“Are you serious?” Vlad’s voice wavered, though not from surprise—more from the effort of not saying something he’d regret later. He sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the untouched sushi they’d ordered with Jessica. “You actually bought yourself a Porsche?”
“Not a Porsche, a Taycan. Electric. At least learn the name if you’re going to moan about it,” Jessica replied, not even looking up from her phone. On Instagram, a colleague had posted photos from a conference in Geneva—everyone in blazers, sipping champagne. Classic.
The flat smelled of wasabi, irritation, and the faint tang of recently scrubbed bathroom tiles—Jessica had wiped them down on autopilot before Vlad arrived. Not that it mattered now.
“I just don’t get why you’d need a car like that?” Vlad sprang up, pacing the kitchen. “You’re not a racing driver. You’re not a millionaire. Do you really think people will respect you more if you’re driving some… spaceship?”
“Yes. Exactly. And I won’t have to park in the middle of nowhere—there are actual charging spots. Plus, imagine this, Vlad: no traffic jams, because the Taycan has adaptive cruise control. It’s not about showing off. It’s about comfort, safety, and—ta-da!—my money.”
“Did you hear what Dad said?” Vlad pressed, as if reciting a line he’d rehearsed all night.
“Unfortunately, my hearing’s still intact,” Jessica finally put her phone down. “He said it’s ‘unseemly’ for a woman to drive something like that because it ‘stirs up unhealthy excitement in male company.’ Direct quote, by the way.”
“He’s just worried. He’s old-school.”
“He’s fossilised, Vlad. And you’re heading that way if you don’t say something vaguely supportive right now.”
Vlad opened his mouth, then shut it—like a Soviet TV with sound but no picture.
“Why couldn’t you discuss it with me? We’re supposed to be a team. I could’ve—”
“What? Suggested a Kia Ceed like your mum’s? Or talked me into a ‘sensible’ estate car?”
He smirked, but there was no joy in it.
“Right. Thanks for the trust.”
Jessica sighed and looked at him the way you’d eye a wobbly barstool—technically functional, but not something you’d lean on.
“Vlad, have you ever had the feeling 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. In here.” She tapped her temple.
He shrugged like the words gave him hives.
“You knew my parents weren’t like that. You knew what you were getting into.”
“I hoped they’d at least start respecting me. Or that you would.”
The silence thickened, denser than yesterday’s dodgy takeaway. Vlad slumped back onto the sofa.
“They just think you should be more… ladylike.”
“Ah. Preferably without a driving licence, opinions, or any independence beyond thanking you for the ring?” Jessica gave a bitter laugh. “Sorry, Vlad. I’m not a side dish to your steak. I’m a whole meal.”
He turned away. And then, as if scripted by the universe for maximum absurdity, someone knocked—too confidently for a courier, too quiet for a neighbour.
“It’s Mum,” Vlad muttered, standing. “She wanted to drop by. See how we’re doing.”
“She ‘happened’ to be nearby? Or has she bugged my car now?” Jessica arched a brow, straightening her blouse.
“Just… go easy, yeah?”
“I’m already soft as bath gel. You’re the one who needs to stop being a sponge.”
The door opened. Margaret swept in with a Waitrose bag, looking less like a guest and more like an inspector.
“Hello, lovelies. Brought you a healthy salad—no nitrates, you could both do with a cleanse.” Her gaze skimmed Jessica’s heels. “Dressed up, are we? Off to the opera?”
“I always look like this. Not everyone embraces the ‘retired mum at soft play’ aesthetic,” Jessica replied smoothly.
“Who’s that aimed at?” Margaret’s smile tightened.
“Just an abstract concept. But if the shoe fits…”
“Oliver, are you letting her speak to me like this?” Margaret turned to her son, ignoring Jessica like an office printer on weekends.
“He’s not my keeper. Or translator from English to Family,” Jessica said, grabbing the sushi. “Tea? Or shall we skip to the part where you critique my ‘inappropriate’ car?”
“At least you’re self-aware,” Margaret trilled. “Your father and I could use a car like that—visiting the countryside, checking on the cottage. What’s it for you? A status symbol?”
“Yep. And revenge. On you.” Jessica said it quietly, calmly—like a surgeon announcing complications.
A pause. Even Vlad seemed to grasp something irreversible had happened. Jessica put the sushi back.
“Sorry. I’m done pretending this is normal.”
“Pretending what’s normal?” Margaret blinked.
“All of it. You dropping by like a parole officer. Vlad freezing like a memorial to his childhood. Being told how to live, dress, spend. I’m out.”
She kicked off her heels—armour discarded—and walked to the bedroom. Vlad stood gaping; Margaret turned to him, fury brewing.
“She humiliates me, and you just stand there sniffing your socks! This isn’t how families behave!”
“Not this family anymore,” Jessica called from the door. Calm. Steel beneath.
—–
Jessica woke to a sound like an earthquake—or at least a lift breakdown. The wardrobe shook, rattling the Victorian flat’s pipes. Vlad was rummaging for documents. Hers, of course. The car’s.
“Are you kidding me?” Her voice was rough, yesterday’s fight still clinging to it.
“Where’s the V5C?” Vlad didn’t turn. He wore those sad sweatpants he reserved for router meltdowns and grudging pasta.
“Same place as your backbone. Buried under layers of parental fear.” She strode past him. “Won’t find it. It’s with my solicitor. Surprise—the car’s in my name only. No transfers. No loopholes. No Daddy.”
“You can’t do this! We’re married!”
“And you can rifle through my things because you’re having a masculinity crisis and Mummy’s whispering in your ear?”
He straightened, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time. For a second, she almost pitied him. Almost.
“Dad says you’re acting like… like a feminist.”
“How ghastly!” Jessica clutched her chest in mock horror. “Did he faint? Should we send smelling salts?”
“They just care. They want us to have stability. Respect. For you to be a proper wife!”
“Proper? What’s that—aprons and scheduled sandwich-making? I’ve got a career, meetings, people relying on me. I’m not a wife-shaped accessory.”
“I don’t care! I want you home! Not gallivanting abroad buying tanks!”
“It’s not a tank. It’s a ship. And I’m the captain. You? Not even deckhand material.”
He stepped closer. His face twisted, unfamiliar.
“You think you’re better than us? Than me? You married into this family—we didn’t adopt you.”
“Funny. Your ‘family’ feels like a cult with chores. I’m not a person here. I’m ‘the wife.’ ‘The one with the car.’”
He grabbed her wrist—hard. Not a lover’s grip. A jailer’s.
“Oliver. Let go.” Ice in her voice.
“We’re seeing my parents. Today. To fix this. Properly.”
“First, you release me. Then, you leave. Then—if I feel generous—I might text. Or not.”
He dropped her hand like it burned.
“You’re crazy. You’re destroying everything!”
“Everything? Two years—one decent, one as your mother’s understudy. You really think I don’t hear her coaching you? ‘How to handle a difficult woman’?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No. Autonomous. And you?”
He left. The door slam echoed.
—–
Three days later, Margaret and Charles appeared with a stepladder and measuring tape—officially to ‘check the flat’s condition.’ Unofficially, to scout their ex-daughter-in-law’s territory.
Jessica blocked the door.
“Oliver’s name’s still on the lease,” Charles said coolly.
“For now. Court’ll fix that. Paperwork, stamps, the works.”
“Who’d want you without your car and job?”
“Thanks, Charles. Screenshotting that for my motivation folder.”
The Taycan’s engine purred to life as Jessica pulled away, the rearview mirror finally free of their bewildered faces, and for the first time in years, the road ahead felt wide open—just hers.
