“You will regret this. Without me, you are nothing.”
Anna blocked his number, put the phone in her bag, and drove to the only person she could trust right now – Irina Dmitrievna Kochetova.
The HR director lived a 20-minute drive away, in a quiet neighborhood with low-rise buildings. Anna called her on the way.
“Irina Dmitrievna, I’m sorry to bother you in the evening. May I come over? I need help.”
“Of course, Anna. Come over. I’m home.”
When Anna arrived at the house, Irina Dmitrievna was already waiting for her on the porch. Seeing her red eyes and trembling hands, she hugged the young woman and led her into the house.
“Tell me what happened.”
And Anna told her. Everything: about the bracelet, the attacks, the doctor, the medical report, Vladimir. Irina Dmitrievna listened in silence, nodding occasionally. When Anna finished, the HR director poured her some tea and said quietly:
“You did the right thing by leaving. This is called domestic abuse, Anna. Psychological abuse. He controlled you, manipulated you, undermined your health. You need legal help and support. Tomorrow, we will arrange a week’s leave for you. In the meantime, stay here. I have a guest room.”
Anna nodded, feeling tears well up in her eyes. For the first time in three months, she felt safe.
On Saturday, Anna woke up to bright light filtering through the light curtains. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was, then she remembered: the guest room in Irina Dmitrievna’s house. A simple, cozy room with white walls, wooden furniture, and the scent of lavender. On the nightstand was a glass of water she hadn’t finished the night before.
She looked at her phone: 8 a.m., Saturday. The screen showed 27 missed calls from an unknown number and three messages. Vladimir, of course. She had blocked his main number, so he was calling from another one.
Anna opened the message:
“Anna, this is foolish. Come home. We can discuss everything calmly. You can’t just leave like this. I am your husband. We have obligations to each other.”
“Fine. You want to play the silent game? Go ahead. But remember: everything you have is because of me.”
The last message was sent at 6 a.m. Anna deleted the conversation and blocked the new number. She didn’t need his words, his manipulations, his attempts to regain control.
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Anna, are you awake? Breakfast is ready.”
She got up, put on the robe she had borrowed yesterday, and went to the kitchen. Irina Dmitrievna was at the stove, flipping pancakes. Honey, sour cream, and fresh berries were already on the table.
“Good morning,” Anna said, sitting down.
“Good morning,” Irina Dmitrievna smiled. “How did you sleep?”
“Better than I have in weeks.”
“That’s good. Here, have some breakfast. I’ll call Stanislav and arrange your leave officially.”
Anna nodded, pouring herself some tea. She felt strange: simultaneously liberated and lost. Everything that had seemed stable and reliable in her life had crumbled in a single day. The husband she trusted had turned out to be a manipulator. The home she had lived in for two years was no longer a safe place. The future she had planned had vanished into thin air.
Irina Dmitrievna returned 10 minutes later.
“It’s all settled. Stanislav will grant you two weeks of leave. He said health is more important and you should rest properly. I also got the number of our family lawyer. Here, write it down. Her name is Elena Grigoryevna Tarasova. A very competent woman.”
Anna saved the number in her phone.
“Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“It’s nothing, don’t thank me. Just take care of yourself. And remember: you are not to blame for anything. What your husband did is abuse. Psychological abuse. You have every right to protect yourself.”
Anna nodded silently. The word “abuse” sounded unfamiliar, almost foreign. She had always thought of abuse as beatings, shouting, overt aggression. But what Vladimir did had long looked like care. He didn’t hit her. He didn’t constantly yell at her. He just controlled her. Manipulated her. Undermined her health.
After breakfast, Anna called the lawyer. Elena Grigoryevna turned out to be a woman in her fifties with a confident, calm voice. They scheduled a meeting for the next day.
Anna spent the rest of the morning in the guest room, sorting through documents. The marriage certificate, bank statements, medical records. She made a list of things to discuss with the lawyer. And with each line, she understood—there was no going back…
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