“Waiting.”
After sending the message, I put the phone down. That was it. The bait was taken. There was no going back. On Saturday morning, the final act of this drama would take place. And, to my surprise, I awaited it not with fear, but with cold impatience.
On Saturday, my father drove me to our old apartment. The girls stayed at home with the nanny.
“Are you sure you can handle this on your own?” he asked at the entrance.
“Yes, Dad. I have to do this myself.”
He nodded, squeezed my hand, and left, promising to be on call.
The apartment met me with silence and the smell of dust. In a week, it had become a stranger’s place. I walked through the rooms. Everything here reminded me of him, of our past life, which had turned out to be a lie. I walked around, mechanically packing my things, preparing for his arrival. No tears, no trembling hands—only emptiness and cold resolve.
At exactly ten in the morning, the key turned in the lock. Vadim entered confidently, like he owned the place.
“So, have you calmed down?” he tossed out from the doorway, not even looking at me.
Seeing the packed bags in the hallway, he froze.
“What is all this? Where are you going?”
I walked out to meet him. Calm, composed, not at all the tearful “hysteric” he had expected to see.
“I’m not going anywhere, Vadim. These are your things.”
He raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“Mine? Are you kicking me out? From my own apartment?”
“From my apartment,” I corrected him. “And yes, I’m evicting you.”
“You’re delusional,” he smirked. “This is our home.”
“You’re mistaken. This apartment belongs to my father. The documents are with the lawyer, you can check. And the lawyer also has the divorce papers and the bankruptcy petition for you.”
The smirk vanished from his face.
“What are you talking about? What bankruptcy?..”
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