Lyudmila was barely holding herself together as she stepped through the front door of her apartment. Her body felt heavy, and her stomach churned with a strange, unsettling discomfort. She had barely managed to get through the morning at work, trying to hide the ache that gnawed at her insides. But all she could think about now was getting home and curling up in bed to forget everything.
As she walked inside, she immediately sensed something was wrong. The apartment was unusually quiet, and Artyom had left earlier than usual—he had even rushed out before her this morning. But now, it was clear that he wasn’t alone.
She froze, her heart pounding as she heard a woman’s laughter from the bedroom. It was followed by Artyom’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. Lyudmila’s legs felt like jelly, and she found herself walking slowly toward the bedroom, her breath shallow. The closer she got, the clearer it became. There was no denying what was happening behind that door.
When she reached the doorway, her worst fears were confirmed. Artyom was sitting on the bed, fully dressed, his eyes wide in shock. But it was the woman beside him that made her stomach drop. Nelya. Her neighbor. The very same woman Lyudmila had trusted as a friend.
Both of them froze when they saw Lyudmila standing in the doorway. Artyom’s face turned pale, and Nelya immediately stood up, her expression one of panic. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Artyom was the first to regain his composure, but his words were weak and unconvincing. “What… what are you doing here? It’s still a work day.”
Lyudmila’s voice was calm, but her eyes burned with a quiet fury. “I could ask you the same thing,” she said, her tone icy.
Artyom stammered, trying to come up with some excuse. “I’m… sick,” he muttered, his eyes darting nervously toward Nelya.
“Oh, really?” Lyudmila’s lips curled into a tired smile. “What a coincidence—I’m sick too.” She paused for a moment before adding, “And Nelya, what are you now, a nurse?”
Nelya, who had been watching the scene unfold, finally found her confidence. She flashed a smile, trying to play it off. “Oh, Lyudmila, you’re such a joker!” she said, her voice too sweet, too rehearsed. “I just came in for salt. I saw through the window that Artyom was back home, and I thought, ‘Why not ask?’ I wasn’t going to go to the store for salt.”
Lyudmila took a deep breath, forcing back the overwhelming sense of betrayal that threatened to consume her. She had suspected for a while, but seeing it with her own eyes—hearing them both lie so easily—was too much.
Her eyes never left Nelya. “Salt, huh? How convenient.” She took a few steps into the room, each movement deliberate, as if she were savoring the moment. “Well, since you’re both here, maybe I should remind you of something.”
Lyudmila’s voice was low, but the weight of her words hung in the air. “You’re both lucky I’m not like most women. I’m not going to scream. I’m not going to throw a tantrum. But don’t think for a second that I won’t take what’s mine.”
She turned to Artyom, whose face had gone even paler. “You’ve made a mistake, Artyom,” she said softly. “But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”
As she walked out of the room, she glanced at Nelya, who was still standing awkwardly by the door, her face flushed with guilt. “I hope you enjoy your salt, Nelya. And Artyom…” she said, pausing in the doorway, “I’ll deal with you later.”
Lyudmila’s heart was racing, but there was no more room for tears. She wasn’t going to cry. Not for him. Not for anyone. As she stepped out of the apartment, she felt a new kind of strength. A twisted kind of revenge, bold and unconventional. And she was just getting started.