The fibers of the carpet — cheap, synthetic, smelling of dust and freshly washed fabric — pierced Alla’s right cheek. For a moment, she didn’t understand what had happened and completely lost her sense of orientation in the space.
At first, she felt a tug on her shoulder, the fine rustle of her silk blouse, and then suddenly everything flipped, and her face slammed onto the hard floor.
Ilja stood over her. His normally well-groomed, handsome face was now grotesquely distorted, full of self-important arrogance.
Nine people — “his team,” the sales directors he had invited to “celebrate” the next bonus — stood motionless. Someone held a glass of whiskey, another had stopped eating the caviar tartlet.
— Know your place, little cook! — Ilja’s voice shouted, echoing under the stretched ceiling. — In this house, you speak only when I allow it. Understand?
Alla heard the kettle in the kitchen. A thin, piercing whistle cut through the silence in the living room. Then laughter was heard.
Raisa Stepanovna, her mother-in-law, sitting in a deep armchair with a glass of wine in her hand, turned her head back. Her laughter was dry, like the crack of a broken branch.
— My God, Ilja, just like your father! — she muttered, laughing, wiping a tear from her eye.
— And she always wanted to stand out when men were dealing with serious matters. Lie down, Alla, lie down. You’ll clean your blouse a little, there’s some dust on it.
Ilja’s colleagues watched in silence. Someone glanced toward the window, where dusk was slowly covering the city. Someone else began examining his shoes with meticulous detail, as if the answer to everything lay there.
No one moved. In this “office,” Ilja was king, and his anger was as dangerous as the lack of a bonus.
Alla slowly turned back. Her head was buzzing, her mouth tasted metallic — she had probably bitten her lip. She looked at Ilja.
He looked like someone who had just accomplished a great “feat.” Full of self-importance. He wasn’t seeing her. He was seeing only the “place” he had shown her.
— 19:12 — Alla whispered to herself.
— What are you mumbling? — Ilja kicked the edge of the carpet a centimeter from her hand. — Go to the kitchen. Turn off the kettle, or your ears will pop. And bring ice too. Quickly!
Alla slowly stood up, holding onto the bottom of the kitchen cabinet to keep her balance. The blouse she had bought with her last paycheck was now ripped at the seam.
She didn’t try to clean or straighten it. She went into the kitchen and took down the kettle.
The sound stopped, and the silence was gradually broken by laughter and whispers from the living room — Ilja’s colleagues trying to make the situation humorous.
— Well, Ilja, show her… hard.
— How else? — Ilja laughed, patting someone on the shoulder. — The woman needs to know who rules this house. Otherwise, she’ll be on your neck. Mama, confirm it!
— Really, my son, really — replied Raisa Stepanovna.
Alla stood by the window, staring at her hands. Her fingers were covered in flour — she was preparing the next batch of pierogi for the “guests,” when Ilja erupted over a trivial reason.
He had probably just asked when she would pay him back for the heating, which she had again “invested in the business.”
Alla grabbed the phone. An incoming call from the lawyer. She had sent him the last message eleven minutes earlier.
— Hi — she whispered. — Yes, he’s here. Everything is happening exactly as it is. Yes, I’m ready.
She picked up the receiver and checked the kitchen clock. 19:18. In six minutes, her life would change forever.
Ilja looked into the kitchen.
— Where’s the ice? Did you sleep here?
— Ilja — Alla turned to him. Her voice was unnaturally calm. — Remember that this apartment belonged to my grandmother?
— Here we go… — Ilja twisted his mouth.
— We’ve discussed this a hundred times. You, me — what difference does it make? We’re family. I did renovations! Bathroom tiles, thirty thousand…
— You bought the tiles with my bonus during the COVID period — Alla reminded him. — Grandmother left a will only for me. And six months ago, when you first raised your hand at me, I did something you “forgot” to mention.
— I don’t care what you did! — Ilja lunged at her, waving his arm. — Now bring the ice and smile at my people, or else…
At that moment, someone knocked on the door. Triple, short, and decisive knocks.
— Oh — Ilja froze, his hand dropped. — Probably Pavlov is late. Or the pizza I ordered. Go open it.
Alla walked past him down the hallway. Her legs were trembling, but her back was straight. In the living room, her mother-in-law was already telling stories about how “bossy” Ilja had been since kindergarten.
Alla opened the door. Three men stood on the threshold: a man in a gray suit with a briefcase, a short police officer in uniform, and a tall man in protective gear.
— Alla Volkova? — asked the man in the suit.
— Yes — she answered quietly.
— We are here regarding your complaint. The court’s eviction and property securing order took effect today at 17:00. We are ready to act.
Ilja, standing in the hallway with a glass in hand, choked on his whiskey in surprise.
— Eviction? Who are you? Wrong address! We’re having a private party! Go away!
The police officer took a step forward, calm and cold-eyed. He had seen such situations every week.
— Captain Sazonov. Your documents, please. You are Ilja Viktorovich Volkov?
— Yes, I… and so? This is my house! My apartment!
— According to the registry copy — began Alla’s lawyer, Mark Borisovich — the owner is Alla Sergeyevna.
You are not registered and hold no share. The usage agreement was terminated unilaterally a month ago. The notice was sent by registered mail to your mother’s address and received with signature.
Raisa Stepanovna stepped out of the living room, her laughter completely faded.
— What letter? Ilja, what does it say? Alla, tell them it’s a joke! Everyone is watching, it’s awkward!
