“All my money is mine, and yours is yours,” my husband roared with laughter, not knowing that tomorrow my father would fire him and put me in his place.

“All my money is mine, and yours is yours,” my husband roared with laughter, not knowing that tomorrow my father would fire him and put me in his place.

“Come on, Anya, don’t be childish. My money is mine. Yours is yours. Everything’s fair,” Dima leaned back on the sofa and burst out laughing loudly, from the heart.

That laugh, which a year ago had seemed so genuine and infectious, now grated on my ears like cheap tin.

He looked down at me from above, and in his eyes there sloshed a sticky self-satisfaction. A year ago, there had been adoration there.

Now—condescending pity for the “poor little girl” he had “blessed” by allowing her to live by his side.

“I just thought, since the fridge is shared, it makes sense to buy it together,” I answered quietly, studying the pattern on the carpet.

Don’t look up. The main thing—don’t look up and don’t let him see the cold fury slowly rising from the depths of my soul.

“Logical is when everyone pays for themselves. Do I support you? No. Do I cover the rent and utilities? Yes. And for that, you should say thank you. But the fridge, sorry, that’s a luxury. The old one still works.”

He said it as if he had thrown me a gnawed bone.

The old fridge, inherited from his grandmother, roared at night like a wounded beast and turned fresh vegetables into icy mush.

I nodded silently.

“A year, daughter. Just one year,” my father’s voice echoed in my memory. “I’m not against your Dima. I’m against your blindness. You’ve known each other three months. Let him prove he loves you, and not my resources. Live on your own. Not a single kopek from me. Let’s see what he’s made of.”

My father was furious about our rushed wedding. He believed Dima was a fortune hunter. To prove him wrong, I agreed to the experiment.

I even took back my mother’s surname, so there would be no associations at work. For Dima, this became a story about how a wealthy father had “disinherited” his rebellious daughter.

The dough turned out rotten. For the first six months, Dima played noble. He was sure that if he held out long enough, the stern father-in-law would relent. But then he realized there would be no money.

And the mask began to slip. First, the flowers disappeared. Then he started “forgetting” his wallet at restaurants. And now it had come to a split budget, where his budget was only his, and mine was… shared.

“Come on, don’t sulk,” he came over and carelessly ruffled my hair like I was a dog. “You’ll earn and buy it. You’re smart, aren’t you? You try.”

I slowly raised my eyes to him. In his gaze there wasn’t a trace of doubt in his own rightness.

Only the confidence of a man who earned well, and who “got lucky” marrying a beautiful woman completely useless financially.

He didn’t know that I was “trying” in the company owned by my father.

He didn’t know that the key project, the one earning him a huge bonus, had been developed and carried out by me from the first step to the last.

And he definitely didn’t know that tomorrow at ten in the morning, he’d be summoned to the office—not for a promotion.

“Yes, darling,” I forced myself to smile the most submissive of my smiles. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

That evening he came home with gleaming eyes. He tossed a folder with the logo of a car dealership onto the table.

“Look at this beauty I picked out!” he eagerly unfolded a glossy brochure. From the page, the predatory profile of an expensive SUV stared back at me.

“Of course, I’ll take it on credit. But with my salary, it’s nothing. I’ll make the down payment with the bonus from the Horizon project. We’re getting it any day now.”

He spoke quickly, passionately, not noticing my frozen face.

“Horizon.” My project. My sleepless nights, my calculations, my negotiations. Dima had been only a nominal manager there, signing off on my reports and presenting them prettily at meetings.

“You’re buying a car?” My voice sounded hollow, as if underwater. “But… you said we had to save. That our ‘financial cushion’ was still too thin.”

He tore himself from the brochure and looked at me with genuine bewilderment, as if I had said something idiotic.

“Anya, you’re confusing things again. ‘We’—that’s when it comes to your expenses. I’m not asking you for money, am I? I earn it, I spend it. It’s motivation, you see?”

Motivation. A man must grow, strive. And I was holding him back with my petty domestic concerns.

He used that trick—“you’re holding me back”—more and more often. Any of my requests or attempts to discuss our shared plans ran straight into that wall. With my problems, I was standing in the way of his great achievements.

“I’m just trying to be practical,” I made one more, final attempt. “Maybe we should first settle the housing issue? Start saving for a mortgage? Together.”

Dima laughed. The same laugh as earlier that day. Loud, confident, humiliating.

“A mortgage? With your salary? Anya, don’t make me laugh. To save for a mortgage, you need to earn money, not get pennies for shuffling papers.”

“When I become commercial director, then we’ll talk. But for now—be happy for your husband. Your husband will soon be driving a fancy car. That should make you proud.”

He came over and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. He smelled of expensive cologne and success. False, stolen success.

“By the way, speaking of directors,” he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tomorrow I have a meeting with the general director. Looks like the ice has finally broken. The old man has finally recognized my talents.”

My heart skipped a beat. The general director. My father.

I pulled back so he wouldn’t feel how tense my whole body had become.

“That’s… that’s wonderful, darling!” I forced out an enthusiastic smile.

“Of course it is!” he beamed. “So tomorrow will decide everything. Wish me luck…”

He went to bed almost immediately, completely happy and confident in his future. And I sat in the kitchen for a long time, staring into the dark window.

The hum of the old refrigerator seemed like the ticking of a clock. Counting down the time to his downfall. And I wasn’t going to wish him luck. I was going to enjoy the show.

