Anna fished the keys from her bag and gently slid the apartment door open, careful not to disturb Sergey

Anna pulled the keys out of her bag and pushed the apartment door open, trying not to wake Sergey. It was dark in the hallway, smelling warm and spicy—apparently, he had eaten late and was reheating delivery pilaf again. His boots lay on the floor, one toppled to the side as if they had been forcefully kicked off. She instinctively nudged them closer to the wall and took off her coat.

In the kitchen, a pile of dirty dishes towered in the sink. Anna looked at them and just sighed heavily. Foolish. She knew it was his turn to wash the plates today. But she also knew that if she kept silent, tomorrow evening would look the same. The kettle boiled, and Anna caught herself thinking she wanted to drink something hot again to distract herself. “No, enough,” she told herself firmly. Today was no time for old habits.

In the room, Sergey slept peacefully, sprawled out on the bed. His phone beside him flickered with notifications. Surely, it was his mother again, writing something like, “Son, buy bread or you’ll forget,” or “You didn’t call again, I’m worried.” Anna looked at him, at his relaxed face and the barely noticeable shadow of a smile in his sleep. How strange that he looked so carefree while her head buzzed with what she had just found out.

Earlier that day, when she was leaving work, she had been in the elevator with a neighbor—a thin woman in a dark coat with shiny buttons. Anna had seen her before but never spoken to her.

“Oh, you’re Sergey’s wife, right?” the woman smiled.

“Yes, and you?”

“Valentina Petrovna, from the apartment across the hall. I’ve lived here so many years—it’s amazing how rarely we cross paths.”

Anna nodded. The elevator started moving; they fell silent, but the neighbor kept smiling, as if waiting for the right moment to say something.

“It’s good that you and Seryozha moved into his mother’s apartment. She kept it empty for so many years, and now at least there’s life in the house.”

Anna thought she misheard.

“His mother’s apartment?” she repeated.

“Of course. Olga Vyacheslavovna bought it back in the nineties. Then Sergey lived here with his ex, and now here you are!”

The elevator stopped. Anna almost forgot to get out. Valentina Petrovna said something else, but the words flew past her.

In her head, only one thought hammered: she wasn’t paying rent. She was paying her husband. All her money for two years had ended up in his family’s pocket.

At home, it was quiet. She closed the door but didn’t go to the bedroom. She took her laptop and settled on the couch.

She found the tax office website, entered the address and Olga Vyacheslavovna’s last name. After a couple of minutes, the result appeared on the screen.

Owner: Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova.

Anna stared at the words.

Now everything fell into place.

But starting a scandal would be stupid.

She closed the laptop and looked around. Here it was, their cozy nest she had invested so much in. Her favorite bookshelves, the soft throw she bought on sale, the lamp with warm light. And all of it with her money.

In the next room, Sergey kept sleeping peacefully.

Anna leaned against the back of the couch, clasping her fingers.

It was time to think things through.

Because this lie would not go without consequences.

The next morning, Anna woke earlier than usual. She looked at Sergey, who was, as always, sleeping surrounded by pillows, and went to the kitchen.

The room was cool; crumbs from yesterday’s sandwich lay on the table, and a half-finished bottle of beer stood lonely in the corner. Anna mechanically threw it into the trash, then took her phone and dialed the management company.

“Hello, I’d like to clarify something about our apartment.”

The girl on the other end purred something friendly, unaware of anything, and said:

“The apartment is registered to Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova; utilities are paid regularly.”

Anna thanked her and hung up. Her heart was beating faster than usual. She felt like she was standing on thin ice, but now she knew for sure everything the neighbor said was true.

She went back to the bedroom, opened the dresser drawer where Sergey usually kept documents, and started looking through the papers. Deep inside, among old receipts and unnecessary bills, was a folder with bank statements.

Carefully, trying not to leave traces, she took one out and skimmed it. In the “Payment purpose” field was “Utility payment.” Sender — Olga Vyacheslavovna’s card.

