Sveta loved good coffee and her husband, Roma.
In the mornings, roughly in that order, and in the evenings, exactly the opposite.
Roma was a man as cozy as an expensive cashmere blanket: warm, comforting, accommodating, and slightly naive.
His only “factory defect,” the one he came with by default, was his mother.
Zhanna Romanovna possessed the grace of a cast-iron iron and the tact of a hungry wolverine.
In the past, she had been a prominent trade union activist, and she was used to viewing the world through a lens of universal sinfulness and personal infallibility.
She knew perfectly well how to live, whom to sleep with, and what to put in the salad to keep the moral fabric intact.
She had disliked Sveta from the very first second. For her independent gaze, for her salary that openly exceeded Roma’s, and for the way Sveta could smile so that the recipient immediately wanted to check whether their fly was closed.
Sveta worked remotely. Officially, to her husband’s relatives, she was “just sitting at a computer and pressing buttons.”
Unofficially, Sveta was a highly sought-after guest writer and scriptwriter.
She wrote texts for blogs, scripts for series, and what was her main financial cushion and secret passion—gossip romance novels under the pseudonym Isabella de Crow.
Roma knew about the pseudonym and supported his wife wholeheartedly, especially after the royalty from her previous hit, *The Jade Wand of Passion*, immediately covered half of their mortgage.
The conflict, previously cold, escalated into a hot phase in early spring.
Zhanna Romanovna had spare keys to their apartment—officially issued only in case of fire or sudden meteorite strike.
By chance, she learned from her naive son that Sveta had rushed to the dentist with acute pain and decided to seize the moment for an unexpected inspection.
On that day, Sveta had indeed dashed out in a state of panic, forgetting the lifesaving key combination to lock her laptop screen.
Returning home with her numb jaw, she noticed the ficus by the window soaked in water to a rice-grain consistency, and the work computer slightly shifted on the desk.
Sveta, a woman not only intelligent but also observant, immediately sensed something amiss. She checked the recent documents history.
Zhanna Romanovna, unable to resist her curiosity, had moved the mouse. On the screen glowed the final layout of the new book—the very fresh edition that was due from the printer in the coming days.
Sveta skimmed the paragraph where her mother had left the cursor and quietly chuckled.
It was a negotiation scene between the heroine and the owner of an elite escort agency.
“— My rate is one hundred thousand for the night, Armando,” the text read on the screen. “No kisses, full advance payment. I’ll see you this Friday.”
Any sane woman would have recognized this as fiction, but Zhanna Romanovna thought differently.
She was a woman of Soviet steel, accustomed to watching crime chronicles instead of comedies.
Sveta pictured how in her mother-in-law’s mind, the pieces clicked together: remote work, new shoes, frequent “meetings with clients”…
— Well, — Sveta murmured, rubbing her face still stiff from the cold. — People judge others only by the measure of their own looseness. Want a first-class cabaret, mama? You’ll have tickets in the central box.
From that day on, Sveta virtuously scattered breadcrumbs. She knew Zhanna Romanovna would now watch her with triple vigilance, like a spy tailing a defector.
Sveta “completely accidentally” left her planner open on the hallway table.
In red marker was circled: “FRIDAY, 7:00 PM. Loft on Baumanskaya. VIP session. Director.”
(In reality, this was the date and place of the private presentation of her new novel for distributors.)
During phone conversations, when her mother-in-law came under the pretext of checking meters, Sveta would drawl phrases like:
— Yes, Viktor, I can come to the hotel, but it will cost twice as much. You know my appetites.
Viktor was her layout artist, with whom they argued to the point of hoarseness over the cost of urgent corrections.
— Modern girls have completely lost their shame! — Zhanna Romanovna snapped, glaring over her teacup. — No moral principles! Just selling themselves to anyone for the highest price!
— You are absolutely right, mama, — Sveta agreed softly, adjusting her perfect manicure. — The competition is fierce. One must constantly upgrade skills to stay on top. The laws of the market are harsh.
The mother-in-law swallowed nervously, staring at her daughter-in-law as if a piece of furniture had just spoken.
Soon, Zhanna Romanovna secretly convened a family tribunal.
Its members included: sister-in-law Olga, who had been a married deputy’s mistress for three years but stubbornly played the role of an infallible student, and, of course, poor Roma.
— Your wife is a woman with critically low social responsibility! — whispered Zhanna Romanovna tragically in the kitchen, shaking hand-copied “evidence.”
— She is selling herself, Roma! I saw her price list! “Madame Isabella” — that’s what she calls herself! On Friday, she has a meeting at the loft with some director!
Roma, who knew his wife’s schedule perfectly, suddenly coughed into his fist, trying to hide his hysterical laughter.
He was about to explain everything immediately but remembered Sveta’s strict instructions the day before:
“Roma, mama is launching a crusade. Please, don’t break my show. No defense. Just nod, make a sorrowful face, and go with her. Take popcorn.”
— Mama, this is nonsense — Roma protested weakly, hiding his laughing eyes.
— Nonsense?! We’re going! I will expose this filth! And Olga will come too, to document her moral low point!
