Veronika calmly set down her cooling coffee, rings on her fingers—the gifts of a 20-year marriage—catching the light. Through the panoramic window of the Bellagio, the city sparkled, but she saw only one thing: her husband, Igor, laughing and holding the hand of a young brunette.
— What a coincidence, — she muttered.
She had asked him to come here so many times. “Too tired,” “Busy,” “Maybe next time.” And now, here he was—relaxed, younger somehow.
A waiter approached.
— Anything else?
— Yes, — she smiled. — Bring me the bill from that table. A gift—from me. But don’t say who paid.
She passed their table on her way out, pausing for a heartbeat. She’d been blind for too long.
Outside, the night air was cool.
— Well, Igor. You made your choice. Now it’s my turn.
At home, Veronika headed to her study. Calm had replaced pain. She opened her laptop and created a folder: “New Life.” The house documents were right where she had left them five years ago—still in her name. A precaution. Just in case.
Next: finances. Years of careful tracking paid off. Her phone buzzed.
— Late meeting, don’t wait for dinner.
She smiled.
— Oh, I saw the “meeting.”
She called their lawyer.
— Let’s meet tomorrow. Not at the office—this is a delicate matter.
By morning, she had everything in order. Igor came in late, still unaware.
— How was the meeting?
— Productive.
— A new contract?
— What do you mean?
— Just curious.
He left in a hurry. Veronika met with the lawyer.
— How fast can we divorce if most assets are in my name?
He was stunned.
— I’ve never seen someone so prepared.
— I don’t want revenge. I want to give a gift.
At the bank, she transferred her funds, blocked the cards.
— Your husband?
— He can keep his salary card. Thirty thousand is enough—for meetings.
Then, the travel agency.
— One ticket to Tuscany. As soon as possible.
That night, Igor was panicked.
— Our cards are blocked!
— Strange. Must be a glitch.
— You were at the restaurant?
— Yes. But don’t worry.
Their 20th anniversary arrived. Veronika, elegant in black, handed Igor a folder.
— Divorce papers. The house deed. And the restaurant bill. Our last dinner together—on me.
— You can’t do this!
— I’m not. I’m giving you a gift. Freedom.
— Where are you going?
— Tuscany. Remember? I always dreamed of it.
At the door, she turned back:
— Funny, but I’m grateful. Without your “meeting,” I’d never have changed my life.
The taxi waited.
— Airport?
— Yes, — she said. — To a new life.