— I’m sure you’ll find something to do, — I mumbled into his shoulder.
He didn’t hear. Or pretended not to. I made his favorite seafood pasta and opened a bottle of expensive wine we had been saving for a special occasion. Our last supper. He was in high spirits, excitedly chattering about his prospects, about how well we would soon be living. I sat opposite him, smiling, nodding, and refilling his wine. Every word he said was like a hammer blow to a taut nerve.
— You know, I’m so happy to have you, Lera, — he said, raising his glass. — You’re my rock, my support. I couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s drink to us and to the success of my project.
I raised my glass. The crystal clinked. I looked him straight in the eyes, pouring all the venom, all the pain that had accumulated inside me into my gaze.
— To your project, darling. May it bring you exactly what you deserve.
He nodded cheerfully, missing the double meaning in my words.
— It certainly will.
We drank. The wine tasted bitter to me.
— You have no idea how much everything is about to change, — he continued, twirling spaghetti on his fork. — This contract, it will turn everything around. Absolutely everything. A new life.
— A new life, — I repeated like an echo. — Sounds tempting. And what will be in this new life?
— Anything you want. — He smiled broadly. — A new house in the country. We’ll get you a new car. You’ll fly to Milan for shopping. You’ve always dreamed of that.
I had dreamed of a child, of simple human warmth, of honesty, but he had apparently forgotten about that, or never knew.
— And you, what do you dream of?
He thought for a moment. Something predatory, greedy, flashed in his eyes.
— Me? I dream of freedom. To not think about money, about bills, about obligations. Just to live and enjoy, to do what I want, and be with whom I want.
It was almost a confession. He wasn’t talking to me anymore. He was talking to his reflection, to his dreams, in which there was obviously no place for me. Well then, I raised my glass again.
— Bottoms up.
He readily drained his. I only took a sip. Throughout dinner, he continued to paint pictures of our beautiful future — a future we would never have. And I played my part, pushing myself to the limit. I was an actress in a one-man theater. And that one man was blind, deaf, and drunk on his own narcissism. He reveled in his supposed superiority, not noticing that the curtain was about to fall, and there would be no applause. Only a deafening silence.
The morning was gray and dreary. Yegor bustled around, checking documents and recounting the cash in his wallet several times. I made him coffee.
— Did you call me a taxi? — he asked, pulling on his coat.
— Yes, it’s already waiting downstairs.
He came over and hugged me.
— Well, don’t be bored here. I’ll call when I get to the airport and check in.
— Of course. Good luck.
I kissed his cold cheek. The door slammed shut behind him. I counted to ten, then went to the window. A black executive-class Mercedes pulled away and disappeared around the corner, taking him to the airport, to his new life. I didn’t cry. Inside, there was a ringing emptiness, like a vacuum.
I poured myself another cup of coffee, sat down at my work laptop, and logged into the banking system with my credentials. I found our joint account. There it was. 8,750,000. Everything we had. All that was left was to wait. I knew he wouldn’t withdraw money from an ATM. Limits. He would go to a currency exchange office right at the airport, where you can withdraw a large sum in foreign currency at once. He had thought of everything. Or so he thought.
I opened a tab with the airport’s online departures board. His flight to Dubai was at 11:40. Check-in had already begun. I sat staring at the screen, refreshing the account page every 30 seconds. The clock on the wall ticked unbearably loudly. 9 AM. 10:11 AM. My fingers went cold. What if he changed his mind? What if something went wrong?
11:15 AM. A notification from the bank came to my phone. I flinched. My heart started beating so hard it hurt to breathe. “Debit transaction for the amount of 8,750,000 completed successfully. Available balance 0.00.” He did it. He cleaned out every last penny.
And right after, like a final shot, an SMS from him arrived. Short, like a slap in the face.
“Good luck, you beggar!”
I stared at those four words. They contained his entire essence. All his gratitude for 8 years of my life. All his joy at how cleverly he had tricked me. I smirked. What irony. My finger hovered over the necessary button in the interface.
The day before, while Alisa had “blinded” the security system for half an hour, I not only set up a 10 million overdraft, but I also created a fictitious technical debt on our account for the same amount and enabled the “Automatic debt repayment upon any fund receipt” service. This debt was invisible in the regular client app, but for the system, it was absolutely real. Yegor withdrew our shared money. And in that same second, that money ceased to be ours. It became the bank’s money, loaned to him. And now, with one click, I would return it to the bank.
I took a deep breath and said aloud to the empty apartment:
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