At the mention of the Dorokhov name, Victor suddenly perked up, which was unusual enough that everyone noticed. “Not a bad idea. Those connections could be useful,” he said. “What do you think, honey?” Gleb asked me with that special smile that meant the question was purely ceremonial.
“Of course,” I said through a plastic smile of my own. I added that it would be interesting to see a professional’s work. Regina Dorokhov showed up a week later, and from the first second it was obvious she was exactly the kind of woman I was never meant to be.
Tall, blonde, polished, with the kind of body and confidence that suggested private schools and expensive trainers, she walked through my house in heels that probably cost more than my monthly spending limit. She made notes in a leather planner and kept giving me those cool, indulgent looks. “You have an interesting approach to decorating,” she said, studying my favorite embroidered curtains.
“Very warm. Very personal. But for a home at this level, don’t you think something more current would make sense?” Regina asked. Gleb’s eyes kept drifting toward her with an interest that made me want to step between them. But I smiled. Good wives smile. At least that’s what I believed then, and looking back, I can only shake my head.
The changes in Gleb started gradually, but steadily. He came home later and later, always with some tidy explanation about meetings running long. Phone calls had to be taken privately on the patio because they were “work matters” and he didn’t want to bother me with the noise.
The new cologne was supposedly a gift from a grateful client. I found an excuse for every detail because I was clinging to the illusion of stability. Then I found a receipt from Atmosphere, one of the most expensive restaurants in town. Tuesday night, 8:00 p.m., dinner for two.
The total was $2,100—enough to cover my household budget for months. Dom Pérignon, dry-aged steak, and a chocolate dessert platter. It was the kind of meal that practically announced itself as an affair. That same Tuesday, Gleb had supposedly been at the office finishing quarterly reports.
Sitting on the edge of our bed with that receipt in my hand, I felt my world split open. It wasn’t just the cheating. Somewhere deep down, I think I already knew. What really gutted me was the price tag. Years of being humiliated over every dollar I spent. Endless questions over coffee with a friend. Lectures about waste. And here he was, dropping thousands on one romantic evening with another woman.
My heart already knew who that woman was. The next morning, instead of cleaning the house, I put on the most forgettable clothes I owned.
I got into my modest Hyundai—Gleb had generously “let me keep it” after insisting we sell my Mazda because no family needed two decent cars—and drove downtown. I parked across from his office building and waited.
At 11:30, my suspicions stepped out into daylight. Gleb walked out with Regina Dorokhov. She was laughing, head tipped back, one hand resting on his shoulder with the easy confidence of a woman who already considered him hers.
Her red coat made her look like she belonged in a glossy movie scene. In my plain jacket, I felt like an extra in somebody else’s happy ending. They got into his Porsche and drove off. I followed them all the way to the same restaurant where we had celebrated our anniversary three years earlier—after which Gleb had told me it was too expensive for regular dinners.
For two hours, I sat in my car and watched them through the restaurant’s big windows. They held hands across the table. She touched his face with the tenderness I remembered from the early months of our marriage. He kissed her hand like she was something precious.
All the romance that had once been mine was now being spent on someone else. When they finally came out, they kissed beside her silver Mercedes for a long time, not caring who saw. They looked like teenagers in love wearing expensive adult clothes…
