“All my money is mine, and yours is yours,” her husband laughed, not realizing she had just inherited several million dollars.
“Can you imagine? The terrace faces east,” Igor said, squeezing her hand as they crossed the street. “In the mornings, we’ll wake up to the sun rising over the pines.”
Vera smiled and leaned on his shoulder. The February wind tugged at her scarf, but with Igor beside her, she felt warm. They strolled along the promenade, talking again about their dream house—a subject that had been coming up more often lately.
“I just need a bigger window,” she said dreamily, closing her eyes. “Lots of light. I’ll put an easel there.”
“And you’ll paint,” Igor nodded, ruffling her hair gently. “I’ll build special shelves for your work.”
A year together had passed in a blur—long conversations, cozy evenings, a trip to Kazan during the May holidays.
Igor seemed solid, confident. His construction business was doing well, though he often grumbled about competitors and unreliable contractors.
“Listen,” he paused at the railing, looking out at the water, “if all goes as planned, we’ll have the down payment saved by next winter.”
“Really?” Vera’s eyes lit up. “Then I should start taking commissions for portraits.”
Igor frowned.
“Why? I’ve got it covered. I have a plan.”
“But I want to contribute too.” She stepped back slightly. “It’s our home.”
He smiled and put an arm around her.
“Better focus on decorating our apartment before the wedding. Leave the money matters to me—that’s a man’s job.”
Vera was about to argue when her phone rang—an unknown number.
“Vera Andreievna?” a deep male voice asked. “This is from Konovalov and Associates.”
She turned away from Igor, lowering her voice.
“I’m listening.”
“This concerns your uncle, Gennady Viktorovich Sokolov.”
Her grip tightened on the phone. Uncle Gena—her mother’s brother, cut off from the family years ago after a quarrel.
Her earliest memory was of his gray mustache and big hands placing a rocking horse in front of her.
“Did something happen to him?” she asked, facing a shop window so Igor wouldn’t see her expression.
“Unfortunately, he passed away two weeks ago from illness,” the lawyer said gently. “There are matters requiring your personal attention. Could you come to our office?”
Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Igor a few steps away, focused on his phone.
“Tomorrow at three,” she said quietly. “Please give me the address.”
When she returned, Igor was watching her.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“Oh, wrong number,” she replied lightly. “Now, what were we saying?”
The next day, she told Igor she was meeting a portrait client. Instead, she sat in a leather chair in the lawyer’s office, struggling to take in his words.
“Forty-seven million,” Konovalov repeated, handing her a folder. “Plus an apartment in the city and a country house.”
Her uncle, a successful investor who’d never married, had left everything to her.
Vera’s hands trembled as she took the documents.
“Okay,” was all she managed. “I’d like to keep this quiet for now.”
“Of course,” the lawyer assured her. “You’ll only take possession in six months.”
That evening, she and Igor discussed wedding plans—restaurant, guests, honeymoon.
“And when we’re back, we’ll start saving for the house,” he said, stroking her wrist. “My little artist will live in a mansion. But no kids yet—we need to get established.”
Vera stayed silent, the inheritance papers hidden in her studio. Something told her to wait before saying anything.
“Can you hear me?” Igor snapped his fingers.
“Sorry—just thinking about the invitations,” she smiled. “Let’s do them in blue, to match your eyes.”
The wedding was intimate and warm—no banquet hall, just a café with panoramic windows; no lavish bouquets, just Vera’s paintings; no limousine, just a chatty taxi driver playing jazz.
That night, she still didn’t tell him.
“What are you thinking about, wife?” Igor asked, hugging her.
“I can’t believe I’m your wife now—it sounds so official.”
“Get used to it,” he grinned. “Everything will be official—marriage, house, registration…”
“Children?” she teased.
His smile faded.
“Not yet. First, we get established.”
The honeymoon week passed quickly. They moved into his apartment—spacious, but cold. Vera brought in paintings and flowers, trying to make it warm.
“We need to save for the house,” Igor reminded her. “Less on little things.”
One Friday over dinner, she said, “I want to work on a solo exhibition. Even if I have to tighten my belt a bit.”
“What do you mean, tighten?” he asked sharply. “Earn less?”
“Temporarily. Just a couple of months.”
Igor stood, his voice turning cold.
“All my money is mine, and yours is yours. I won’t support anyone. If you want something, earn it yourself.”
The words felt like a slap.
“But we’re family,” she said quietly.
“Support, yes. Profit, no. I’m not funding your hobby.”
That night, they slept with an invisible wall between them. The next morning, he acted as if nothing happened.
Vera began working extra jobs, her days starting at dawn and ending late at night. Igor barely noticed—until she mentioned it.
“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. “I meant you shouldn’t quit steady work for experiments.”
By their third month of marriage, she was juggling three jobs. The inheritance was coming soon, but she wanted to prove she could stand on her own.
Then she found flirtatious messages from a woman named Margarita.
“At one in the morning?” she asked.
“Don’t tell me who or when I can talk to,” he snapped.
Weeks of cold silence followed. One day before their six-month anniversary, the inheritance money arrived in her separate account.
That night, Igor came home smelling of alcohol and perfume. She had already packed the things that mattered and placed a divorce petition on the table.
But she waited.
Eventually, she took out the shoebox hidden in the closet. Inside were her bank statements, property certificates, and keys—a tangible symbol of freedom.
One evening, Igor said, “Remember the house we wanted? There are good options in Sosnovo. If we use our down payment—”
“Ours? You mean yours?”
“Well… technically mine. But for us.”
“I thought all your money was yours and mine was mine. Or have the rules changed?”
The next morning, she skipped work and went to her inherited apartment—five rooms, high ceilings, marble windowsills. A place for real art.
A week later, Igor came home excited, but stopped short when he saw her with the box.
“This is for you,” she said.
Inside, he found the documents.
“Where did this come from?”
“Remember the call before the wedding? My uncle left me everything—forty-seven million.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“You set the rules: all mine is mine, all yours is yours. I just followed them.”
She placed the divorce papers in front of him.
“I won’t sign,” he shouted.
“You will,” she replied, “or the court will hear about Margarita, Elena from accounting, and the blonde from the gym—complete with call logs, camera footage, and witness statements.”
His face went pale.
Three months later, Vera stood in front of her new building: “Breath of Color Art Space.” Inside, sunlight poured over eager children waiting at their easels.
“Good afternoon, young talents,” she smiled. “Ready to create your first masterpieces?”
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.