The Last Deal

The meeting with the client had ended an hour and a half earlier than expected. That sometimes happened—when people understood each other instantly, there was no point dragging out the conversation with small talk and empty formalities.

Irina stood in the middle of the nearly empty parking lot, twirling her car keys in her hand. The day was still young. Too early to go home—there was nothing waiting for her there. Returning to the office wasn’t necessary either; she had completed all her tasks ahead of schedule.

A sudden thought flickered through her mind.

“I’ll stop by Andrey’s. I’ll surprise him.”

Their restaurant—a small, elegant place tucked inside an old mansion on a quiet central street—was the kind of spot people whispered about like a hidden gem. White tablecloths. Dim lighting. Soft jazz echoing through the evenings. It was their shared dream, brought to life piece by piece. From the branding down to the silverware, they had built it all together.

Irina had shaped the experience—the atmosphere, the clientele, the story. Andrey had run the kitchen, managed the numbers, and kept operations airtight. It was a well-balanced partnership that had lasted fifteen years. In business and in life.

She parked her car discreetly around the corner, wanting to make her surprise entrance as spontaneous as possible. She pictured his face lighting up when he saw her, that warm smile of his she loved so much.

The back door was ajar—staff were coming and going. Irina slipped inside quietly, nodding at the startled head chef on her way in. She moved like a shadow down the familiar hallway, the sound of her bare feet muffled on the worn floor. She’d taken off her heels to sneak up on him. A silly impulse, like a schoolgirl planning a prank—but at thirty-nine, she still found joy in such moments.

She was nearly at the office when she heard voices—one male, one female. The office door was slightly open, and a woman’s laugh spilled into the hallway. Strange. Unfamiliar. And just a little too intimate.

Irina froze, clutching her shoes tightly.

“As soon as we sign the papers with the investor, her share can be quietly erased. She won’t notice. Everything’s under my name.”

Andrey’s voice. Clear. Cold. Detached. A tone she had never heard him use—not with her. There was an arrogance in it, clinical and final.

“You’re sure she won’t suspect anything?” the woman asked, her tone lazy, almost sultry—as if they were lounging in bed, not conspiring in a business deal.

“Absolutely. She’s always buried in marketing campaigns and client meetings. Numbers were never her thing.”

Irina's stomach twisted. The hallway seemed to tilt. She reached out instinctively to steady herself against the wall.

“I always rely on her to sell the idea,” Andrey added with a chuckle that cut deeper than a knife. “She can pitch anything. But she never thinks to ask who owns what. Classic creative.”

“And once the deal’s closed,” the woman said breezily, “we’ll finally be free to live together.”

“Vika—” Andrey started, but the woman interrupted.

“No point dragging it out. Sell the restaurant. Toss her a bit of money. She’ll land on her feet.”

Irina stepped back slowly, unseen.

That night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling while Andrey slept soundly beside her. When he returned home earlier, she’d greeted him with a smile, kissed his cheek, served his favorite pasta.

He talked about a new wine supplier. Mentioned an investor who might be interested. He looked her in the eyes and lied like it was nothing.

And she smiled. Asked thoughtful questions. Played the part of the trusting wife.

But inside, she felt hollow. Like a glass drained dry and left to crack in the sun.

In the morning, after he left for work, she opened her laptop. For years, she had let Andrey handle the legal side. She trusted him—why wouldn’t she? “You’re better with contracts, dear,” she used to say. She just signed whatever he handed her.

What a fool she had been.

Hours passed in a blur of legal jargon and spreadsheets. Her eyes burned, but clarity began to emerge. Slowly, painfully, she began to piece together the story behind the signatures and subtle changes in ownership. Bit by bit, Andrey had shifted control away from her. Quietly. Methodically. Deceptively.

Her phone rang, breaking the silence.

“Hello?” she answered, her voice calm, though her pulse thundered.

“Irina Sergeyevna? This is Maksim Danilovich from ArtFood. We discussed a potential deal a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, I remember,” she said, steadying herself.

