The sound was like the crack of a dry branch stepped on by a heavy boot. Only it wasn’t a branch. It was velvet. Thick, dark burgundy velvet that I had chosen for three weeks so I would look достойно at the award ceremony.
And now it was torn to pieces in my hands.
I stood in front of the mirror, afraid to even breathe. The right strap hung lifelessly, exposing my shoulder, and along the side seam, from the waist to the hip, a huge tear gaped open.
Through it, the nude slip showed — that very detail no one was ever supposed to see.
Zinaida Sergeyevna stood behind me. In her plump hand, covered in cheap rings, she held a torn piece of fabric with the decorative clasp still attached. She didn’t look frightened.
On the contrary, her face stretched into a sickly sweet, pitying grimace that made me nauseous.
— Oh, Yanochka! — she exclaimed, throwing her hands up and tossing the piece of dress onto the floor like a dirty napkin. — I told you! I warned you, my dear!
You’ve gained so much weight from all those pastries that the fabric simply couldn’t handle it! It was bursting on you like a drum!
I slowly raised my eyes. In the mirror, I saw Gleb. My husband stood in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He was already dressed — a fresh shirt, cufflinks, the scent of expensive cologne.
He looked at me not with love, not with pity. But with cold, calculating contempt.
— Gleb, — my voice trembled, but I forced myself to speak firmly. — Did you see? She stepped on the hem and yanked me by the shoulder. On purpose.
Gleb rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue. Lately, I heard that sound more often than my own name.
— Yana, stop it. You’re starting again? Mom just wanted to fix your zipper. You jerked away yourself like something strange. Look at yourself. Your hands are shaking, blotches on your neck. Look in the mirror — what do you look like?
— Like what? — I asked, feeling an icy cold spreading inside me.
— Like a madwoman, — Gleb snapped. — Someone who shouldn’t be let out among people.
Zinaida Sergeyevna immediately joined in, stepping closer to me. She smelled like a strange mix of valerian and stale “Red Moscow” perfume.
— Exactly, my son! That’s right! Yanochka, where would you even go among people?
There’s music, noise, camera flashes. You’ll start again. You’ll scream, attack everyone. You’re not yourself, you need help! We only want what’s best for you.
I stepped back. The velvet treacherously slipped under my foot.
Everything was happening exactly as I had feared. But now I knew the script.
Two weeks. Exactly that long this sticky, suffocating nightmare had lasted.
Zinaida Sergeyevna came “for a couple of days” — supposedly, pipes were being repaired in her apartment. Gleb welcomed his mother with open arms, and asked me to “be patient.”
And it began.
At first, little things. The keys to the safe with documents disappeared from the nightstand and were found in the freezer.
— Yana, you’re completely overworked, — Gleb would shake his head. — You’re having memory lapses.
Then — the gas. I woke up at three in the morning from a terrible stench. The burner hissed, filling the kitchen with danger.
— You put the kettle on! — Gleb shouted, throwing the windows open. — Do you want to suffocate us?!
I cried, shook, swore I hadn’t gone near the stove. But they looked at me in such a way that I ran to a doctor myself to check my mind. The examination was clean. They were not.
— I’ll change, — I said quietly. — I have a black suit. I’ll go in that.
Gleb blocked my way to the wardrobe. He was taller than me, and now that difference pressed down like concrete.
— No, Yana. You’re not going anywhere. Enough embarrassment.
— This is my award. My project.
— This is your nonsense! — he shouted so loudly the chandelier rang. — What project? You can’t even string two words together! Mom already called the doctors. Private ones.
They’ll be here in twenty minutes. They’ll give you an injection, you’ll fall asleep, calm down.
You’ll spend a week somewhere quiet. Meanwhile, I’ll handle things with the power of attorney so the company doesn’t collapse without your “careful leadership.”
I looked at him. Closely.
