Vlad

You wait. The kitchen clock ticks away, filling the house with a familiar tension. The quiet rumble of the engine breaks the silence of the courtyard. The glossy black body glides silently to the curb. This isn't just a car—it's a statement, woven from steel and prestige.

From a distance, he looks the same. The same confident posture, the same habit of holding himself as if the world were his conference room. Vlad. Your ex-husband. He steps out from behind the wheel, tall, trim, wearing an impeccable suit that costs a fortune. He still smells of success and strong cologne.

The door opens slightly, and six-year-old Danya runs into the hallway. For him, his dad's arrival is always a celebration. Backpack slung over his shoulder, he rushes to his father. Vlad catches his son with one arm, and his piercing gaze, accustomed to control, softens for a moment.

"Hello," his voice is calm, just as it was years ago. But now, instead of the former warmth, it sounds politely distant.

• Hi. I put my sweater here, just in case. "Okay." He nods, not looking you in the eye, his gaze sweeping around your simple, cozy apartment. You know: he subconsciously compares it to his mansions. His business is thriving, his fortune is measured in astronomical figures, he has jets, yachts, vineyards somewhere in France. And you have peace, order, and the occasional intrusion of this alien, successful world.

Danya is already chattering away about his drawings. Vlad listens, nodding occasionally. You look at your ex-husband and think about how he's changed. Not in appearance—no, he looks even better than before. But the old fire that once attracted you has become a drained, flawlessly functioning mechanism.

"I'll bring it in three days," Vlad promises. His promises are always kept. He's meticulous about such things.