“Excellent. Your husband mentioned you’re ready to sign the preliminary agreement this Friday. As I understand, this involves the full sale of the restaurant?”

She inhaled slowly.

In her mind, she saw it all: Andrey in a tailored suit, Viktoria by his side. A fake smile. A false handshake. And behind it all—a betrayal so cruel it stole the air from her lungs.

“Yes, I remember,” she said. “But I’d like to clarify a few things. Can we meet tomorrow? In person.”

The next morning, she walked into ArtFood’s headquarters with the kind of confidence people mistook for power. But it wasn’t power—it was resolve.

She listened carefully. Took notes. Asked questions. What Andrey had planned was clear: to sell the entire business, pocket most of the proceeds, and leave her with a token share.

She smiled politely. "Interesting proposal,” she said. “We’ll take it under consideration.”

That evening, she called Sergey—a lawyer and an old friend from the early days, when his practice was still fledgling, and she had helped send him clients.

“I need your help,” she said. “And complete confidentiality.”

She laid out everything. No drama. No tears. Just facts. Dry. Brutal.

He was silent for a moment before responding:

“Good news: he made several legal errors. Bad news: we’ll have to move fast. Really fast.”

At home, Irina continued to play her role. She cooked, laughed, listened. Watched him carefully. Noted the little signs—the nervous tapping of his fingers, the way he avoided talking about Friday’s meeting.

“By the way,” he said over dinner on Thursday, “you didn’t happen to see the contract I had you sign last month? I need to double-check something.”

“That one?” she smiled. “It’s in my files. I’ll look tomorrow.”

And that’s when she knew: he was afraid.

Friday arrived.

By 9:55 AM, Irina was already at the door of the conference room.

Andrey turned pale the moment he saw her.

“Ira? What are you doing here?”

She walked in gracefully, ignoring his panic.

“Surely I belong at the meeting to sell our business?”

She sat down beside him and, under the table, tapped a hidden button on her phone—a signal. Sergey was waiting in the adjacent room.

Viktoria sat across the table—young, polished, and clearly out of her depth. Her eyes flicked toward Andrey, seeking reassurance.

“Shall we begin?” Irina said, her voice crisp.

When the investor mentioned Andrey’s power of attorney, Irina laughed softly.

“Oh, I’d never sign over full rights to my business. I wonder where you got that idea?”

Andrey’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth—but at that moment, the door swung open. Sergey walked in, a folder in hand.

“Apologies for the delay. Sergey Valentinovich, attorney for Ms. Irina Alexandrovna.”

What followed was swift and surgical.

A court order halting any transactions.

Shareholder agreements that proved Irina owned 51%.

Evidence of manipulation and forged consent.

The deal collapsed. Andrey’s face contorted with rage.

“This is insane, Ira! We were supposed to be partners!”

“Exactly,” she said coldly. “And you stopped being one the moment you chose deceit over respect.”

She turned to the investor.

“We can still proceed—but on new terms. My terms.”

She pulled out an updated proposal—carefully drafted with Sergey. The negotiation resumed, but this time, Irina was in control.

Andrey sat speechless. Viktoria rose to leave.

Irina touched her arm.

“Stay,” she said gently. “This will be educational.”

Later, when the room emptied, she turned back one last time.

“Viktoria,” she said. “You think love is built by tearing someone else down. It isn’t. Real love creates—it doesn’t destroy. Remember that, before he does to you what he did to me.”

Then she walked away—straight-backed, steady, free.

---

Three Months Later

Irina sat by the window of her new apartment—a modest space, but filled with light. Outside, a park bloomed. Children ran. Dogs barked. Life moved forward.

The divorce had been smooth. Almost too smooth. Andrey didn’t contest anything. Perhaps he’d finally realized what he had lost. Or maybe he was just tired of pretending.

Viktoria disappeared from the picture weeks after the fallout.

Her phone buzzed.