In his eyes, I saw what I had once mistaken for fatigue. Fear. The animal fear of a cornered rat.
— With a power of attorney? — I repeated. — The one you slipped me yesterday with the utility bills? I didn’t sign it, Gleb. I tore it up.
My husband’s face twitched.
— Mom! — he shouted without turning around. — Bring the tea! Quickly! She needs to calm down!
Zinaida Sergeyevna rushed into the kitchen with surprising agility for her weight and age. A minute later she returned with a large mug. The liquid inside was dark, almost black.
It smelled of mint, but through the menthol broke another scent — sweetish, medicinal, unpleasant.
— Drink, my dear, — she cooed, extending the mug with a trembling hand. — Drink, you’ll feel better immediately. It’s a special herbal blend.
— Drink! — Gleb grabbed my shoulders tightly. — Drink, or we’ll force it into you! You’re not well, we have to help you!
I stood trapped between them. My mother-in-law pushed the mug toward my face, my husband held me so I couldn’t break free.
A perfect trap. A wife in severe condition, caring relatives, specialists at the door. In an hour I would be in a deep sleep, and tomorrow I would wake up behind barred windows, declared incompetent.
— Alright, — I exhaled, going limp in my husband’s arms. — Alright, I’ll drink. Just let me breathe.
Gleb loosened his grip but stayed close, ready to grab me again. I took the mug with both hands. It was hot.
— That’s a good girl, — Zinaida Sergeyevna sighed.
I pretended to bring it to my lips. Then suddenly, with my whole body, I turned toward the window where my favorite spathiphyllum — “female happiness” — stood on the sill.
The dark liquid splashed into the pot, soaking the white flowers and the soil.
— What are you doing, you lunatic?! — my mother-in-law shrieked, lunging at me. — What have you done?!
— Watered the plant, — I threw the empty mug into the corner. It shattered with a bright, almost cheerful sound. — Let it calm down. It needs it more.
— Gleb, hold her! — she screamed. — She’s violent! Tie her up!
My husband stepped toward me, raising his hand.
— Stop! — my voice sounded in such a way that he froze. Not from the volume. From the tone. That was how I spoke to dishonest contractors before terminating contracts.
I walked to the bookshelf. On the second shelf, behind a volume of Dostoevsky, stood an inconspicuous woven box. I flipped open the lid.
Inside lay my old phone, connected to a power bank. Seconds were ticking on the screen. The recording had been running for an hour.
— What is this? — Gleb went pale. The color vanished from his face as if erased.
— This? This is your criminal case, my dear, — I pressed “Stop” and immediately “Play.”
The silence of the room was cut by Gleb’s voice. The very conversation they had in the kitchen forty minutes earlier while I was supposedly in the shower.
“…Mom, are you sure it will work? Is the doctor reliable?” — my husband’s voice trembled.
“Don’t panic! — my mother-in-law answered cheerfully. — Galina Petrovna owes me, she’ll arrange everything. She’ll write a severe condition. Keep her on medication for a month, she’ll forget even her name.
The main thing is to push her over the edge today. I’ll ruin her dress, she’ll start making noise, and we’ll meet the team right there. While she’s lying down, you’ll sell the apartment. Pay off your gambling debts, and we’ll even have enough left for a house. And then we’ll send her to a state facility. She’s nothing without you…”
The recording cut off.
Outside, car horns sounded.
Zinaida Sergeyevna collapsed onto the bed, right onto my blanket. She gasped for air, her face turning crimson.
— This… this is fake! — she croaked. — AI! Everything can be faked now!
— Of course, — I nodded. — And your son’s five-million debt — is that AI too? I found the bank statements, Gleb. Yesterday. In your jacket pocket. You didn’t just lose money. You pawned your car and took out microloans. And now you decided to pay with my life?
Gleb was silent. He stared at the phone in my hand like a rabbit at a snake.
