“Well, did you eat that up?”
Vlad barged into the kitchen, swinging his car keys like a scepter.
“The deal is closed. I told you I’d crush them.”
Anya lifted her gaze from her laptop. His flushed, triumphant face glowed on the glossy screen.
She quietly closed the lid. On the darkened glass, the banking app still glimmered with a seven-figure balance.
“I’m glad it worked out for you,” she said evenly.
Vlad snorted, yanking open the fridge with the pomp of a king inspecting his domain.
“Worked out? No. This isn’t luck, Anya. This is brains, grit, and real work—not staring at silly pictures on the internet.”
He meant her blog. The one he’d belittled for five years as “nonsense” and “a waste of time.” She had never argued. Why waste breath?
She walked to the window. Evening lights blurred in the rain-streaked glass, trembling like watercolors.
Five years of ridicule. Five years of silence. Five years of building a blog dedicated to rare, fading crafts—embroiderers, potters, weavers—each story pieced together like a secret mosaic.
Behind her, Vlad popped open a bottle of sparkling wine. Foam sprayed the counter.
“Speaking of your little pictures,” he continued, grinning. “It’s time you quit that. We’ll need more money soon. I’ve already picked out a new country house. And your hobby’s just a drain.”
He said we, but she clearly heard me. That was always the trick. His wins were his alone; debts were “shared.”
“Do you realize the level we’re on now?” Vlad laughed, pouring himself a brimming glass. “I’m a man who gets things done. And you? Who are you, Anya?”
He didn’t even bother to offer her a drink.
She studied his reflection in the glass—the smug grin, the expensive suit, the arrogance he thought made him untouchable.
Inside, she felt no anger. No pain. Just a crystalline calm. As though she were watching a bad movie scene, already knowing the ending.
“You’re broke, and I’m successful!” he declared, as though carving truth into stone. “Never forget who carries this family.”
He drank deeply, waiting. Waiting for tears, for silence, for surrender.
Instead, her phone buzzed.
A message. From the buyer.
A major international media network had purchased her blog to launch it as a global project. They praised her vision, her meticulous work. And the sum—more than anything Vlad had ever touched.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket. Her eyes found his.
“You’re right, Vlad,” she said softly. “It is time for a change.”
She picked up her laptop.
“I’ll go book a hotel suite. You celebrate. You’ve earned it.”
He froze mid-sip, glass trembling. He hadn’t expected this. He thought he controlled the script.
Anya was already at the door, sliding into her coat.
“Where are you going?” he shouted, bewildered. “What—are you upset? Anya!”
She paused on the threshold. Her calm smile cut sharper than anger.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pay for the hotel myself.”
The presidential suite door closed softly behind her. She stood alone before vast windows, the city sprawling below like a sea of jewels. The same city that had seemed alien an hour ago now glittered with promise.
She kicked off her shoes. The plush carpet under her feet felt like freedom.
Her phone buzzed again—ten missed calls from Vlad, then messages, shifting from fury to desperation.
“Anya, answer me.”
“Anya, I’m worried.”
“Please… come home.”
She silenced it. Not now.
That morning, she woke to sunlight flooding the suite. For the first time in years, she slept deeply. No nightmares. No heaviness in her chest.
Wrapped in a silk robe, she ordered breakfast—“wasteful,” Vlad would have sneered—and opened her laptop.
An email awaited her.
From: Eleonora van der Meer, Head of European Division.
They wanted her in Brussels. Tomorrow.
Anya smiled. No fear, only exhilaration.
Meanwhile, Vlad unraveled.
He called friends, her mother, anyone who would listen, spinning lies about her “breakdown.”
“She’s fragile. That blog pushed her too far. I just hope she doesn’t do anything stupid…”
But no one believed him. Everyone heard the panic behind his words.
The final blow came when his business partner phoned.
“Vlad, did you see the news? Some handicraft blog sold for eight million euros. Threads of Time. Isn’t that your wife’s thing?”
Vlad’s stomach dropped. He remembered the name. Remembered laughing when she begged for money to visit some old embroiderer.
Frantically, he searched. Forbes.
Her face, smiling. Confident. Radiant.
The deal was real. The sum colossal. Bigger than anything he had ever achieved.
His kingdom collapsed. The “king” dethroned overnight.
He stormed to her hotel, pounding on her door.
When Anya opened it, his mask was gone. His eyes were wild, hollow.
“We need to talk,” he hissed, stepping into the suite. “Nice setup. On my money?”
She leaned against the door, composed.
“Yours?” she asked softly. “Vlad, everything you ever gave me wouldn’t pay for one night here.”
He faltered, then tried again.
“It’s our money. We’re family. What’s yours is mine. I supported you, inspired you! Without me, you’d still be nothing!”
Anya tilted her head.
“Inspired me? By calling my work nonsense? By telling me to ‘get a real job’? By declaring me broke yesterday?”
Each word struck him like a lash.
He grew frantic.
“You don’t understand big money! They’ll eat you alive! You need me. Together we’ll build an empire.”
She shook her head.
“Your empire collapsed with your champagne cork. I don’t want an empire, Vlad. I want my life. And I’ll build it myself.”
She typed quickly on her phone.
“What are you doing?” he asked, real fear in his voice.
“Calling security. We’re done here.”
“No, wait! Please! I was wrong! I’ll change, I swear!”
But it was too late. Two guards arrived within minutes.
“Escort this man out,” Anya said calmly. “He’s in the wrong room.”
Vlad didn’t resist. He just stared at her, hollow and broken, as they led him away.
When the door shut, Anya exhaled. She walked back to the window.
The city pulsed with life. This time, she wasn’t just watching. She was part of it.
Free. Strong. And finally, home in herself.
Tomorrow, Brussels awaited. Tomorrow, her real life would begin.
