Veronika calmly lowered the cup of cooling coffee.
Her fingers, adorned with rings—gifts from her husband over twenty years of marriage—fluttered slightly.
Through the vast panoramic window of the Bellagio restaurant, the view of the evening city unfolded, yet she noticed neither the twinkling lights nor the bustling waiters.
Her entire world had diminished a single table at the opposite end of the room.
— What a coincidence! — she muttered, watching Igor tenderly caress the hand of a young brunette. — What an amazing coincidence…
How many times had she asked her husband to take her to this very restaurant?
Ten? Twenty? “Honey, I’m tired,” “Sweetie, maybe another time,” “Verochka, I have an important meeting”—excuses multiplied year after year until she finally stopped asking.
And now she saw him, reclining casually in his chair, laughing so honestly as if he had regained fifteen years of youth.
A waiter approached her table:
— Would you like anything else?
— Yes, — Veronika raised her eyes, in which something resembling merriment snapped.
— Please bring the bill from that table over there.
I’d like to give a gift.
— Pardon?
— That man in the burgundy blazer is my husband. And I want to pay for their dinner. Just, please, don’t mention who exactly did it.
The young man looked at the unusual customer with amaze but bended.
Veronika took out her credit card.
“Spend on yourself, my dear,” he had said then.
After settling the bill, she stood and, as she passed by her husband’s table, slowed her pace for a moment. Veronika glared: how many times had she been blind when she didn’t want to see the obvious?
Stepping outside, she took a deep breath of the cool evening air.
“Well then, Igor, you chose this. Now it’s my turn.”
At home, Veronika first started her shoes and walked into her study.
Strangely, her hands no longer trembled.
Inside, an amazing calm reigned—as if after a long illness the fever had finally descended.
— So, where do we start? — she asked her reflection in the mirror.
Opening her laptop, Veronika methodically created a new folder titled “New Life.” She replaced an old box of documents from the closet—the very one that Igor had never bothered to even open.
— It really pays to be cautious, — she murmured.
The house documents were exactly where she had left them five years ago. The house… her little fortress, bought with the money from selling her grandmother’s apartment.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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