“Are you serious?” Vlad’s voice wavered, not from surprise but from the effort of holding back words he might regret. He sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the untouched sushi takeaway he and Christina had ordered. “Did you actually buy yourself a Porsche?”
“Not a Porsche. A Taycan. Electric. You could at least get the name right if you’re going to judge,” Christina replied without looking up from her phone. Her colleague had just posted photos from a conference in Zurich—everyone in blazers but sipping champagne as usual.
The flat smelled of wasabi, irritation, and the recently scrubbed bathroom tiles—Christina had wiped them down automatically before Vlad arrived, already knowing it wouldn’t help.
“I just don’t get why you’d need a car like that?” Vlad stood abruptly and paced the kitchen. “You’re not a racer. Not a millionaire. Do you really think people will respect you more for driving that… spaceship?”
“Yes. Exactly. And I won’t have to park in the middle of nowhere—proper charging bays exist, you know. Plus, imagine not sitting in traffic because the Taycan has adaptive cruise control. It’s not about showing off, Vlad. It’s about comfort, safety, and—ta-da!—my money.”
“Did you hear what Dad said?” Vlad pressed, like he’d rehearsed the line all night.
“Sadly, my hearing’s still intact,” Christina finally put her phone down. “He said it’s ‘unseemly’ for a woman to own that car because it ‘stirs unhealthy excitement among men.’ Direct quote, by the way.”
“He’s just worried. He’s old-school.”
“He’s fossilised, Vlad. And you’re heading the same way unless you say something vaguely supportive.”
Vlad opened his mouth, then closed it again. Like an old telly with sound but no picture.
“Why couldn’t we discuss this? We’re family. I could’ve—”
“What? Suggested a Kia Ceed like your mum’s? Or talked me into Grandpa’s estate car?”
He smirked, humourlessly. “Cheers for the trust.”
Christina sighed and looked at him like a wobbly stool—technically functional, but you wouldn’t risk sitting on it.
“Vlad, have you ever felt like you could just… do what you want? Without worrying about opinions, expectations, tantrums?”
“I don’t earn what you do, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about freedom. Inside.”
He shrugged, as if the words gave him hives.
“You knew my parents weren’t like that. You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I hoped they’d at least learn to respect me. Or that you would.”
The silence thickened, denser than yesterday’s dodgy takeaway from the tube station. Vlad sat back down, staring at his hands.
“They just think you should be… you know, more ladylike.”
“Ah. Preferably licence-free, opinion-free, and eternally grateful for a wedding ring?” Christina’s laugh was sharp. “Sorry, love. I’m not a side dish to your Sunday roast. I’m a person.”
He turned away—just as a knock came at the door. Too firm for Deliveroo, too quiet for a neighbour.
“It’s Mum,” Vlad exhaled, standing. “She wanted to drop by, see how we’re living.”
“She just *happened* to be nearby? Or does she have a tracker on my car now?” Christina arched a brow, straightening her blouse as she stood.
“Just… go easy, yeah?”
“I’m already shower-gel soft. You’re the one who needs to stop being a sponge.”
The door opened. Anna Mikhailovna marched in with an M&S bag, surveying the flat like an inspector, not a guest.
“Hello, lovebirds. Brought you a healthy salad—no nitrates. Could do you good.” Her gaze flicked to Christina’s heels. “Why so dressed up? Off to the Ritz?”
“I always look like this. Can’t afford to dress like a pensioner on maternity leave,” Christina said lightly.
“Who’s that aimed at?” Anna’s frown deepened.
“Oh, just an abstract concept. But if the shoe fits…”
“Vladik, you let her speak to me like that?” Anna turned to her son, ignoring Christina like an office printer on weekends.
“He’s not my supervisor. Or your translator,” Christina walked past, grabbing the sushi. “Tea? Or shall we skip straight to criticising my scandalous car?”
“Clever girl. You know exactly what’s wrong with it.” Anna smiled. “Nikolai and I need that car more—visiting the countryside, the holiday home. What’s it for you? A status toy?”
“Mm. And revenge. On you.” Christina said it quietly, calmly. Like a surgeon noting a ruptured appendix.
The pause rang louder than words. Even Vlad seemed to realise something had snapped. Christina set the sushi back down.
“Sorry. I’m done pretending this is normal.”
“Pretending *what* is normal?” Anna blinked.
“All of it. You treating visits like inspections. Vlad being a memorial to his own childhood. Everyone dictating how I live, look, spend. I’m done.”
She kicked off her heels—armour discarded—and walked to the bedroom. Vlad stood gaping; Anna turned to him, fury creeping into her expression.
“She humiliates me in your home, and you just stand there sniffing your socks! This isn’t a marriage!”
“Not anymore,” Christina’s voice came through the door. Steel beneath the calm.
—
Christina woke to a sound like an earthquake—or at least a lift collapse. The wardrobe shuddered, rattling the aging building’s pipes. Vlad was rummaging for papers. Hers, of course. The car documents.
“Are you *serious* right now?” Her voice was hoarse, yesterday’s row still rasping in her throat.
“Where’s the V5C?” Vlad didn’t turn. He wore those awful joggers with stretched-out knees, the ones he mended the router in.
“Same place as your bollocks—buried under layers of parental fear.” She walked past him, robe cinched tight. “Won’t find it. It’s with my solicitor. Surprise: the car’s in my name only. No transfers. No permissions. No Daddy’s input.”
“You can’t do this! We’re family!”
“Can you rummage through my drawers because you’re having a masculinity crisis and Mummy’s whispering in your ear?”
He straightened, seeing her properly for the first time—and the sheer bewilderment in his face almost made her pity him. Almost.
“Dad said you’re acting like… like some feminist.”
“How ghastly!” Christina clutched imaginary pearls. “Did he faint? Should I send smelling salts?”
“They’re just worried. They want things proper. Respectful. A proper wife!”
“Proper? What’s that—apron-clad? Serving borscht on command? Vlad, I’ve got a job, business trips, people relying on me. I’m not some debutante. I run European logistics.”
“I don’t care! I want you *here*, with me! Not globetrotting, buying tanks!”
“It’s not a tank. It’s a ship. And I’m the captain. You? Not even first mate.” She nodded to the window, where her silver Taycan gleamed like a challenge to the neighbours’ Fiestas.
He stepped closer. Jaw set, eyes dark.
“You think you’re better than us? Than *me*? You came into *our* family, not the other way round!”
“Right. Except your ‘family’s’ a never-ending obstacle course. I’m an add-on, not a person. I don’t even have a name anymore—just ‘the wife,’ ‘the one with the car.'”
He grabbed her wrist. Hard. Not a lover’s grip—a cornered man’s.
“Vlad. Let go.” Ice in her voice.
“We’re going to my parents. Tonight. Talking this out. Properly.”
“First, you let go. Then, you leave. Then *maybe* I’ll text you. Or not.”
He releasedAs she watched his retreating figure through the peephole, Christina finally exhaled, the weight of their shattered marriage lifting like fog off the Thames at dawn.
