Elena slowly lowered her cup of now-lukewarm coffee. Her fingers, adorned with rings given to her by her husband over the span of their twenty-year marriage, trembled slightly. Beyond the vast panoramic window of the "Bellagio" restaurant, the city shimmered in early evening hues—but she barely noticed the twinkling lights or the hum of attentive waiters.

Her entire world had condensed to one table tucked discreetly at the far end of the room.

“How ironic,” she murmured to herself, watching as Daniel tenderly touched the arm of a young brunette seated beside him. “What an incredible coincidence…”

How many times had she asked Daniel to take her to this very restaurant? Ten times? Twenty? "I'm exhausted, babe," "Maybe next weekend," "Elena, I have a work dinner"—the excuses stacked up like dust on a shelf until, eventually, she stopped asking.

And now, here he was, leaned back in his chair, laughing in that carefree way he hadn’t in years. He looked younger somehow—maybe not physically, but in spirit. It was a laugh full of ease. Full of lies.

A waiter approached Elena’s table with a polite smile.

“Would you like anything else, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes—eyes in which amusement, or something eerily close to it, flickered. “Please bring me the check from that table over there. The one with the man in the burgundy blazer. I’d like to gift their dinner.”

The waiter blinked, confused. “Excuse me?”

“That man is my husband. And I insist. Just… don’t mention who paid.”

The young man hesitated, taken aback by the calm in her voice, but eventually nodded. Elena reached into her purse and pulled out a credit card—Daniel's gift to her on her last birthday. “Spend it on yourself, sweetheart,” he’d said, smiling. Technically, that’s exactly what she was doing now—investing in herself. In her future.

After paying, she rose, walking past their table slowly. Daniel was so engrossed in his companion, he didn’t notice her. Or maybe he just pretended not to. Elena tilted her head slightly, the hint of a smirk touching her lips. How many times had she ignored the truth, pretending she didn’t see what was right in front of her?

Outside, the crisp evening air hit her like clarity. A single thought ran through her mind: "Well, Daniel, you've made your choice. Now it's my turn."

At home, Elena kicked off her heels and walked straight to the study. Her hands no longer shook. An odd sense of peace blanketed her—like the calm after a long, feverish night.

“So,” she asked her reflection in the mirror, “where do we begin?”

She opened her laptop and created a new folder titled New Life. Something told her the coming weeks would be nothing short of transformational. From the closet, she retrieved a dusty document box—one Daniel had never bothered to look through.

“Good thing someone in this house has a memory,” she muttered, sorting through the contents.

There they were—the house deeds, right where she'd left them five years ago. The house: her little fortress, bought with the proceeds from selling her late grandmother’s apartment. At the time, Daniel’s startup had been flailing.

“Elena, we need all available funds to grow the business,” he had pleaded. “I’ll make it up to you.”

And she believed him. She always believed him. That’s why she had quietly put the house in her own name—just in case. Daniel never asked. He trusted her with all the “paperwork hassle.”

She moved on to their bank accounts. Logging into her online banking, she began reviewing the financial records, meticulously analyzing each line. Years of tracking expenses finally paid off. She knew exactly which funds were hers.

Her phone buzzed.

Daniel: “Working late. Don’t wait up for dinner.”

She let out a quiet laugh.

“Yes, love. I saw how important your 'meeting' was.”

Scrolling through her contacts, she dialed Mikhail Volkov—their longtime family attorney. Or rather, her attorney now.

“Good evening, Mikhail. Sorry to call so late, but I need to meet. Tomorrow at 10? Perfect. Let’s do it at the ‘Lark’ café. I’d rather not go to your office. It’s… delicate.”

When she hung up, Elena exhaled deeply. The city lights glittered outside the window—not romantic now, but symbolic. Signals of movement. Change.

The next morning, she rose early. Daniel was still asleep. She sipped her coffee at the kitchen table, leafing through notes and calculations. For the first time in two decades, her obsessive habit of writing everything down was paying off.