Anna closed the folder and put it back.

Fifteen minutes later, Sergey came to the kitchen yawning.

“Good morning,” he said, squinting at her.

“Morning,” Anna smiled, as if nothing was wrong.

She watched him lazily pour water, sit down at the table, rest his elbows on it, and casually open social media on his phone.

“By the way, I was thinking,” she said softly, sitting opposite him. “Maybe we should try to buy an apartment after all? We pay 80,000 every month to someone unknown, but then we could be paying for our own.”

Sergey froze for a second but immediately shrugged.

“Well, you know, a mortgage is complicated. You have to deal with documents and interest.”

“But in the end, it would be ours, not someone else’s,” Anna continued, watching him closely.

He looked away and pretended to focus on his phone.

“Let’s just think about it, okay?” she continued. “Maybe we can negotiate with the owner for an installment plan? You know him, right?”

He stayed silent. Only a slight neck tension betrayed him.

“Well, you know, it’s…” he muttered. “You understand…”

Anna looked at him for a few more seconds, then stood up and walked to the window.

“Yes, I understand,” she said. “Very well indeed.”

She watched the street, observing how the snow slowly fell on the sidewalks. Sergey muttered something about work, quickly finished his water, and left the kitchen.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Anna took out her phone and dialed her friend Maria.

“Masha, are you busy now?”

“No, what’s up?”

“I need your advice.”

“Do you have a conference room at your office where no one goes?”

Maria was silent for a moment, then laughed.

“Anna, you’re scaring me. Okay, come over.”

Half an hour later, Anna sat in an empty office cluttered with papers, where they usually held new project meetings. Maria across from her frowned, checking something on her phone’s search engine.

“So… If the property is registered to his mother, and she never formalized a lease, legally you’re just… living with her.”

“But I pay for it.”

“You pay,” Maria nodded, then suddenly looked up sharply. “Anna, this is terrible. You’re just giving money to someone who should have been giving it to you.”

“Not just someone. My husband.”

Maria silently stared at her.

“So. What now?”

Anna looked at her friend and suddenly smiled.

“Now, Masha, I want to make sure these last two years don’t go to waste.”

“How?”

Anna took a sheet of paper from the table, smoothed it with her palm, and carefully wrote at the top: “Plan of action.”

Maria leaned closer.

“I’m starting to like how you smile,” she murmured.

Anna took a pen and began to write.

Because now she knew what to do.

Anna decided emotions wouldn’t help here. She spent two weeks pretending she didn’t know the truth. Still cooking dinners, laughing at Sergey’s jokes, telling him stories from work. But now her attention focused on details — how he got nervous when money came up, how confidently he waved off her “rent” thousand when buying expensive gadgets, how he never discussed his mother or the apartment in her presence.

On the third day of her “game,” he came home from work with a bag from a brand-name store.

“New sneakers?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

“Yeah, there was a sale,” he waved it off.

But Anna already knew the sale had nothing to do with it.

She smiled and nodded, then casually mentioned,

“We should write to the landlord and ask for a copy of the contract. In case he raises the price, at least we’d know beforehand.”

Sergey froze but a second later put on his usual mask of indifference.

“No, why? We’ve been here so long, nothing’s likely to change.”

Anna didn’t insist. She just remembered his reaction.

The day before the “rent” was due, Anna did something he definitely didn’t expect. She invited him to a restaurant.

Sergey was surprised—they rarely went to expensive places, preferring usual cafés nearby. But since his wife suggested it, why not go?

The restaurant was elegant, with soft lighting and calm music. Anna chose a table by the window overlooking the evening city. She sat across from him, thoughtfully twirling a glass in her fingers.

“Well, what are we drinking to?” he asked, taking the menu.

“To family,” she replied calmly, looking at him with a slight smile.

He nodded contentedly, ordering meat.

