“I want everyone to know…” He spoke in the host country’s language with a strong accent, carefully enunciating each word. “Today, I was going to cancel the deal. The level of preparation on your side was unacceptable.” He gave Arthur a long, hard look. “But thanks to Mrs. Polyakova, I have changed my mind. This contract is her achievement, entirely and completely.”
He signed the documents, handed the pen to Arthur for the formal signature, and he signed mechanically. His hand moved on its own, and his face took on the expression of someone who had come to his own party only to find the cake had already been eaten without him.
Then Schmidt took a gold-trimmed business card from his breast pocket and handed it to Veronica.
“Mrs. Polyakova, Rheinmetall Industries is looking for a strategic advisor in this region. I cannot think of a better candidate.” He paused, and something akin to respect flickered in his eyes. “The annual salary is something your husband won’t earn in five years.”
The journalists, the very ones Arthur had invited to cover his triumph, began snapping pictures, not of him, but of Veronica shaking hands with the German billionaire. In tomorrow’s photos, he would be just a blurred silhouette in the background of his own celebration. Karina stood by the wall, biting her lip so hard that her lipstick smeared on her teeth. Her two languages and the red diploma from a prestigious academy, of which she was so proud, suddenly seemed pathetic, like children’s scribbles next to a master’s painting.
After the ceremony, as guests dispersed around the hall with glasses of champagne and excited chatter, Arthur grabbed Veronica’s wrist and dragged her into an empty service corridor, where no one would see, no one would hear. He pushed her against the wall, and she felt the cold plaster dig into her shoulder blades through the thin cashmere of her dress.
“What the hell was that?!” His face was contorted: rage and fear vied for dominance, and it was unclear which was stronger. “You embarrassed me on purpose! How do you know German?! How do you know French, Japanese?!”
He raised his hand to slap her, his arm flew up, and Veronica saw his eyes—very close, bloodshot, furious. She didn’t flinch, didn’t raise her hands to defend herself, didn’t cower as she had for ten years whenever he shouted, threw plates, called her a brainless chicken and a country bumpkin. She just looked him straight in the eyes, without blinking, and for the first time in a decade, her gaze did not fall.
“If you hit me, you’ll lose everything.” Her voice was calm, without a tremor, without a plea. “Schmidt is still in the building. He is very interested in me. Imagine tomorrow’s headlines: ‘Businessman Beats Wife After Signing Billion-Dollar Contract’.”
His hand froze in mid-air.
“You… all this time…” He was breathless, unable to find the words. “You were pretending!”
“I was silent for ten years, Arthur.” She spoke as she had an hour ago in the negotiations: measured, clear, without emotion, every word weighed. “But not because I had nothing to say, but because you never once asked. You wanted a doll, not a partner. You wanted a shadow that wouldn’t eclipse your brilliance. Your love was built on my weakness, and only on that.”
She saw his face change: from rage to confusion, from confusion to something like terror.
“You chose me when I was broken, Arthur. After the miscarriage, in depression, ready for anything for the illusion of a family. For ten years, you convinced me that I was a nobody. And you know what? I almost believed it.”
His hand slowly lowered. Arthur looked at her, at this woman in a beige dress with diamonds around her neck, whom he had considered his property, his convenient accessory, his tame shadow, and for the first time in all these years, he saw the real her. And it scared him more than a torn contract, more than public humiliation, more than any threat he could imagine.
Veronica unclasped her handbag—the very one Arthur had bought her three years ago for some anniversary and which she had never used, considering it too expensive for a housewife—and took out a white envelope, thick, with the embossed logo of a law firm in the corner.
“This is for you.” She handed the envelope to her husband, and her voice did not tremble.
Karina burst from around the corner—disheveled, with smeared mascara, obviously having eavesdropped on the entire conversation—and rushed to Arthur, grabbing his jacket sleeve.
“Arthur, don’t listen to her! She’s blackmailing you! It’s all a lie, a provocation!”
Veronica didn’t even turn her head in her direction.
“This is a conversation between a husband and a wife. Secretaries have no place here.”
Karina opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said nothing. For the first time in their acquaintance, she had nothing to say.
Arthur opened the envelope with stiff fingers, pulled out the folded sheets, scanned the first few lines, and his face turned as gray as the plaster on the walls of this service corridor.
“A divorce petition?”
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