The long-awaited Friday arrived.
Sveta stood in the center of the stylishly arranged hall in an expensive emerald green pantsuit.
Around her, waiters silently glided with trays, stacks of freshly printed books adorned the tables, and a soft saxophone played. Editors, marketers, and a few literary critics chatted pleasantly by the buffet line.
Exactly at 7:15 PM, the massive oak doors burst open as if a special forces unit had stormed in.
At the doorway stood Zhanna Romanovna, breathing heavily and angrily, in her best burgundy parade coat.
Cowering behind her wide back was Olga, phone in hand, clearly intending to film compromising material. Behind them, Roma shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to stifle a laugh.
— Stand still! — roared the mother-in-law, threateningly stepping into the room.
She clearly expected to catch pole acrobatics, leather whips, and Sveta in leopard lingerie.
Instead, only orderly people in strict suits, holding glasses of sparkling wine, stood before her, looking astonished.
Behind Sveta, a huge glossy banner gleamed: “Isabella de Crow. Presentation of the new bestseller *Tariff of Passion*.”
Zhanna Romanovna froze, like an antique statue whose arms had been forgotten. Her wide eyes slowly shifted from the banner to Sveta, then to the books.
Sveta, sipping leisurely from her crystal glass, stepped toward the relatives with a dazzling social smile.
— Oh, Zhanna Romanovna! Olga! Roma! I thought you might ignore my invitation. How infinitely kind of you to support me at the private presentation of my new novel.
— Novel?.. — the mother-in-law managed hoarsely. — What novel? And the… clients? Directors? Hotels?
— Oh, you mean the fiery Armando and his business partners? — Sveta laughed aloud, drawing friendly attention from the guests.
— Mama, you yourself read the draft on my computer when you secretly came to water my poor, now prematurely deceased ficus. That was the beginning of Chapter Seven!
Sveta elegantly paused, savoring the effect.
— By the way, that director, my chief editor — that imposing man in glasses, Eduard Mikhailovich — she lightly gestured toward the flustered gentleman.
Olga frantically shoved her phone deep into her bag.
Zhanna Romanovna’s face rapidly took on the color of an overripe beet.
Her grand plan for exposure ended in public failure: she had just confessed before witnesses that she secretly spied on her daughter-in-law, rummaged through her computer, and made a perfect fool of herself in her son’s eyes.
But Sveta had no habit of leaving a game half-finished. She always carried things to the final move.
— You know, mama — Sveta’s voice suddenly lost all social lightness and became deceptively velvety.
— I’ve always been amazed at how skillfully people try to fit their own dirty laundry onto others. I write texts. Just letters on a screen. And you saw a brothel in that.
She took a slow step closer, looking straight into the mother-in-law’s darting eyes.
— Remember one golden rule, Zhanna Romanovna. If someone sees filth and vice in everything, it means their own soul is filled with it to the brim. And do you know what’s the funniest thing in this situation?
Sveta walked to the nearest table, picked up one of the glossy books, and elegantly opened the front endpaper.
— I have long known who my most loyal reader is. Access to the “hot” bonus chapters on my site is only by email subscription. I personally see the list of my subscribers.
Sveta tilted her head slightly.
— Your personal mailbox, zhanna.romanovna1958, I won’t confuse with anyone else. You’ve sent me Easter cards from it.
The mother-in-law turned so pale that her burgundy coat seemed black in comparison.
— I want to personally, in front of everyone, give this first copy to the user under the nickname “Zhanna_Hot_65,” — Sveta announced loudly, with killer diction, extending the hefty volume to her mother-in-law.
— The very same fan who left a long comment under my previous book: “Oh my God, the night pool scene, I read it all night, forgetting my blood pressure.”
Every sound in the room vanished instantly. A vacuum formed.
Roma turned to the nearest column, his shoulders twitching from silent hysteria. Olga looked at her mother with genuine horror, as if the number of the beast had appeared on her forehead.
— Thank you for your sincere devotion to my humble craft, mama — Sveta elegantly, like a grand duchess, placed the book in the stunned mother-in-law’s hands.
— You read me long before I was even your official daughter-in-law. Your secret fondness for my… spicy fantasies is incredibly touching.
Zhanna Romanovna stood like a wooden statue, clutching the thick volume. Her thin lips quivered slightly.
The moral pedestal from which she had preached and struck others for years shattered beneath her feet.
She realized that her daughter-in-law had not just outplayed her at chess. Sveta had wrapped the mother-in-law in the heavy armor of her own righteousness, tying tight knots.
The former trade union leader moved on completely silently, without a sound, on stiff wooden legs toward the exit. Olga stumbled after her.
Sveta watched them with an unflinching gaze, exhaled in satisfaction, and gracefully turned to her husband.
— Roma, darling, get me more sparkling wine. Today we are celebrating not only the release of my new book but also a general cleaning in our personal lives.
She took a tiny, elegant sip, smiling warmly as she watched all the absurd nonsense that had tried to intrude into her cozy world dissolve forever in the melodic chime of crystal and the sounds of good jazz.
