– Are you Eve? Slava’s wife?
– Yes… Who are you?
– That doesn’t matter. What matters is why I’m here. Pack your things and get out. Slava and I are in love, and he’s moving in with me. It’s his decision!
Eve stared, bewildered, at the woman who’d appeared on her doorstep that Saturday morning. The striking brunette, mid-thirties, radiated aggressive confidence—designer nails, bold makeup, a biker jacket with studs. Every detail screamed, *Look at me, I’m winning.*
– I’m sorry, what?
– Don’t play dumb! The stranger stepped inside. Slava’s tired of your controlling ways. He tells me every day how you don’t understand him, how you smother his business ideas. He’s made up his mind.
The rest of her words blurred into static. Slava? The same man who’d sat at this kitchen table last night, begged for money for yet another “brilliant venture,” and kissed her goodnight, murmuring how lucky he was?
– Come in, Eve said, her voice distant. We should talk.
Her world had shattered and reassembled in seconds. It hurt—badly—but somehow, it made sense.
– My name’s Karen, the brunette announced, chin high. And I’m not here to talk. I’m here to take what’s mine.
Eve walked to the kitchen, numb. For the first time in five years of marriage, her mind was terrifyingly clear. *How could I have missed it?* Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d just worn rose-tinted glasses long enough to forget they weren’t real. The trouble with rose-tinted glasses? When they break, the shards cut deep.
Memories flickered. Her, a successful estate agent with her own flat. Him, Slava, in a café with a cappuccino and a disarming grin. A battered briefcase, an off-the-rack suit, but grand plans: *Temporary setbacks, love—just wait, I’ll make it big!*
Then the whirlwind. Cheap but daily flowers. Moonlit walks. A proposal after three months. And after the wedding? *Darling, lend me two grand? Urgent investment—this is our ticket!* She lent it. Again and again. Years of spinning like a hamster on a wheel while he spun tales of fortune. All this time, his real plan was someone else.
Silence filled the kitchen.
– Nice layout, Karen mused, inspecting the room like she owned it. Slava said he picked this place. Flawless taste.
– Wait a moment. Eve returned with a leather folder. Take a look at this. The deed, sale contract. Check the date—three years before I met Slava. And the owner’s name.
Karen’s confidence wavered. But he… he said he owned a real estate firm…
Eve opened her laptop, logging into her bank account: *Here’s my income. I’m a lead agent at a top agency.* The screen displayed steady, impressive deposits. Karen sank into a chair.
– Let me guess, Eve said. He’s been bleeding you dry too? All those *can’t-miss* opportunities?
– I invested nearly fifty grand, Karen muttered. He swore we’d see returns in a month…
– And we will! Slava’s voice rang from the doorway. Profit’s just around the corner, I promised!
He strode in, wearing the cashmere jumper Eve had bought him.
– Slava? Karen shot up. You were supposed to be meeting investors!
– Funny, Eve said softly. He asked me for “urgent project funds” yesterday. Guess I’m the investor.
Slava froze, eyes darting between them. Then—the trademark grin: *Ladies, let me explain. Karen, love, your money’s safe…*
– Where? Karen advanced. I sold my car, borrowed from my parents! Where *is* it?
– It’s all under control! His voice pitched higher. Another month and—
– For *all* of us? Eve stood. How many women are funding your *projects*?
He stammered, claiming Karen was *just business.*
– Business? Karen barked a laugh. The dates? The *I can’t live without you* speeches?
Cornered, he cracked: *Look, there was this online venture… foolproof system…*
– You *gambled* it? Karen clutched her head. You blew my savings on *bets*?
– Not all! Slava waved his hands. There’s still some left! My system’s—
– System? Eve snorted. Borrow from the wife to pay the mistress? Or vice versa?
Karen grabbed her bag: *I’m done. Police. Now.*
The door slammed. Slava turned to Eve, pleading: *Darling, it’s the money—I got lost. You’re the only one I love!*
– The worst part? Eve said. It’s not that you found someone else. It’s that you *believe* your own lies.
– I’ll change! One more chance!
– Sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow, pack and leave.
– But where will I go?
– Not my problem, Eve shrugged. You’ve got a *system*—test it.
Morning sunlight streamed in as Slava crept into the kitchen.
– Eve… I’ve seen the light. We can start fresh! I’ll get a job, pay everyone back…
– I’m filing for divorce.
He paled: *You can’t… What about me? Where do I go?*
– Where were you going when you promised Karen a future? Pack. Go.
– I *can* change! Last chance!
– No. Her voice was steel. No more chances. No more lies.
That evening, Karen’s doorbell rang. Through the peephole: Slava, suitcases in tow.
– Karen, open up! Eve kicked me out. Now it’s just us!
He launched into yet another scheme, begging for *one last investment.*
Karen leaned close to the door: *Get lost. And don’t come back. The police have your file.*
She listened as he lingered, then shuffled toward the lift.
Below, the street door clicked shut. Slava dragged his luggage down the pavement, each case filled with gifts bought by someone else’s trust. His mind raced with a *new* foolproof plan—all he needed was another believer.
Upstairs, in two separate flats, two women nursed the same bitter truth: the most dangerous lies are the ones you *want* to believe.