The morning was soaked in his self-satisfaction. He whistled as he picked out his most expensive tie. I silently handed him his coffee, playing the role of the devoted wife.

“Gotta look like a million,” he muttered, scrutinizing himself in the mirror.

My eyes fell on the new dress hanging on the closet door. Simple, linen, but I had been saving for it for three months with my “penny-salary.”

It was my small victory, a symbol that I still existed apart from him.

Dima noticed it too. He walked over and picked up the fabric between two fingers, with distaste.

“What’s this? Village chic?”

“It’s my new dress,” I said quietly.

“Of course it’s yours. You bought what you could afford. Anya, listen,” he turned to me, his face suddenly serious, almost fatherly.

“When I get the director’s position, you’ll have to live up to it. No more of these… cheap rags. You’ll be the wife of an important man. This is embarrassing.”

He spoke, while I looked at the dress. At my small, hard-won joy that he had just trampled into the dirt.

And then came the last straw. Smoothing out a crease on his perfectly white shirt, he casually hung it on the same closet door.

And the hot iron, which he had left for a second on the ironing board, slid straight onto my dress.

There was a hiss. An ugly brown mark spread, burning right through the fabric.

Dima looked at the hole, then at me. His eyes showed no regret, no guilt. Only annoyance.

“See? It got rid of that piece of junk by itself,” he smirked. “Come on, don’t cry. You’ll buy a new one. When I allow it and give you the money.”

That was it.

Something inside me snapped. Not with a crash, not with a clang. Just a quiet, final break. A year of humiliation, of pretending, of hoping. All of it burned away with the dress.

“You’re right,” my voice sounded unfamiliar—steady, firm. “It’s time to get rid of the junk.”

He didn’t understand. He only heard submission in my words, not the meaning. He nodded condescendingly, grabbed his briefcase, and, after pecking me on the cheek, left. Left for the meeting he believed would lift him to the top.

I watched him go. Then I went to the wardrobe and pulled out my best business suit. The one my father had given me when I graduated university. The one Dima had never seen.

I arrived at work an hour early. Walked past my desk in the open office, past the surprised looks of my colleagues, and headed straight down the corridor. To the corner office with the plaque: “Head of Sales Department. Sokolov D.A.”

The secretary looked up at me.

“Anna, where are you going? Dmitry Alekseevich isn’t here yet.”

I smiled at her.

“I know. I’m going to my new office. Could you bring me some coffee? And yes, please change the nameplate. My last name is Orlova.”

At exactly ten o’clock the door swung open. Dima walked in. Radiant, confident, folder under his arm. He froze on the threshold when he saw me in his chair. The smile slowly slid off his face.

“Anya? What are you doing here?” His voice carried confusion, but not yet alarm. “Go play somewhere else. I have a meeting with the general director.”

“I know,” I replied calmly, taking a sip of coffee. “So do I.”

At that moment my father walked into the office. Dima turned, and his face fell. He recognized the general director, but couldn’t understand why he was here with me.

“Pavel Andreevich! Good morning! We were just about to…” he began to fawn.

“Good morning, Dmitry,” my father passed him, came up to me, and placed his hand on my shoulder. “I see you’ve already met your new supervisor. Orlova, Anna Pavlovna.”

Dima’s face turned into a mask. Disbelief, shock, panic—all mixed in his eyes. He looked from me to my father and back again.

“Orlova? Pavlovna?” he whispered. “What Orlova? Anya, what kind of circus is this?”

“This isn’t a circus, Dima. It’s my real last name,” I stood, feeling cold calm spread through my body. “And Pavel Andreevich is my father.”

Dima’s pupils widened. He staggered as if he had been struck.

“Your… father? But you said…”

“I said my father wanted nothing to do with me. And that was true. He wanted nothing to do with a woman who allowed herself to be humiliated. He was waiting for me to understand on my own. Well—now I understand.”

He looked at me, and at last it began to sink in. The car on credit. The bonus he had claimed for himself. His words about “pennies” and “cheap rags.”

“Anya… kitten… this is just a misunderstanding!” He took a step toward me, reaching out his hands. His voice now carried pitiful, pleading notes. “I love you! I do everything for you!”

“You do everything for yourself, Dima,” I cut him off. “You were the one who set the rules. Your money is yours. My money is mine.

Well then. My company. My office. And my decision. You’re fired. For cause. For systematic appropriation of others’ achievements and intellectual work. All the materials on Project Horizon are with me.”

He froze.

“Fired?.. You can’t…”

“I can. And about the car—you don’t need to worry. The bonus, as you understand, you won’t be getting. So the loan won’t be approved.”

My father silently observed the scene, and in his eyes I saw approval.

“And one more thing,” I added, looking him straight in the eye. “You can collect your things from the apartment today before evening. Leave the keys with the concierge. My lawyer will contact you with the divorce papers.”

He stared at me as if at a monster. All his fake confidence had vanished, leaving only a petty, greedy, and utterly terrified man.

“But… but how… we’re a family!”

“We were never a family, Dima. For you, I was just a convenient project. But the project is closed. For failure across every metric.”

I sat down in my new chair and picked up a pen from the desk.

“And now, if that’s all, leave. I have a lot of work.”

…That evening, after the last sounds of his hurried packing faded from the apartment, I opened my laptop.

I went to the website of a home appliance store. Found the biggest, most expensive stainless-steel refrigerator with an ice maker and touch display. And pressed the “Buy” button.

The payment went through instantly. From my personal card.