Chapter 1: The Proposition

Andrey sat across from his wife, Anastasia, tapping his fingers on the polished wooden table. His feigned nonchalance only heightened the tension in the room. Behind him, leaning against the kitchen cabinet, stood Valentina Petrovna—his mother—with her usual expression of concerned benevolence on her face.

"So here's the deal," Andrey finally broke the silence, his voice sounding almost casual, as if discussing the purchase of a new kettle. "Either half the apartment or one and a half million in compensation. Your choice. Fair enough. We were married. Everything acquired during the marriage is joint property."

A lump rose in Anastasia's throat. Three years of marriage boiled down to a single phrase, delivered with the cold businesslike tone of a sales manager.

"That's the apartment I bought before the wedding," Anastasia said quietly. "The money was mine. An inheritance from my grandmother. Sale of the dacha. I signed the contract four days before…"

"But it was registered after," he interrupted. "Which means — during the marriage."

"Andryusha is right," Valentina Petrovna joined in, placing a hand on her son's shoulder. "Let's settle this like reasonable people. Why drag this through courts and scandals? You're a smart girl, Nastya."

Anastasia looked at both of them: at her husband avoiding her gaze, at her mother-in-law with her fake concern in her eyes. The initial shock faded, replaced by cold fury. She slowly rose from the table and straightened her shoulders.

"All right," her voice was calm, almost serene. "Then I'll play too." She paused, looking Andrey straight in the eyes. "But on my terms."

In the ensuing silence, the dripping of water from a loosely closed tap was audible. Drip-drip-drip — as if marking the start of a new game, where not only the apartment but her dignity was at stake.

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Chapter 2: The Beginning

A year and a half ago

Anastasia often thought their meeting was like a scene from a romantic comedy. She, bent over her laptop in a coffee shop, working on a countryside house project, when he spilled coffee on her table. Andrey apologized with such charming clumsiness that it was impossible to be angry. Within half an hour, they were already debating modern architecture. Anastasia suddenly realized she hadn't met a man in a long time who could talk so passionately and thoughtfully about art.

She was thirty-three, and she thought she knew what she wanted from life. Or at least she thought so. A successful career as an interior designer, her own portfolio of projects, independence. Andrey, an engineer with a philosophical mind, seemed like a breath of fresh air in her tightly scheduled life.

She diligently ignored the first warning signs. When he could talk for hours about his ideas but rarely implemented them. When he was late to meetings, explaining that "time is a construct." When after three months of dating he proposed moving in together because he was "tired of paying for a rented apartment."

They rented a small two-room flat near the city center. Anastasia continued working on projects, Andrey… Andrey talked a lot about the future. About how he would start his own business, how they would travel. His plans were grandiose and a bit vague, like a watercolor painting in the rain.

"We need a place of our own," she said one evening, looking at another rent payment. "I'm tired of living out of suitcases."

Andrey just shrugged: "Then let's get married. It'll be easier to get a mortgage." It sounded less like a marriage proposal and more like solving a household issue.

But fate had other plans. The grandmother's dacha that Anastasia had inherited a year ago unexpectedly attracted developers. The sale brought good money. Adding savings and bonuses from recent projects, she could afford a small but her own apartment.

Four days before the wedding, Anastasia signed the purchase agreement. Andrey was busy choosing a suit for the ceremony and seemed completely uninterested in the purchase process. "You're the businesswoman here; you'll figure it out," he waved off when she tried to discuss the deal details.

She transferred the money to the seller from her personal account only after the registry office ceremony — the banks were closed for the weekend. The documents for the property registry were also submitted after the wedding — they didn't have time before the ceremony.

Standing by the window of their new apartment, Anastasia looked out at the evening city and thought she finally had a real home. Andrey was scrolling through social media on the couch, not sharing her joy. Then she blamed it on wedding fatigue. Now, looking back, she understood — that was another warning she preferred not to hear.

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Chapter 3: The Cracks Appear

Spring sunshine flooded the kitchen, but the atmosphere in the apartment was colder than January frost. Anastasia mechanically stirred coffee on the stove, watching out of the corner of her eye as Andrey checked his phone for the third time that morning.

"Maybe you'll tell me why you were fired?" she tried to speak calmly, though inside she was boiling.

"Like you don't know," he threw his phone on the table. "Boss is an idiot, didn't appreciate my ideas. As always."

"As always" had happened three times in two years. First a startup that failed. Then a conflict at the design bureau. Now this.

"Andrey, we need money. I can't carry everything alone."

"Oh yeah," he theatrically threw up his hands. "The perfect woman speaks! You decide everything: where to live, how to live, how much to spend. Maybe I should ask permission before going to the bathroom?"

There was a knock at the door. Valentina Petrovna stood on the threshold with a bag of groceries and a worried look.

"I baked some pies…" she entered the kitchen, glancing at the tense faces. "Are you fighting again?"

"Mom, can you believe it, Her Majesty is upset that I'm temporarily unemployed."

Valentina Petrovna shook her head and sat down at the table:

"Nastya, why are you like this with your husband? He's a man; it's hard enough for him."

"Valentina Petrovna, I…"

"You know, son," the mother-in-law seemed not to hear Anastasia, "you're like a tenant to her. Here today, tomorrow kicked out — good riddance. I've seen too many smart ones. They use the man, then divorce — and a month later they bring home a new one."

Anastasia suddenly stood up from the table:

"I'm going to work. I have a meeting with a client."

"There!," Valentina Petrovna threw up her hands. "Runs away again. Everything alone, everything by herself. And you, son, just sit here, wait for the lady to deign to return."

In the evening, Anastasia found Andrey talking with his mother in the living room. When she appeared, they fell silent, but their looks told her they were talking about her.

"You're not a man if your wife has everything and you have nothing," came from behind the door. "She just used you. Too smart — watch out for those."