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.
Back then, Igor was just developing his business and kept repeating:
— Veronichka, you understand that all funds are needed for business development right now. I’ll make it up to you later.
She understood. She had always understood everything.
That’s why she registered the house in her name—just in case.
The next peice was the bank accounts. Veronika opened her online banking and methodically began to examine the flow of funds. She knew exactly which amounts belonged to her personally thanks to her habit of checking all finances,
Her phone shaked—a message from Igor:
— Running late at an important meeting.
Don’t wait for dinner.
Veronika smiled:
— An important meeting… Yes, dear, I saw just how important it was.
She contacted Mikhail Stepanovich—the family lawyer. Or rather, now her personal lawyer.
— Good evening, Mikhail Stepanovich. I’m sorry for the late call, but I need a consultation.
Does ten o’clock tomorrow work for you? Excellent. And one more thing… Let’s meet not in the office, but at the “Swallow” café.
Yes, that’s right—the matter is tender.
The morning started with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Igor, who had returned after midnight, was still asleep, while Veronika was already sitting in the kitchen, reviewing her documents.
For the first time in twenty years of marriage, she was excited by her habit of noting down every little detail.
— Good morning, dear. How did yesterday’s meeting go?
— Productive.
We planned a new contract.
— Oh? And what is this… contract called?
— What do you mean?
— Nothing special. I’m just curious about your affa:irs,
— I have to go; I have a meeting.
— A meeting?
With whom? — now his voice carried a note of worry.
— With the future, — she replied.
Mikhail Stepanovich was already waiting at
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