— “Rita, we did call you. Three days ago.”

The HR girl’s voice was casual, faintly puzzled—like she was giving store hours, not handing down a death sentence. But to Margarita, those words hit harder than an explosion.

For the past week her world had been nothing but the hollow pounding of her own heart and the phantom vibrations of her phone. Now it shrank into one blinding point… and then disappeared.

She still held the receiver to her ear, but she no longer heard the HR rep’s polite intonation or the office noise behind her. She heard only the deafening rush of blood in her ears.

— “But… no one told me,” she forced out, and her own voice sounded чужим—alien, unnervingly calm.

— “That’s very strange. A man answered, introduced himself as your husband, Anton. He said you were in an important meeting, but promised he’d pass everything along. We scheduled your interview for yesterday, three o’clock. I’m sorry it turned out like this. The position has already been filled.”

Rita ended the call without a word. No “thank you.” No “goodbye.” She simply cut the connection.

The phone in her hand felt like a rock. She set it down on the desk, slowly.

The entire previous week—seven days of absolute, concentrated hell—flashed through her in a single second. Seven days of waking with one thought and falling asleep with the same one. Seven days when every unknown number made her heart drop into her stomach. When she reread their last email—inviting her to the final round—dozens of times, hunting for hidden clues. When food lost its taste and coffee turned into bitter, empty liquid.

All of it had been for nothing.

It had been over three days ago.

She pushed back from her desk, walked into her manager’s office, and said she had to leave urgently for family reasons. He nodded without questions. She packed up without saying goodbye to anyone and went outside.

The cold November air didn’t snap her out of it. Inside her there was no pain, no hurt, no despair. In the place where, half an hour earlier, a hurricane of hope and fear had been raging, there was now an absolute, ringing void.

And inside that void something new was forming—something cold, hard, and sharp as a splinter of ice.

At home, she didn’t pace from room to room. She took off her coat and hung it neatly in the closet. She went to the kitchen and checked the time: she still had two hours before Anton got back.

Enough.

She opened the fridge and pulled out two flawless ribeye steaks they’d bought over the weekend to celebrate “something good.” Her movements were precise, efficient, stripped of any fuss. She took out the heavy cast-iron skillet. Switched on the extractor fan.

On the cutting board, a sharp chef’s knife began a steady, methodical beat, chopping rosemary and garlic in rhythm with her thoughts.

She was making dinner.

A perfect dinner.

She went to the bar and took out a bottle of expensive red wine Anton had been saving for a special occasion. She uncorked it and let it breathe. She polished two large glasses until they shone. She laid out the plates.

Every action carried not care, but a sinister, icy focus—like a surgeon preparing an operating room. She wasn’t thinking about what she would say. She wasn’t rehearsing anything. She knew the words would come on their own.

Tonight she wasn’t going to cry or throw a fit.

Tonight she was going to perform an amputation.
Without anesthesia.

The click of the lock in the hallway sounded like a starter pistol. Rita didn’t flinch. She stood at the kitchen island, leaning on the cool countertop, staring toward the corridor. Completely still—like a predator lying in wait after hearing a twig snap beneath its prey.

Anton came in, shedding the day’s fatigue as he moved. He hummed under his breath while unbuttoning his collar. Tossed his briefcase onto the ottoman, kicked off his shoes. His movements were familiar, relaxed, full of blissful ignorance.

He still hadn’t seen her, but he already smelled it: seared meat, garlic, rosemary.

— “Well, look at this—are we celebrating?” he asked brightly, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

His face spread into a pleased grin. He saw everything: the set table, two glasses, the opened wine. He saw a perfect little picture of domestic comfort, like something torn from a glossy magazine. He saw his wife and assumed she’d finally calmed down after her tense week.

He stepped toward her, ready to hug her, kiss her, thank her for the evening.

But he stopped halfway.

She didn’t move. She just looked at him, and her stare felt like a scanner—sliding under his skin, under his ribs, straight into the fluttering, lying insides.

His smile froze, then slowly fell away, leaving a confused, guarded expression. The air in the kitchen thickened, turned heavy. It stopped smelling like steak.

It smelled like danger.

— “What happened?” he asked, and his voice wasn’t nearly as upbeat.

Rita stayed silent a few seconds longer, letting his question sink into the oppressive air. She watched his face change, watched the first spark of fear appear in his eyes.

— “Did they call?” she said.