— Yana… — he began hoarsely. — Yana, listen. They threatened me. They said they’d destroy me. I didn’t want to… Mom came up with the plan…
— Traitor, — hissed his mother, glaring at him.
— Get out, — I said quietly.
— What? — Gleb blinked.
— Out of my apartment. Both of you. Right now. In whatever you’re wearing.
— Yana, it’s night! — my mother-in-law shrieked. — Where will we go? I’m not well!
— You have fifteen minutes, — I glanced at the clock. — In fifteen minutes I send this recording to your boss, Gleb. To your creditors — so they know they’ll get nothing from me, we have a prenuptial agreement and separate property.
And to the police. Intentional harm, fraud. Attempt included as a bonus if the soil analysis shows what you mixed into the pot. And it will.
Gleb flinched as if struck.
— You won’t do it. I’m your husband.
— You were. Now you’re a defendant. Time’s running.
He knew me. He knew I never made empty threats.
Gleb grabbed his mother by the elbow and pulled her toward the exit.
— Let’s go, Mom. She’ll do it. She’s not normal.
— I’m not going anywhere! This is my home too! — Zinaida Sergeyevna resisted, clinging to the doorframe. — I’ll call the police!
— Call them! — he shouted. — So they arrest us right here? Damn it, because of you everything!
They flew out of the apartment like corks from a bottle. Gleb didn’t even take his car keys — they were left on the dresser. His mother forgot her bag with medications.
I closed the door behind them. Turned one lock. Then the second.
My hands didn’t shake. The trembling was somewhere deep inside, in my solar plexus.
I returned to the bedroom. The ruined dress lay on the floor like a crushed berry.
I stepped over it.
Opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. Took out a thick package.
Inside was the backup option. A silver jumpsuit made of dense silk. I had bought it a week ago, following some instinct. My intuition had screamed: “Prepare for a fight.” And I did.
I changed quickly. Pulled my hair into a tight bun.
As I left the apartment, I stopped by the windowsill.
The spathiphyllum was dying.
Only twenty minutes had passed, and the leaves had already turned black, twisted into terrifying spirals. The white flowers drooped, turning dirty brown. A sharp chemical smell rose from the pot.
That’s what would have happened to me.
That’s what would have been in my stomach if I had drunk their “care.”
I took out my phone and photographed the withered plant. This photo would go into the divorce case. And maybe not only that.
I took the pot with me. I’d throw it away in a container on another street.
At the ceremony, I was flawless. I smiled, shook hands, accepted congratulations. No one noticed that I didn’t take a single sip of any drinks. I only drank water from a sealed bottle that I opened myself.
When I stepped onto the stage for the award, the host asked:
— Who would you like to dedicate this victory to? Usually people thank their family.
I took the microphone. Silence fell over the hall.
— I dedicate it to myself, — I said, looking straight into the broadcast camera. — To the fact that I learned to trust my own eyes, not other people’s words. Sometimes, to build something new, you have to ruthlessly tear down the old. To the foundation. Even if that old thing feels like home.
The roar of applause drowned out the vibration of my phone in my clutch.
Already in the taxi, I looked at the screen.
Twenty missed calls from “My Love.” Ten from “Zinaida Sergeyevna.”
And one message from an unknown number: “Yana, we’re at the station. Mom isn’t feeling well, she forgot her medicine. My cards are blocked by the bank because of debts. Send a couple thousand, we don’t have enough for a hostel. Please. We understood everything.”
I looked at the night city passing by outside the window.
I remembered the black, twisted flower on the sill.
I remembered the sound of tearing fabric.
I typed back: “Ask your mother. She said she knows doctors. Maybe they’ll let you stay overnight in a state facility. For free.”
Block contact. Delete.
Tomorrow I’ll change the locks. The day after tomorrow I’ll file for divorce.
And today, I’m going home. To a quiet, empty, safe apartment where no one will tell me that black is white.
And where the air smells only of my perfume — not betrayal.
