Anton drummed his fingers irritably on the steering wheel, watching the endless stream of pedestrians crossing the road.
“When is this going to end?” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“The whole city’s full of poor souls without cars.”
Bored in traffic, he began to look around. To the left, a luxurious jeep pulled up to the traffic light—gleaming like it had just come off a commercial set, polished to perfection with chrome accents.
A woman was behind the wheel.
“Even got a lady driver now,” Anton scoffed with disdain.
“I wonder how she scraped up the money for that kind of car?”
The woman took off her sunglasses, adjusted her hair, and glanced in the rearview mirror.
At that moment, Anton’s heart skipped a beat—he recognized her. It was Lera, his ex-wife.
“It can’t be…” he whispered, his mouth falling open in shock. “How? Why?”
His memory instantly pulled him back to the past. He had personally made sure she was left with nothing after the divorce.
She didn’t even have a driver’s license! And now she was cruising in a brand-new SUV while he sat in his old clunker that barely qualified as “still running.”
“Was she hiding her income?” he thought feverishly, trying to make sense of it.
Their story had started out almost romantically.
Back then, Lera was painting graffiti on the wall of his farm—vibrant, messy with paint, hair wild and untamed.
He had pretended to be interested, though deep down he thought it was all pointless nonsense.
“Just vandalism,” he used to think. “Who needs all those colorful scribbles?”
But out loud, he said the opposite. He was physically attracted to Lera, and didn’t care much about anything else.
Their short-lived fling unexpectedly turned into a serious relationship.
She was an intelligent conversationalist, had her own opinions, yet seemed gentle and trusting.
For over a year, Anton lied to both himself and her, pretending to be interested in her art.
Then he decided she was suitable for a domestic life.
He proposed by the book: office rooftop, flowers, string lights, one knee, diamond ring.
They celebrated the wedding in an expensive hotel, and within hours, Anton regretted everything.
Lera’s friends—loud, free-spirited, dressed every which way—clashed with the overall tone of the event.
Just looking at them made him want to hide from his more respectable guests.
“First thing I’ll do is forbid her from seeing them,” he decided.
“She’s my wife now. I won’t let just anyone into my home.”
To his surprise, Lera quietly agreed, only negotiating to meet her friends outside the house.
“Anton, I can’t just stop talking to people you don’t like,” she protested softly.
“It’s silly. I don’t like all of your friends either, but you don’t ask me to stop seeing them.”
“Lera, don’t compare,” he snapped. “My friends are real people. Real elite.”
Lera knew what real elite meant and realized Anton’s friends were far from it.
But she said nothing—if it made him feel good, let him think what he wanted.
Yet the restrictions didn’t stop there.
He started getting annoyed by her appearance, the smell of paint, her constant dishevelment.
What once seemed charming now grated on him.
Through pressure and threats, he forced Lera to give up painting.
“If you like art, go to museums like normal people,” he told her.
“Why crawl around in alleys? My colleagues are tired of explaining your eccentricity to their wives.”
“But it’s not just a hobby—it’s how I earn money,” Lera tried to argue.
“You work in an office without a degree yourself!”
“Lera, you’re not an artist. You’re just a scribbler,” he said coldly.
Those words clearly wounded her—she didn’t speak to him for days.
Then Anton noticed her sketchbooks, brushes, and paint jars were gone.
She no longer stayed out late and started using fragrant lotions instead of smelling like oil paints.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, pleased with the changes, and took her out to a restaurant to reconcile.
She looked stunning in a burgundy dress with a new haircut.
“Look what a beautiful couple we are!” he said, turning her toward a giant mirror.
“This is what I was talking about. Now you look like a proper wife for me.”
“Much better! Maybe you can try something more suitable—like handicrafts or cooking.”
Lera stayed silent. The woman in the mirror felt like a stranger to her. But one thing became clear—it was time to rediscover herself.
She experimented with different activities until she settled on photography.
Her artist’s eye captured the perfect lighting, angle, and mood.