Her tone was flat, emotionless—like a newsreader reciting the weather.

Anton jerked as if jabbed with something sharp. His eyes darted away—to the wine bottle, the pan, anywhere at all as long as he didn’t have to meet her gaze. He pretended to adjust his cuff, buying himself a sliver of time.

— “Oh. That…” he began, trying to act as if he’d just remembered. “Rit, I’m sorry. It completely slipped my mind. Work’s been chaos, a total nightmare. Yeah, they called.”

He talked fast—too fast. His words tangled, and the mask of guilt on his face was so fake that Rita almost laughed. He didn’t even try to invent something believable. He just threw out the first pathetic, obvious lie he could.

She took a step forward. Her calm cracked—and pure, molten heat burst out from underneath.

— “You forgot?” she repeated, and there was so much venom in those two words that he instinctively backed up. “I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten, I haven’t put my phone down for a week—I jump at every ring—and you’re telling me you just forgot?!”

She moved right up to him, forcing him back against the doorframe. Her voice was no longer level; it rang with fury, blow after blow.

— “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? I missed the interview of my life because you ‘forgot,’ Anton?! You were scared I’d end up earning more than you!”

— “It’s just—”

— “That I’d become someone, and you’d still be stuck in your miserable little spot!”

He flinched as if slapped. His face darkened.

— “What are you even saying?! You’re spiraling! It just slipped my mind—people forget!”

But she wasn’t listening anymore. She could see through him. She saw the small, jealous soul, the fear of her success, the secret desire to keep her forever a step behind, a little lower, living in his shadow.

— “Not you,” she cut in. “Not you. You remember the birthday of your boss’s third cousin, but you ‘forgot’ the call that could’ve changed my entire life? You’re pathetic, Anton—small, petty, and scared. And your fear just cost me my career.”

His flimsy defense—built from a rushed, miserable lie—collapsed instantly. But in the wreckage there was no remorse.

Something else surfaced instead: ugly, sharp irritation that had been building for a long time. His face, which had been startled a moment before, flooded with dark anger. He stopped being the man caught in a lie and lunged straight into attack.

— “Yeah? I’m the coward?!” he spat, stabbing a finger at his chest. “Have you looked at yourself lately? You’re not living—you’re running some marathon! This job, these interviews, these ‘prospects’! You stopped living here, Rita! Our home turned into a layover where you crash for a couple of hours before your next sprint!”

He paced the kitchen like a caged animal, gesturing wildly, spilling words that had clearly been rotting in his head for months. His pathetic attempt at an excuse shifted into the righteous rage of a man who’d decided his patience was finally over.

— “I come home—you’re on your laptop. I go to bed—you’re reading something for work. We sit down to eat—and you don’t talk about us, you talk about some project, your boss, deadlines! You’re gone, Rita. There’s Manager Margarita who wants to conquer the world, and my wife got lost somewhere along the way. I haven’t seen her for half a year!”

He stopped and slammed his palm down on the countertop. The steaks on the plates trembled. The wine rippled in the glasses.

— “You want the truth? Fine. I’m tired. I’m tired of this endless race you dragged me into. I’m tired of feeling like furniture in your schedule! And yeah—maybe that call was a sign. A sign it’s time to stop. That what we needed wasn’t another interview, but one evening together. No talk about your damn career. Maybe it’s for the best you missed it. Maybe now you’ll finally remember you have a husband and a home!”

He fell silent, breathing hard.

He’d emptied everything onto the floor—his envy, his fear, his resentment—wrapped up in the noble packaging of “concern” for their relationship. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, flushed, convinced he was right, waiting for her to respond with tears, screaming, an argument—anything.

But Rita said nothing.

She didn’t interrupt. She let him talk himself all the way down to the bottom, to the last drop of poison. She watched him the way an entomologist watches an insect thrashing under glass: no hatred, no fury—only cold, detached curiosity.

And when he finally ran out of words, she did the one thing he expected least.

She laughed.

Not hysterically. Not bitterly. It was quiet, dry, crackling—like thin ice breaking underfoot. It rose from somewhere deep in her chest, and there wasn’t a single grain of amusement in it.

That frozen laugh scared him far more than her shouting ever could.

He stared at her, and his righteous anger began to drain away, replaced by confusion—and a creeping, approaching terror.

She stopped laughing as abruptly as she’d started. Her face became an unreadable mask again.

