Alina retrieved the keys from her bag and quietly opened the apartment door, careful not to wake Sergey. The hallway was dim, and the warm, spicy scent of reheated pilaf lingered in the air. His boots were haphazardly thrown to the side, as if they had been kicked off in frustration. She instinctively nudged them against the wall before removing her coat.

The kitchen was cluttered, dishes piled high in the sink. Alina let out a heavy sigh. It was his turn to clean, but she knew better than to expect anything to change. The kettle whistled, and for a moment, she thought about making tea as a distraction. "No, enough," she told herself firmly. "Not today."

In the bedroom, Sergey was sprawled across the bed, deep in sleep. His phone flickered with notifications — likely more messages from his mother, full of reminders. Alina gazed at him, his calm, relaxed face seeming so unaware of the turmoil in her mind.

Earlier that day, she had shared an elevator ride with a neighbor. The woman, thin with a dark coat and shiny buttons, smiled at her, though they had never spoken before.

“Oh, you’re Sergey’s wife, right?” the neighbor said.

“Yes, and you?”

“Valentina Petrovna, from across the hall. Funny how we’ve never run into each other.”

They exchanged pleasantries before the woman casually remarked, “It’s nice that you and Sergey moved into his mother’s apartment. She kept it empty for so long, and now it’s finally being used.”

Alina froze.

“His mother’s apartment?” she repeated.

“Of course. Olga Vyacheslavovna bought it in the nineties. Sergey lived here with his ex, and now you’re here,” the woman replied, before the elevator doors opened, and the words seemed to echo in Alina’s mind.

Alina felt like the floor beneath her had shifted. All the money she had been paying for rent had never gone to a landlord. It had gone directly into Sergey’s family’s pocket.

When she got home, Alina quietly closed the door and didn’t head for the bedroom. She grabbed her laptop and sank into the couch.

She went straight to the tax office website, typed in the address, and searched for Olga Vyacheslavovna’s name. The result appeared:

Owner: Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova.

Everything fell into place. But confronting Sergey right away would lead nowhere good.

Alina closed the laptop and took in her surroundings — their cozy home, her favorite bookshelves, the soft throw she’d bought on sale, the lamp with a warm glow. All of it, bought with her own money.

Meanwhile, Sergey continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing inside her.

She leaned back on the couch, clasping her hands together. It was time to think things through.

The next morning, Alina woke earlier than usual. Sergey was still curled up in bed. She went to the kitchen.

Crumbs from his late-night sandwich lay on the table. A half-finished beer bottle sat in the corner. Alina threw it away and grabbed her phone, dialing the management company.

“Hello, I’d like to confirm some details about our apartment.”

The woman on the other end spoke pleasantly.

“The apartment is under Olga Vyacheslavovna Smirnova’s name. Utilities are paid regularly.”

Alina thanked her and hung up, her heart racing. The neighbor’s words had been true.

She returned to the bedroom and rummaged through the documents in Sergey’s drawer. Among old receipts, she found a folder with bank statements. She carefully skimmed one and saw “Utility payment” with Olga Vyacheslavovna’s card listed as the sender.

She closed the folder and quietly put it back.

Fifteen minutes later, Sergey entered the kitchen, yawning.

“Morning,” he said, squinting at her.

“Morning,” Alina replied, keeping her smile in place.

She watched him lazily pour water and scroll through his phone.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly, sitting across from him. “Maybe we should consider buying an apartment. We’re paying 80,000 every month to someone we don’t even know, when we could be paying for our own place.”

Sergey hesitated for a moment but shrugged it off.

“Well, a mortgage can be complicated. There’s a lot of paperwork and interest.”

“But in the end, it would be ours, not someone else’s,” Alina continued, observing him closely.

He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze.

“We can think about it, okay?” she pressed. “Maybe we can negotiate an installment plan with the owner. You know him, right?”

He said nothing, his tension visible.

“Well, it’s…” he murmured. “You understand.”

Alina stood up, her eyes focused on the window. “Yes, I understand,” she said coldly.

She stared outside as the snow began to fall slowly, covering the streets. Sergey muttered something about work before leaving the kitchen.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Alina dialed her friend Maria.

“Masha, are you free?” she asked.

“No, what’s going on?”

“I need your advice.”

“Do you have a private space at your office where we can talk?”

Maria was quiet for a moment, then laughed.

“Alina, you’re scaring me. Okay, come over.”

Half an hour later, Alina sat in a cluttered meeting room at Maria’s office. Maria stared at her phone, frowning.

“So… if the apartment is registered to his mother, and there’s no lease, legally, you’re just living there,” Maria said.

“But I’m paying for it.”

“You are,” Maria nodded, then suddenly looked up sharply. “This is terrible, Alina. You’ve been paying money to someone who should have been supporting you.”

Alina nodded. “Not just someone. My husband.”

Maria looked at her in silence.

“So, what now?” Maria asked.

Alina smiled. “Now, Masha, I make sure these two years weren’t a waste.”

“How?”

Alina picked up a piece of paper and wrote at the top: Plan of Action.

Maria leaned forward. “I’m starting to like your smile,” she said.

Alina began writing. She had a plan now.

For the next two weeks, Alina pretended nothing had changed. She cooked, laughed, and told stories. But now she focused on the little details: how Sergey got nervous when money came up, how he ignored her “rent” payments when buying new things, how he avoided discussing his mother or the apartment in front of her.

On the third day, Sergey came home with a bag from a fancy store.

“New sneakers?” she asked casually.

“Yeah, there was a sale,” he answered dismissively.

Alina nodded, then said, “We should ask the landlord for a copy of the lease. Just in case the price goes up.”

Sergey froze but quickly dismissed her idea.

“We’ve been here for years. Nothing’s likely to change.”

Alina didn’t press him further, but she noted his reaction.

The night before rent was due, she surprised Sergey with a dinner invitation. He was surprised; they rarely went to fancy restaurants. But since she suggested it, he agreed.

The restaurant was elegant, soft lighting and calming music. They sat by the window, overlooking the city. Sergey was the first to speak.

“What are we drinking to?” he asked.

“To family,” Alina replied calmly.

They ordered. Then Alina leaned forward.

“You know,” she said, “maybe we should buy this apartment.”

Sergey froze for a second but recovered quickly.

“Well, we can’t afford it, with a mortgage and interest…”

“What if we can negotiate a better price with the owner?” Alina said, pretending her words weren’t loaded with meaning.

Sergey pushed his glass aside. “Why would you think that?”

Alina smirked, leaning forward.

“Just remind me. Who exactly have we been paying these past two years?”

Sergey looked away, unsure how to answer.

“Well, you send the money. Who’s it going to?” she asked.

He avoided her gaze.

“Or have we been paying your mother all this time?” she asked quietly.

Sergey went still.

Alina didn’t raise her voice. She just watched him.

“Anna…” he began but faltered.

“Just tell the truth.”

He nervously shifted in his seat.

“Well, sort of… yes,” he confessed.

Alina smiled. She slowly pulled an envelope from her bag and placed it in front of him.

“Here’s my last payment. You won’t get a cent more from me.”

He remained silent as she stood up and grabbed her bag.

She left without a word. No scene, no shouting. Just a quiet departure with a suitcase and the feeling that everything was finally settled.