The MacBook Pro screen suddenly froze. The finance director’s face in the Zoom window first broke into tiny vibrating pixels, then the entire image dissolved into a grey mass,
as if someone had wiped reality off the display with a single motion. A moment later, the brief, cruel message appeared: “Connection lost.”
Alina did not swear. She did not slam the laptop shut. She simply slowly lifted her gaze and looked at the Keenetic router standing in the corner of the room.
Its small LED glowed with a dull, threatening red light, like a warning already noticed too late.
She stood up from the solid oak desk, every millimeter of which suggested: serious work happens here.
She stepped into the hallway and understood what had happened almost immediately. The fiber-optic cable, carefully laid along the baseboard by the provider, had been brutally cut.
Not with a precision tool, not by an expert hand. The edges were frayed, like a badly torn rope — a clear trace of blunt kitchen scissors.
Alina did not bend down. She did not touch it. She only looked for a second, then turned and walked toward the living room-kitchen.
The apartment was large, nearly one hundred square meters, modern yet coldly elegant. From the building on Presnenskaya Embankment, a panoramic view of the city opened up, but Alina no longer cared about it.
In the kitchen stood Raissa Ivanovna.
The woman had just returned home. Her shoes were dusty, covered with a thin layer of city grime, and she had not even considered taking them off. She hadn’t washed her hands either.
Instead, she opened the premium Liebherr refrigerator with a decisive motion and reached into a glass container.
Inside was Italian prosciutto, carefully sliced.
Her short, thick fingers, with nail polish half worn off, grabbed the meat. She tore off a piece and immediately shoved it into her mouth. She began chewing loudly, each movement accompanied by a wet, unpleasant sound.
Alina spoke.
— Raissa Ivanovna… did you cut the internet cable?
Her voice was quiet. No anger, no irritation. Only cold, perfect control.
The woman swallowed the meat, licked her fingers, then wiped them on her robe. She looked up and lifted her chin defiantly.
— I did! And I was right to do it! — she declared proudly. — You stare at your screen all day! Your husband will come home soon, and there’s nothing on the stove!
Yesterday I spoke with Antonina, you know, the one whose husband works in the ministry. In those upper circles, women create a home, not press buttons!
We are a family, Alina! It’s time you behaved properly! Enough of this businesswoman act. Go make borscht!
Alina looked at her.
This woman had been living here for a month. In that time she had completely disrupted the peace of the apartment, polluted the space, and crossed every possible boundary day after day.
But Alina was not the kind of person who shouted. Not someone who made scenes.
She calculated.
She evaluated.
And when necessary, she acted.
She returned to her office, shared the internet from her iPhone, and finished the negotiation. Her voice remained steady throughout, her sentences precise and convincing, as if nothing had happened.
When she hung up, the real work began.
Raissa Ivanovna’s presence was not a new problem. From the very first day, it had been clear she had not come to “help.” She had simply moved in and started consuming — food, energy, patience.
She spent her days in front of the television, watching endless series on the expensive screen, while criticizing everything around her.
— Such a dull apartment — she would say. — My acquaintance, the wife of a prosecutor, lives in gold. Crystal chandeliers, luxury! And this? Poor minimalism.
All this while she was eating the same “poor” food from the refrigerator, using the same cosmetics, and sleeping in the same bed Alina paid for.
But cutting the cable was different.
That was no longer simple disrespect.
That was an attack.
At exactly 14:30, the technician arrived. With quick, efficient movements he removed the old lock and installed a new cylinder. The work took twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, Alina was already preparing the next step.
She went into the guest room. She took out three huge, thick black garbage bags. No hesitation. No sorting.
From closets, shelves, drawers — everything was swept out. Old clothes, musty sweaters, cheap jewelry, medications, books, slippers — everything went into a single pile and then into the bags.
There was no anger.
Only efficiency.
Half an hour later, three tightly packed bags stood in the hallway by the elevator.
Alina returned to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of mineral water, and sat down. She opened her laptop and began drafting a lawsuit.
Not because she was sure she would file it.
But because she knew: power does not always lie in action.
But in possibility.
When Raissa returned, the key no longer worked.
The knocking was loud, demanding.
— Alina! Open the door!
The video intercom activated. Her face was distorted with rage.
Alina’s voice remained calm:
— Your belongings are by the elevator.
The woman froze.
Then she saw the bags.
The reaction was immediate — anger, insults, threats.
But Alina did not raise her voice.
She simply began speaking.
About the law.
About damages.
About twelve million rubles.
The words were precise, cold, and devastating.
And they worked.
The woman collapsed.
Fell to her knees.
Begged.
But the door remained closed.
When Denis came home, he was already faced only with consequences.
Alina did not explain.
She only gave a choice.
And Denis chose.
Not his mother.
But safety.
Comfort.
Reality.
In the following days, the apartment returned to silence. The internet worked, the air was clean, and everything was in its place.
Raissa Ivanovna returned to Tver.
But she was not the same person.
Fear had slowly but surely changed her.
And Alina?
She simply continued her life.
Exactly as she always had.