Her photos were vibrant and full of energy. People began hiring her, inviting her to events.
In her free time, she liked to walk the streets, capturing passersby, animals, trees, and buildings—anything that stirred something in her.
Anton grew more irritated as he watched his ex-wife’s success.
In his view, Lera was wasting time, hopping from one hobby to another.
It even got boring—she only talked about work now, asked him for advice, as if he cared!
What really got under his skin was hearing his own acquaintances praise her.
“What is there to praise?” he fumed. “Photography?
Nowadays, any fool can snap a shot on their phone. Where’s the talent in that?”
Eventually, his feelings cooled completely, and he got himself a mistress.
The perfect woman, in his opinion: well-groomed, confident, always flawlessly dressed and made up.
No silly hobbies, no weird friends—just stylish, expensive, and “appropriate.”
Lera found out about the divorce suddenly—when she was summoned to court.
Anton enjoyed watching her confusion.
He made sure she got nothing—the lawyer earned every cent.
“You have three days to pack,” he said coldly.
Lera didn’t argue. She nodded and simply left.
Anton didn’t care—his new flame consumed all his attention.
She dragged him to galleries, exhibitions, social events, demanded new things—shoes, dresses, jars of pricey cosmetics.
“You need to match the image,” she said.
But sometimes he missed the old days—when Lera would sit silently by the window, painting, and he could just loosen his tie and relax on the couch with a dark beer.
And now he saw her—and didn’t recognize her. How had she changed so fast?
Without realizing, Anton followed her car.
He thought she was headed to the old studio apartment she moved into after the divorce.
But no—she drove on, into a neighborhood he’d only heard about—luxury estates.
When the gates opened automatically and she drove into the courtyard, Anton stopped nearby.
Lera got out, handed her keys to a man in a formal suit who drove the car to the garage. She walked toward the house.
Anton got out of his car and followed.
No one even stopped him from entering.
In the spacious hall, Lera was talking with two young people.
Seeing Anton, they exchanged glances and left.
“Thanks, guys. I’ll be with you later,” she called after them, then slowly walked up to her ex-husband.
“Didn’t expect to see you here.
What brings you? Curiosity? Got over it quick, didn’t you?
So, tell me—were you hiding income or what?”
Lera smirked and shrugged.
“So that’s what brought you here—jealousy? Then come on, I’ll tell you everything myself.”
She led him to a room where drinks were immediately brought in.
“Have a seat. You think I work here? Well, in a way.
I own this place. You see, darling, when someone offered to buy my photos, I didn’t miss the chance.
Did you know some of them sell for ridiculous amounts?
And believe me, not every rich person can afford them. I was one of the lucky ones.”
She gestured around the room.
“Turns out, I’ve got not just artistic and photographic talent, but business skills too.
I decided to give business a shot. Everything here is mine—the house, the studio, the team.
The best work and study here.
We organize photo shoots, ad campaigns, exhibitions, and workshops.
So in a way, you contributed to my success—you helped me understand who I didn’t want to be.”
Anton said nothing. He was practically bursting with envy.
“You tried to break me, remake me, erase my identity.
But I chose my own path. Though I wasted enough time on you.”
Lera stood up.
“Alright, for old times’ sake, I won’t charge you. You’ll find your way out.”
She left, leaving him alone with himself.
He got up and began pacing the room—her works stared back at him from the walls, each signed in her neat handwriting.
That annoyed him even more.
“Who does she think she is to talk to me like that?!” he fumed inside.
He reached out toward one of the photos when a broad-shouldered man in a business suit entered the room.
“Seems you’ve gotten lost. Allow me to show you out.”
At home, a new disappointment awaited him.
“Anton, I’m leaving,” his girlfriend greeted him at the door, suitcase in hand.
“Why?”
“Look at yourself—you’re sweet, but not on my level.
Goodbye, cutie,” she kissed him on the cheek and left, leaving only the trace of her perfume in the air.
“Then go to hell! I don’t need you!” he shouted, punching the wall.
He had never felt so humiliated in his life.