— “You know what, darling?” Her voice was calm—horrifyingly gentle. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve been so blind. Family is what matters.”

She walked to the table, lifted her glass, and took a small sip without breaking eye contact.

— “I got so obsessed with work that I forgot my true calling: being a wife. Keeping the home. Waiting for you with dinner. You’ve opened my eyes, Anton. Thank you. So I’m quitting. Tomorrow. I’ll stay home. I’ll cook your favorite steaks. And you…” She paused, savoring it. “You will work. Two jobs, I think. Maybe three. To keep the lifestyle we’re used to. If my career bothered you so much, you’ll be the one paying for its absence.”

The silence that followed was thick and greasy, like fat cooling in a pan. Anton stared at her, trying to process what he’d heard. His mind refused to accept it. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a cruel threat—a revenge fantasy.

He forced a smirk, but it came out strained and twitchy.

— “Stop it, Rit. It’s not funny. You can’t live without your job. You’ll go insane from boredom in a week.”

He tried to sound condescending, like an adult scolding a child for a stupid joke—trying to regain control, to show her her bluff wouldn’t work.

— “I just wanted you to hear me, that’s all. I overreacted, okay? But you’re not innocent either. Let’s just—”

— “I’m not joking, Anton.”

Her voice was flat and cold, like the skin of a frozen river. She cut him off mid-sentence.

She set the glass down with such a soft, precise tap that it sounded deafening. Then she turned and walked out of the kitchen into the living room, where her desk was.

He froze for a heartbeat, then rushed after her, feeling a cold knot of panic bloom in his stomach.

She sat down and opened her laptop.

The screen lit her face, making her look even more distant, even more resolved. Her fingers settled on the keyboard.

— “Rita, what are you doing?” His voice wavered—panic breaking through. “Stop this circus. You’re emotional—you’ll do something stupid!”

She didn’t answer.

Her fingers began to fly, quick and methodical, making a dry, businesslike clicking sound. He watched lines of text appear on the screen.

It was a resignation letter.

A real one. Not a threat.

— “Rita, I said stop!” he snapped, lunging for the laptop, trying to slam it shut.

She shoved his hand away. The movement was unexpectedly strong, furious. This was no longer a verbal fight. This was a struggle—physical, desperate, a fight for control.

He reached for it again, but she twisted the laptop so he couldn’t get to it, shielding the screen with her body.

— “You’ve lost your mind!” he yelled, his face warping with helplessness and fear. “You’re destroying everything—our life, everything we built!”

— “Me?” She stopped typing for a second and looked up at him. A cold, white fire burned in her eyes. “Not me, sweetheart. You. This is what you wanted. You wanted a wife who stays home. You wanted to be the big man. The sole provider. I’m just granting your wish. Be a man—accept your prize.”

Then she turned back to the screen.

Her fingers moved with merciless precision. Every keystroke was a hammer blow, driving a nail into the lid of his coffin. He watched as she typed their shared manager’s email address into the “To” field. He watched her attach the file.

He made one final, desperate attempt. He grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to pull her away from the desk.

— “Don’t you dare! Rita, I’m begging you—don’t do this!”

She didn’t even look at him.

Her hand was already on the mouse.

Click.

Then another click.

She wrenched her shoulders out of his grip, swung the laptop toward him, and jabbed her finger at the screen—right in his face.

“Message sent.”

Two words glowed on the screen like poison. Anton stared at them, and the world around him began to fall apart. He let go of her. His hands dropped uselessly at his sides.

He looked at her calm, triumphant face, at the laptop screen, at their living room—which, in an instant, felt like the walls of a prison cell.

The trap had snapped shut.

And he had built it himself.

His petty cruelty. His pathetic fear. His envy. It hadn’t led to a simple fight. It had triggered a total collapse.

He’d gotten what he’d wanted, deep down: she wouldn’t be more successful than him. She’d be home. She’d “belong” to him.

But it was a Pyrrhic victory.

He’d locked himself in a cage with a woman who despised him—one whose stillness, whose daily silent presence, would become a living punishment. Every little thing he bought her, every bill he paid, every empty day she lived would scream at him about what he’d done.

He wanted to be the one in charge.

Instead, he became the jailer—and the only inmate—in his own prison.

He stood in the middle of the room while she calmly walked back to the kitchen to finish her wine. His face had frozen into pure, unfiltered horror.

He watched her back and understood that everything had just ended.

And everything had only just begun…