“You know,” she continued, folding her arms, “I thought, why don’t we buy this apartment?”

He froze but quickly composed himself.

“Well… we can’t afford it, mortgage, interest…”

“What if we negotiate with the owner for a lower price? Maybe he’d agree to sell?” Anna pretended her words didn’t carry a double meaning.

Sergey grimaced, pushing the glass aside.

“I don’t know… Why did you even decide that?”

She smirked and leaned forward.

“Just remind me… who exactly have we been paying for these two years?”

He pretended not to understand.

“Well, you transfer money, right? Who is this person?”

Sergey looked away as if thinking how to lie more gently.

Anna waited a few seconds and then added,

“Or have we been paying your mother all this time?”

He froze.

Her voice was soft, almost gentle. She didn’t attack or raise her tone. She just looked him straight in the eyes.

“Anna…” he began but faltered.

“Just tell the truth.”

His fingers nervously fidgeted on the tablecloth.

“Well, sort of… yes.”

Anna smiled and nodded as if she finally heard the answer she expected.

She slowly took an envelope out of her bag and put it in front of him.

“Here’s my last transfer. You won’t get a single penny more from me.”

He was silent.

She stood up, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door.

Sergey stayed sitting at the table, still holding the envelope.

Anna didn’t plan to pack her suitcases right away. This needed calmness. She stayed a few more days in the apartment, watching Sergey. Now he acted strangely, talked less, avoided conversations, and sat on his phone late into the evening. He was clearly waiting for her to forget their dinner and for the money to flow into his pocket again.

But she wasn’t going to forget anything.

On Friday after work, Anna left the office and went to the nearest bank. Last week she quietly closed their joint account, transferring the remaining money to her personal one. Now she needed to cut the last tie.

“I need the lease agreement for this apartment,” she told the manager of the management company who worked in the bank building.

The woman looked over her glasses.

“What agreement?”

“The one the apartment owner should have. Unless, of course, we just live here for free.”

The manager flipped through papers, then calmly said,

“No lease agreement was made. The database has no information that the apartment was officially rented to anyone.”

Anna nodded slightly. Everything she suspected was confirmed.

All her clothes were already packed in a suitcase. There weren’t many things—only her personal belongings. Everything else she had bought with Sergey, so she would leave it. Let him enjoy it.

When he came home, the suitcase stood by the door.

“Are you going on a business trip?” he asked nervously, removing his jacket.

Anna closed the suitcase, slowly turned, and looked at him.

“I’m moving out.”

Sergey blinked, as if he hadn’t heard.

“What?”

“I’m no longer going to live in an apartment I’ve been paying rent on for your mother for two years.”

He sharply drew in breath, straightened up, as if about to say something, but stayed silent.

“Anna, you…” he began, but she didn’t let him finish.

“I transferred you 960 thousand over two years,” she said, leaning against the wall. “You could have at least not lied, you know? Just say the apartment was yours, and we could have paid utilities together. But you decided to pretend I needed to pay for living with you.”

“That’s not true…”

“Yes, it is,” she interrupted.

Sergey fell silent, then took a few steps toward her as if trying to smooth things over.

“I… I just didn’t want you to think I was supporting you, you know? We agreed to pay equally.”

“Equally?” Anna laughed. “You paid your mother, and I paid you. How stupid I was.”

She grabbed the suitcase and headed to the door.

“Anna, wait!” he grabbed her hand but immediately let go.

Anna looked at him one last time.

“You could have told the truth, Sergey.”

He was silent again.

She opened the door and left, leaving him alone.

Half an hour later, she was sitting in her new apartment—a small studio, but her own. There was no expensive furniture, huge TV, or kitchen with glossy fronts, but there was silence. Peace. Freedom.

Her phone beeped.

“Son, where is your wife?” Olga Vyacheslavovna wrote.

Anna smiled.

Sergey will figure it out himself. It’s no longer her problem.