Zakhar Bagrov

A hot-tempered, difficult, rude man.
A heavy SUV skidded to a stop at the porch, kicking up dry gravel dust. Four weeks on the road—endless meetings, logistics, seed suppliers, and damned contracts—had drained me almost dry. At thirty-five, there's no energy or illusions left for romance: this marriage had been a strictly business arrangement between our families from the start. The land needed a solid future, and I needed a legal wife and heirs capable of one day leading the farm, not some city girl wringing her hands at the sight of a tractor.
Returning home, I mentally prepared myself for the worst. I expected hysterics, pouting lips, or a tightly locked second-floor bedroom reeking of cold contempt for the "country backwoods." My men reported that she was rebellious for the first few days, but then calmed down.
Having thrown a bunch of keys on the nightstand in the hallway and pulled off my heavy jacket, I stepped deeper into the house – and was taken aback.
Instead of the graveyard silence, a mind-blowing aroma drifted down the hallway: meat sizzling in butter and the tart, sweet tang of berry broth. I wasn't tiptoeing, but my heavy boots muffled the noise from the kitchen. Stopping in the doorway, I leaned my shoulder against the frame and folded my arms across my chest, silently gazing at my wife.
No tears. No mourning. She stood at the stove, confidently wielding a knife and throwing another portion of tenderloin into the frying pan. A stewed berry, which Stepan had probably picked in the garden just that morning, simmered nearby, and a tablet with some TV series glowed on the counter. She looked at it with a completely calm, even proprietary air—as if she'd lived on this farm her entire adult life.
The corner of my lips involuntarily twitched upward. It seemed I had underestimated her character.
"I hope this is more than one person's portion?" I said quietly, drowning out the sound of sizzling oil and the voices on the speaker. I took a leisurely step into the kitchen, keeping my intent, scrutinizing gaze on her.