a sports goods chain—he understands business. I got his approval, but still had to turn to consultants to refine it and calculate the financial indicators. I really enjoyed being busy—it left less time for stupid thoughts, and it was a huge personal challenge: I had to become independent, for myself and for my daughter!
"Elena Ivanovna, I'll take Nika to school today, you can rest until three," I told our nanny on the phone. She helped me so much that it wouldn't hurt to give her some extra paid hours.
"Oh come on, Katya! I'm working—and I'm already on my way."
Elena Ivanovna was an experienced nanny, great with children. She wasn't overly soft—she could be strict when needed, yet kids were drawn to her. And the biggest advantage—she had an old button phone and completely ignored the internet and social media. We gave her a smartphone for New Year, but she still walked around with her old Nokia.
In recent years, after Nika started school, we only turned to her when necessary—when we planned to spend time alone with Vadim—but now she became my lifesaver.
"Then come over, you have the keys, and you can rest here."
"Katya, make me a list of what to buy, what to cook—I'm not going to just sit around!"
"We have everything, but you'll need to accept the delivery from the courier, and of course check that everything is good quality—expiration dates, appearance," I improvised tasks on the go. She was over sixty, but so energetic! "Also, Nika got such difficult math problems, we couldn't figure them out," I admitted a bit sheepishly.
Second grade, and some tasks left me completely stuck: I'm a humanities person in general, and here—find sixteen ways to lace sneakers! My logic just broke, and my brain started to boil. Vadim usually helped Nika with such tasks—it came easily to him—but I didn't call him; he might think I was looking for an excuse (yes, it still mattered to me what he thought of me). He's picking Nika up from training today, she'll show him herself. And Elena Ivanovna will at least have something to do until three.
"Do you have a dictation today?" I asked my daughter, parking near the school building. Her teacher had warned us a week ago, but I had lost track of the days a bit. I wasn't worried about her grade: Nika had top marks in Russian and reading, but with exact sciences—I felt we'd be fighting battles in middle school.
"Yes, but don't worry, it's easy, I'll even have time to fix Tasya's mistakes."
I shook my head and got out of the car. Confident—just like her father!
"They'll be giving out term grades today," she looked at me anxiously. Worried about math.
"Whatever you get, it's ours," I hugged her. I never scolded my child for a B!
"Oh, hi!" Marina and Taisiya were also hurrying to the first class. "Girls, go on your own, you're not little," she sent them off together. The friends were happy—held hands and ran off skipping. "Hi again," we touched cheeks lightly. "Where are you heading now? Maybe we could grab coffee?"
I glanced at my watch: my morning was packed, but I could find half an hour.
"There's a café around the corner," Marina read my thoughts and, receiving silent agreement, linked arms with me. "So, how are things with your husband, did you make up?"
"We're getting divorced, Marina." I ordered a cappuccino and an almond cookie. "That's it. The end."
"And what about him? Not taking any initiative?"
Now I understood why she invited me—wanted to be entertained by someone else's drama.
"No, everything is civilized between us," but I didn't want to fuel gossip, so I didn't mention the real reason for the divorce.
"Then there's definitely someone else!" Marina even frowned. I looked at her carefully—this wasn't just curiosity. Maybe she started worrying about her own marriage? Could my divorce have set a dangerous trend?
"Marina, is everything okay?" now I decided to ask.
"It's okay… you know," she bit her lips and avoided my gaze. "Dima is cheating on me."
I wasn't surprised. Not even a little. If Vadim turned out to be a cheater, what could you expect from Umarov, a naturally polygamous Caucasian man.
"Marin…" I just squeezed her hand sympathetically. Seems like I really created a bad precedent. Damn, you can't erase this tendency from us, Russian women—to take personal blame. Vadim cheated, and somehow I created a precedent! And this perception formed in my own thoughts! I need to fix this urgently. It's them, the men, who are jerks! "What are you going to do?"
"What can I do?" she looked at me challengingly. Didn't understand the accusation?! "Not everyone, Katya, can just flick their tail and throw their husband out. If I throw Dima out… I'll be the one flying out."
"You forgave him?" I wanted the question to sound neutral, but it came out surprised. Yes, it was hard for me to accept that betrayal could be forgiven so easily, especially when it was obvious Marina suffered because of it.
"Katya, you're really like a child! You think it's the first time?" she laughed bitterly. "He never hid that I wouldn't be the only one. Before, at least, he tried not to flaunt his affairs. But now… he comes home at dawn, reeking of sex… What if he divorces me?" she looked at me so lost. God, how can you cling to a man who doesn't value you at all?! Is financial comfort really more important than respect and basic emotional well-being?!
But I didn't say any of that out loud. I don't give bad advice, and Marina doesn't need good advice.
"I don't think so," I said slowly. "But just in case, consult a lawyer."
Umarov is from the Caucasus, they have their own rules in mind—the main thing is that he doesn't take Tasya away from her mother.
Marina nodded and tried to calm down. We switched to neutral topics, and I found myself studying her. To understand what kind of women get cheated on. I'd already looked at myself enough.
Also blonde, but a cool platinum shade, shoulder-length hair, light blue eyes. Pretty, well-groomed, slim. Marina definitely shouldn't have followed her husband's wishes and enlarged her breasts—it disrupted the proportions of her figure—but what's done is done. And the conclusion is this: anyone can be betrayed, even the most stunning beauty.
We stayed longer than I could afford, and I rushed to meet Lantratov, speeding along the way. I had a delicate question for our lawyer. When we first got married, Vadim opened a trust account in my name, and a considerable amount had accumulated there—fifty million—and I needed money to open my first business. A loan secured by the apartment was a last resort. Asking my ex-husband—no way! The trust belonged to me—that was the best option, but I had to make sure there were no hidden conditions.
We agreed to meet at Trekhgornaya Manufactory in the Russian restaurant "Uhvat." They served truly homemade food—my grandma Masha would have approved.
"The trust belongs solely to you, Ekaterina Alekseevna, and is not included in the list of divisible assets under the marriage contract."
Phew! I even exhaled.
"But there is a nuance."
Of course there is!
"The money can only be withdrawn for critical needs."
"Marat Rudolfovich, what does that mean?"
"You can use it to purchase real estate, for health needs, or for low-risk investments."
"So…"
"So you won't be able to withdraw it and, for example, donate it to charity."
"And use it to launch a startup?"
"Hmm," he thoughtfully pressed his lips together while I outlined my plans. "Ekaterina Alekseevna, I'll need to review your business plan and consult with lawyers who service trust accounts at UBS. But I think it could be classified as an investment and used."
That settled it! If everything worked out, I could start working! I turned to ask the waiter for dessert—and ran into a gray gaze. Familiar, still familiar. Vadim was sitting at the other end of the hall, watching me. One brief glance at Lantratov—and those stormy eyes were hypnotizing me again. Our first meeting in two months… And now he would definitely find out about my plans, and I had no idea how he would react…