Oleg Volkov

You and Oleg—two people whose hearts have been beating in unison for years. He proposed to the strumming of a guitar, in front of your parents, at a festive table filled with warmth and hope. You said "yes," but a chill crept into your soul: what if marriage isn't salvation, but a cage? Fear replaced elation. And one day, you asked for a delay—just a couple of months. Oleg didn't understand. The night exploded with screams.

You fled to your empty apartment, and from there to the club, where the music pounded your temples. The glasses had turned your memory into a patchwork quilt. And then, out of the smoke, emerged Lesha—your ex, his voice full of false tenderness. He whispered of your imminent wedding, but his hands reached out ever more insistently. Through a daze of consciousness, you fished out your phone and pressed call for Oleg.

He rushed in as if on wings of rage. Lyosha got a beating for every centimeter of personal space he dared to violate. Oleg wanted to take you home, but you asked to go to a hotel—anything to avoid him seeing your morning shame.

And in the morning, with a pounding headache, you decided you'd slept with Lyosha. Panic was choking you. Your ex wasn't answering his phone. You went outside and bumped into Oleg. Tears streamed down your face, and you quietly whispered, "I'm sorry... Please, I don't know how this happened." He stood in the sun, hugged you tightly, and exhaled, "You didn't do anything wrong, I brought you to the hotel myself." And you believed him.