The Price of a Promise

Marina was meticulously smoothing the final layer of frosting onto her homemade Napoleon cake, a glorious, buttery tribute to her three decades of marriage. Their thirtieth wedding anniversary. She turned to her husband, Pavel, trying to keep the hope from sounding too eager.

“Pasha, do you remember your old promise? That you’d finally take me to Paris for our thirtieth?” she asked.

Pavel didn’t even look up from his phone. He simply reached out and handed her a small, velvet box.

“Three thousand rubles,” he mumbled, his gaze fixed on his feet or the screen, it was hard to tell. “Got it at Sunlight. They had a decent discount.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, instantly crushing the balloon of excitement inside her chest. She forced a polite, grateful smile. “It’s very beautiful.”

But something sharp and cold stabbed her, right in the heart. It wasn't about the size of the diamond or the cost of the gold—it was that dry, transactional little report. Three thousand rubles. With a discount.

Marina had been observing Pavel’s subtle shift for over a year. Ever since he joined the upscale fitness club, complete with new suits, a strict diet, and an overly zealous devotion to fitness, he had grown distant, like a stranger sharing her apartment.

That night, their supposedly festive anniversary, Pavel suddenly announced he had “urgent business” and left, abandoning his wife and the untouched Napoleon cake.

Later, her friend Tanya’s frantic text lit up her phone: “Turn on ‘Stolitsa’ quickly! Now!”

Marina switched on the TV. The screen showed a segment about the city's elite dining spots, zeroing in on the opulent La Marée restaurant. At a marble table sat Pavel, laughing across from him a striking, fortyish blonde.

Tanya’s second message arrived immediately: “That’s Viktoria from the fitness club. She’s been bragging to everyone that her lover is giving her a romantic trip to Paris for the May holidays.”

The May holidays. That’s in a week, Marina thought, looking down at the cheap ring on her finger. Three thousand. With a discount. And for her—Paris.

The Housemaid’s Walkout

When Pavel finally returned in the dead of night, slipping in like a thief, Marina was waiting for him in the brightly lit kitchen.

“How was the meeting?” she asked, her voice deliberately flat.

“Fine. Just tired.” He avoided her eyes, moving toward the hallway.

“The meeting at La Marée?”

He froze in his tracks. “Oh, you saw the news piece? Yes, I was there. It was a business meeting.”

“With a ‘partner’ named Viktoria,” Marina said, enunciating the word through gritted teeth. “When are you two flying to Paris? For the May holidays?”

“What utter nonsense is this?” he blustered, trying to sound outraged.

“Don’t pretend, Pasha,” her voice finally broke, trembling despite her best effort. “I know everything. About Viktoria.”

He sank heavily onto a kitchen chair, defeated. “So what now? A scandal? Hysteria? Honestly, at our age, that’s utterly pointless.”

“Three thousand rubles, Pasha!” her voice shook with raw indignation. “That’s what you spent on an anniversary ring for your wife, and you buy your mistress a romantic trip to Paris? How dare you be so insulting?!”

“What did you expect?” For the first time in a long while, he exploded, raising his voice. “Thirty years in the same bed! Look at yourself—that old robe, those hair curlers always in your hair… You stopped being a wife; you became a housemaid! Vika… she sees a man in me. She’s challenging, she’s interesting to talk to!”

Marina simply stared at him in silence, the insult scorching her soul. Thirty years of her life, her commitment, her effort, had just been reduced to the single word: “housemaid.”

“You know what?” she finally said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, surprising calm. “Fly to your Paris. Enjoy every moment with your interesting partner. But before you go, you will sign these divorce papers.”

The Parisian Revelation

A month later, the divorce was finalized. It was swift and clean.

Soon after, her friend Tanya brought the delicious, inevitable news: “Can you imagine? That Viktoria came back from Paris and ran straight to the fitness club in tears! Turns out your ex-husband spent the whole trip glued to his phone, dealing with work. Didn’t even take her to the Louvre—said he had ‘too much on the line.’”

Marina burst into unrestrained laughter. “And you, Vika—how are you doing?”

“You know,” Marina replied, genuinely reflecting. “The first week, I cried. It was humiliating and painful. And then… I signed up for Spanish classes. I go to the pool three times a week. I think I’ve actually started living again.”

“And Pavel?”

“What about Pavel?” She gave an indifferent shrug, the very picture of detachment. “They say Viktoria dumped him the moment she realized he was still a workaholic bore. He called recently, actually. Asked if he could move back. I refused.”

“Do you feel sorry for him?”

“I used to. Now…” She smiled. “You know, I bought a ticket. To Paris.”

“Alone?!”

“Absolutely alone. I’m only fifty-seven—it’s the perfect time to stop being a housemaid and start living for myself.”

Six months later, in her advanced Spanish course, she met the instructor, Sergey. He was exactly her age, charming, and genuinely intelligent.

“Listen, Marina,” he said one day after class. “Why don’t we go to Paris together next time?”

She laughed, the sound easy and unburdened. “Deal. Just not in May—the city’s far too overrun with tourists then.”

Later, Marina passed that modest, three-thousand-ruble ring to her granddaughter—to use for playing with dolls. It had served its purpose as a stark reminder of the price of a lie, and now, it was nothing more than a toy.