Prologue
Sonya.
The marriage between Maxim Titov (date of birth and residing there) and Sonya Titov (date of birth and residing there) was terminated on December 29, 2016, based on the decision of the District Court of Moscow dated December 21, 2016.
Yes, it was extremely fast.
I reread the text over and over again, collecting the scattered letters into one conscious sentence. And she wasn't stupid, but a lawyer with a higher education and the accompanying red crusts, but somehow I couldn't convince myself that everything was fine.
And there was a very good reason for that.
The first timid volley of firecrackers rang out outside the window. I tried to focus on the picture on the TV and the sounds.
The chimes were ringing. Time to make wishes.
In front of me were Olivier salad, tangerines, sandwiches with caviar, and lightly salted salmon. The table was set for two - a habit that I still have to get rid of. The open but unopened bottle of champagne gave off a subtle aroma of alcohol.
The only thing that stood out from the ideal "New Year's set" was the cardboard packaging of the pregnancy test. "Guaranteed result from the first day of a missed period." I had no missed period.
Irregular cycle, indigestion, nausea, and my husband's infidelity.
I ate poorly, slept little, was nervous, and cried often. There was nothing strange about it, and it hardly resembled even indirect signs of a possible interesting situation. It was simply impossible.
Not after five years of unsuccessful attempts.
Not now.
I closed my eyes and leaned back on the soft back of the fashionable chair. But it would have been better if I hadn't done that, because my memory quickly painted Max's guilty face in front of me. His words, his fabrications, the obvious guilt on his face, but at the same time, an extremely serious and collected look.
He was preparing for war and intercourse - and he got it in full.
"I slept with Lyuba."
"Lyuba got pregnant."
"This is my child."
Name three phrases that turned your life upside down. I'll leave these in my personal rating for now. Unfortunately, they overshadowed all the others.
The good ones. The bad ones. All of them.
The rumble outside the window brought me back to reality. The dark sky was illuminated by flashes of multi-colored lights. More, more, and more.
I was only interested in one color - red.
Time to make wishes? No time for them to come true.
My hands weren't shaking, my knees weren't either. I took the test out of the box and smiled, feeling the salty moisture on my lips, dry from excitement.
It seems that Maxim Titov was a very good boy this year. Santa Claus prepared two gifts for him at once. He has already unwrapped one together with his mistress, and I will probably keep the second one for myself, and he will never know about it.
Chapter 1
Sonya POV
Two things infuriated me about the trees. The inflated price and the difficulty of transporting them from the car to the apartment.
"I'll pay for everything," Max said, "and I'll bring everything."
But he didn't keep his word. And I, cursing at every step, barely dragged this tree home. I washed off the street dust, waited for the branches to straighten and settle, put the tree on a tripod, and only at midnight did I get out the boxes with toys.
That's when Max arrived.
"You missed all the most interesting things," I threw over my shoulder.
"Sorry, kitten."
From the top of the stepladder, I saw his polished shoes walk right across the carpet. Max sat down on the sofa and sighed heavily.
"So I take it that decorating the tree to Home Alone won't work?"
Not a sound in response. I climbed down from the damn stepladder and turned to my husband - he leaned back and seemed to have fallen asleep: in his shoes, coat and gloves.
"Maxim, go take a shower, I'll warm up dinner and we'll go to bed." To hell with this tree, I'm not in the mood for all this either. I can barely force myself to celebrate.
Max's eyes widened and he leaned forward.
"Sonya, we need to talk."
A bad feeling squeezed my neck like a tourniquet. I hung a glass ball on the nearest branch and, lightly, barely touching the carpet with my feet, flew to the sofa. Like a butterfly.
"Usually, they say something bad in such a tone, Max. Do I need to somehow prepare?"
Max's Adam's apple twitched in tension:
"I slept with Lyuba."
"Not funny," I smiled. Then everything that was happening still seemed like a joke. A stupid, untimely prank.
"I slept with Lyuba," my husband repeated more firmly.
This was all Maxim Max. He entered into any business, company, or story abruptly, kicking down the doors with his foot. It was his directness and impudence that made him the best lawyer in Moscow. And probably the worst husband in the world.
I sank down on the sofa next to Max. His words still hadn't reached me:
"Slept with her."
"Exactly."
"A long time ago?"
"Four, no, five weeks ago. On a business trip."
Not a single muscle on my face twitched. Not a woman, a stone mask. Under which a tortured creature writhed in pain.
Because four, no, five weeks ago, I was lying in the hospital and mourning our unborn baby. In fact, it is not a child yet, an embryo that has not taken root. This is how the gynecologist consoled me – an old man with a lot of experience.
They said that he works miracles, but his magic broke on me. And this IVF ended just as terribly as my previous attempts to get pregnant.
Exactly four, no, five weeks ago, I completely resigned myself to my diagnosis. I went through all the stages: I didn't believe it, I screamed, I tore myself apart like a trapped wolf, and even the orderly couldn't hold me on the damn bed.
Then they poured some medicine into me, after which I turned inside out and vomited until I had painful spasms in my stomach.
That same doctor stroked my back with a dry, wrinkled hand and said:
"Be patient, my good one. It will get easier tomorrow. Be patient."
But he lied to me this time, too. It didn't get easier the next day, or a week later, or a month later.
All this time, I was in hell.
And Max... with Lyuba.
***
"You and... her," I still couldn't say the name of his assistant out loud, masking it with a pathetic, meaningless pronoun, "I take it you had an affair?"
"No. I had an affair with her."
My body felt like lead. I feel myself sinking into the soft cushions of the sofa – my limbs are so heavy that I can't move even a finger.
"Pull yourself together," I mentally beg myself, "get up and leave the room while you can still hold your face together."
It's too late. I'm on the edge and can't control myself: my chin is trembling, and my eyes are clouded with unshed tears.
"Sonya…"
Max reaches out to me to calm me down. But the thought that he's about to touch me makes me go cold. Barely finding the strength, I get up and walk to the door. I shuffle my feet slowly, as if I've aged twenty years.
"Sonya, I've never cheated on you. Even in my thoughts. What happened… it was only once."
"Once? Why didn't you tell me right away, Max? And I, stupid, got upset for nothing!" And before my voice breaks into an annoying squeak, I add: "Let's return to this conversation tomorrow, because right now I'm very tired. I hope you have enough conscience to book a hotel for yourself for tonight?"
I can't wait to get to bed, cover myself with a blanket, and burst into tears.
But something stops me. And already on the threshold, I turn around to look at my husband once more. Max looks so broken that I almost feel sorry for him.
"I just can't imagine why... no, why the hell did you tell me all this?"
"Because today I found out that Lyuba is pregnant. This is my child," flew into my back. And to be sure, Maxim finishes off: "Lyuba and I are going to have a child."
Thoughts in my head are like birds frightened by a gunshot. A noisy bang and chaos.
I look into the face of my beloved, yes, fucking, still beloved person and I don't understand anything: "What, forgive me?"
"Lyuba got pregnant," Maxim mutters, carefully looking away from me, "she doesn't take contraceptives, and I... and I didn't even have a condom. Why do I need them when I'm only with you?"
Someone's laughter breaks the silence apartments.
How painful! Painful and funny with him.
Oh, my God, will I really be able to endure all this? Will I really not fall apart, will I not crumble into small pieces?
"Sonya, sit down, please. I'll bring you some water now. If anything happens, we'll call an ambulance," my husband finally looks at me. He looks like a beaten dog, but his pitiful look is not able to touch me.