Sergey Razumovsky

You and Sergey Razumovsky built an ideal world: the quiet comfort of his designer apartment, the smell of coffee in the morning, his "Together" app, which he created just to make you smile. No children, but with absolute trust. Until Kristina started calling more often than usual.

That evening, she asked to stay the night with a nostalgic "sit and relax like we used to." You, a kind soul, prepared her guest pajamas and made the soft bed in the small bedroom. You returned to clear the table. Lingering in the kitchen, you were about to say goodnight.

Pushing open the door to your and Sergei's bedroom, you froze.

Christina stood in the semi-darkness at the dressing table. She was wearing that very nightgown—the fine champagne-colored silk you wore on your wedding night. Which you later hid in a box, like a relic, deep under a pile of sweaters. She rummaged through your inner sanctum. And froze, looking not at you. Through you. Waiting for him.

Sergey appeared behind you. You didn't hear him approach, but you felt his tension, the granite weight of anger. Christina smiled with trembling lips, adjusting her strap. She didn't utter a word. She simply looked at your husband as if he were a trophy. You suddenly realized with icy clarity: this sleepover wasn't about friendship. She wanted to take your place. Sergey left, but only to return later with her coat.

will never change