— Take off the ring, Inna. It never suited you anyway, too delicate for hands used to blueprints — Kirill said without even getting up from the couch.
He sat casually, one leg crossed over the other, lazily stroking Anzhelika’s knee. The knee of that same “assistant girl” I had hired into our design studio three months ago.
Anzhelika looked at me with that mix of pity and superiority only women have who are convinced their youth is a lifetime pass to heaven.
— Are you serious? — I put my bag down on the console in the hallway. — Like this, on a Wednesday evening, in front of her?
— When else? — Kirill yawned. — What Anzhela and I have is serious. She inspires me, you know? With her, I feel like a creator, not just a project manager.
And you… you’ve turned into a function, Inna. A construction foreman in a skirt. Calculations, estimates, that constant smell of plaster. I’m tired of it.
— That “construction work” paid for your new Mercedes and this apartment — I noted, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
— The apartment is in my mother’s name, you know that — he smirked, and there was so much poison in that smirk I physically felt nauseous. — So legally, you’re a guest here. I’m giving you an hour.
Pack the essentials. You can pick up the rest later, when Anzhela and I leave for vacation.
Anzhelika giggled and leaned closer to him.
I looked at them and didn’t recognize them. They were strangers who had decided they had the right to control my life.
Ten years. For ten years I pulled the studio out of debt, found clients, slept at job sites while Kirill “built connections” in expensive restaurants.
His father, Boris Arkadyevich, always said: “Inna, you are the foundation. Kiryusha is just a weather vane. Make sure the foundation doesn’t crack.”
Boris Arkadyevich died half a year ago. He was the only loss I truly mourned. He was closer to me than my own father.
— Did you hear? Time’s ticking — Kirill said, throwing my favorite Murano glass vase into my suitcase. It didn’t break, just hit the bottom with a dull thud, but the sound felt like something cracked inside me.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just went into the bedroom.
My clothes hung in the closet. I packed mechanically. Jeans, sweaters, laptop. The most valuable thing wasn’t here. It was in the safe, the code to which Kirill had never bothered to learn — “papers are boring,” as he liked to say.
I took out Boris Arkadyevich’s old leather briefcase. He had given it to me a week before he died, in the hospital.
“Inna, inside are the documents for the country house and some of my personal matters. Don’t open it until Kiryusha shows his true face. I know him, I raised him.
He will try to hurt you as soon as he feels he can do it without consequences. In this briefcase is your safety net.”
At the time, I thought he was imagining things. I was wrong.
— Are you done? — Kirill appeared in the doorway. — Leave the keys. And don’t come to the office tomorrow. You’re fired. I already signed the papers as CEO.
— You can’t fire me. I’m a co-owner.
— With forty percent. My mother and I have sixty. There was a meeting yesterday. You’re free now. You can go to your mom’s little town and paint fences.
I picked up the suitcase. It was heavy, but I didn’t feel it.
As I passed Anzhelika, I noticed the pendant on her neck — a golden drop. It was a gift from Boris Arkadyevich for my thirtieth birthday. Kirill must have gone through my jewelry.
— Nice pendant — I said quietly. — Wear it. It’ll be useful to get used to things with history. You’ll have many stories soon.
I walked out. Laughter followed me.
It was cold outside. I got into my car — the only thing in my name. I threw the suitcase in the back and placed the briefcase beside me.
My hands were shaking as I started the engine. One sentence pounded in my head: “You’re a guest.”
I didn’t go to my mother’s. I went to a small hotel on the outskirts.
The room was stuffy. I didn’t care. I sat down and opened the briefcase.
Documents. And a yellowed envelope: “To Elena, personally.”
Elena is me. According to my passport.
I opened it.
“Dear Lena. If you are reading this, my son has become what I feared. I’m sorry. But know this: I never considered him the owner of our business. He is a consumer. You are a creator.
The studio building belonged to my company. I leave it to you.
And one more thing…”
The second document: the majority ownership was conditional. If Kirill abused it… everything would transfer to me.
And there was proof of his theft.
I closed my eyes.
— Let’s see who the owner really is — I whispered.
For three months, I stayed silent.
Lawyers. Lawsuits. Investigations.
Meanwhile, Kirill posed in the office with Anzhelika.
He didn’t know he had already lost.
When he tried to sell the building, I appeared.
— What is this?! — he shouted.
— Reality — my lawyer said.
Anzhelika turned pale.
Kirill flipped through the documents. His face went gray.
— This is fake!
— No — I said. — You did this.
Half a year later, he came back.
Broken.
— Lena… help me…
— I remember what you said. I’m a guest.
— What should I do?
— The same thing I did. Leave. When he left, silence followed.
I took out the golden drop. It was evening. I went to the lake, to the land Boris Arkadyevich had left me. I threw the pendant. It disappeared into the water.
I didn’t need it anymore. I had a future. And in that future, there was no place for guests. Only for the owner. — Let’s go home — I told the driver. And he knew what that meant.