“Morning, love,” she said as Daniel entered, hair disheveled, feigning nonchalance.

“Morning… last night went well,” he muttered.

“Oh?” she looked up. “What was the meeting about?”

Daniel paused, then answered too quickly, “A new investor opportunity.”

“And what’s the investor’s name?” Elena smiled faintly, watching him closely.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Just making conversation,” she said, standing. “Anyway, I have a meeting too.”

“With who?”

“With the future,” she said over her shoulder, and left.

At the café, Mikhail was waiting. They ordered coffee and croissants before diving into the paperwork.

“Elena Dmitrievna… I must say, your call surprised me.”

“I’ve surprised myself lately,” she said, sliding over the folder. “Tell me, how quickly can a divorce be processed if one party legally owns most of the assets?”

For the next two hours, they reviewed documents, bank records, and property titles. Mikhail’s eyebrows lifted higher with each item.

“You know,” he finally said, “most people in your situation come in with tears, rage, confusion. You came in with receipts.”

“I’ve done enough crying,” Elena replied, placing the folder back in her bag. “Now it’s time for closure.”

From the café, she went straight to the bank. It took nearly three hours. The young financial consultant marveled at her preparedness.

“So,” Elena concluded, “we’ll close the joint account, move the funds into a new one in my name, and deactivate all secondary cards.”

“And Mr. Volkov?”

“He can keep his salary card. I think thirty thousand a month should be enough for his ‘business dinners.’”

Just as she left the bank, her phone rang again.

Anna Petrovna (their accountant): “Elena Dmitrievna, there’s an offer for your company shares. Quite generous.”

“Perfect. Prepare the transfer. And… don’t inform Daniel yet. I’d like it to be a surprise.”

Next stop: the travel agency.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted the consultant warmly. “I need a solo trip. Two weeks. Tuscany. Vineyards, countryside, solitude.”

“For two?”

“For one,” she smiled. “The sooner, the better.”

That evening, she returned home to find Daniel pacing the living room.

“Elena! Our cards—why are they blocked?”

“Oh? Must be a glitch,” she said sweetly. “We'll sort it out tomorrow.”

“But I had to pay—”

“For dinner?” she interjected gently. “By the way, how was Bellagio? I’ve heard the tiramisu is divine.”

He turned pale. “You… you were there?”

“Of course,” she said, patting his arm. “I even paid the bill. Think of it as… an advance on your parting gift.”

On the day of their twentieth anniversary, the sun rose bright and clear. Elena dressed in her favorite black dress and set a simple breakfast on the table. Beside it, a folder wrapped in gold ribbon.

Daniel descended the stairs with a sheepish smile and a bouquet of roses.

“Happy anniversary, darling. I booked a table at—”

“Bellagio?” she cut in. “Don’t bother. I have something for you instead.”

She handed him the folder.

“Open it. I think you’ll find it enlightening.”

Daniel’s face paled with each sheet he pulled out: the divorce papers, the property documents, the final share sale agreement, and—at the very top—the receipt from Bellagio.

“What is this? Have you lost your mind?”

“No, Daniel,” she replied with serene finality. “For the first time in years, I’ve found it.”

“You can’t just—this is my company! My house!”

She stood and looked him in the eye. “Look again. Every decision, every signature, every detail… was mine. You just never paid attention.”

“You’re doing this for revenge!”

“No,” she said softly. “I’m doing it for me. You’re free now. Be with Natalya. I’m sure the earrings suit her—after all, I picked them out last Christmas.”

With that, she grabbed the suitcase she had packed and walked to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To Tuscany,” she said, turning. “You know, the trip I always wanted to take but never did. Now I can.”

The taxi was waiting. As it pulled away, Elena looked back one last time at the mansion she'd once called home. But she felt no sadness. No regret.

Only peace.

“Airport?” the driver asked.

“Yes