“Can you believe he actually said that?” Victoria snapped the car door so hard it nearly came off its hinges. “‘Maybe we should make Anton the deputy?’ Anton! The guy who can’t even tell oil from antifreeze!”
Standing in the middle of the dealership parking lot, wearing her company uniform emblazoned with the dealership’s logo, Victoria trembled—not from the July heat grinding against the glass, but from a storm brewing inside. Anger, humiliation, shock—all coiled tightly beneath the surface.
“Want some coffee?” Lidka, her assistant, offered while brandishing a thermos marked “#BabaRules.”
“Coffee? I need valerian, a whole liter, no fizz!” Victoria retorted sharply.
They had retreated behind the dealership to the service exit where Victoria had rushed to avoid attacking her own husband—at least not in front of witnesses.
At first, everything seemed lifted from a glossy magazine.
Three years earlier, she had taken over the dealership from her father—a tough, principled man who didn’t just sell cars, but a lifestyle. Following his footsteps, Victoria built the business strictly: no short skirts, no baby-talk to customers—everything methodical, with CRM systems and solid profit margins. Within two years, she not only returned the dealership to profitability but had also started plans for a second location in Podolsk.
Then came Dmitriy. Charming, attentive, praising her endlessly: “I’m so proud of you,” “You’re incredible.” Three months of dating followed by an engagement, a wedding, his belongings filling her apartment, and his coffee mug nestled alongside hers. They called it love.
But reality quickly unraveled.
“He came into my office,” Victoria continued, staring off into space. “With that look like: ‘Brace yourself for some genius words.’ Then he says, ‘Vic, my mom worries you’re taking on too much. We thought…’
“Wait!” Lidka interrupted. “‘We’? Did he really say ‘we’ like you both are some kind of partners?”
“Exactly. As if they own shares now and decide who runs the business.”
Lidka whistled sharply.
“Wait, that Anton guy? He’s holed up somewhere in Krasnogorsk stacking paperwork in his building materials store. Does he even know where a car’s hood opens?”
“He doesn’t need to. He wants an office, a chair, a driver—everything inherited. The dealership is a ‘family asset,’ as his mother puts it.”
Ah, Elena Pavlovna, the mother-in-law. On first impression, a refined woman with glasses, perfectly styled hair, and the scent of rose soap. But once she opened her mouth, the mask cracked—Victoria was the runt daughter-in-law, submissive and under her thumb.
From the start, Elena Pavlovna had despised Victoria for her independence and self-sufficiency, building the business without their approval.
“Now look at this,” Victoria showed Lidka an email on her phone. “Official message sent to my corporate mailbox: ‘Due to workload and frequent negotiations, I propose considering Anton as deputy for administrative matters.’”
“From whom?”
“From Dmitriy himself. Official letter.”
“Scumbag,” Lidka breathed out.
“You don’t get it. I asked him at home that night about this nonsense. He said, ‘Vic, you said yourself you’re tired. Besides, Anton is family.'”
“And your reply?”
Victoria paused, biting her lip. “I told him that if Anton so much as stepped foot in the company, I’d personally whack him with the scanner.”
Dinner was silent afterward. Dmitriy chewed his cutlet as if inspecting a microchip, smirking at his phone while Victoria mechanically pushed salad leaves around her plate—yes, she had cooked the meal.
“You still haven’t apologized,” Dmitriy finally said.
“For what? For not having a golden throne ready for your mother in this house?”
“Don’t start,” Dmitriy sighed. “I was only trying to help. Just offering an option. Anton could handle some tasks.”
“You want me to bring in a man who can’t even tell a Toyota from a Nissan?” she snapped.
“You’re exaggerating. He’s an adult. Besides, Mom thinks…”
“Again with Mom! Let her run the business if she’s so clever!”
He rose abruptly, leaving his meal half-eaten, slamming the plate into the sink.
“I’m trying to bring order,” he said. “And your reaction is like you’ve been blown up.”
“Because you’re trying to take my business!” Victoria shouted. “I invited you into my life and company, and now you and your mama think you can boss me around?”
“It’s always been you doing everything! Only your decisions, only your rules! And what are me and Mom? Nothing?”
“With Mom!” Victoria shouted back. “Tell me, are you married to me or to her?”
Dmitriy said nothing, stormed out, and slammed the bedroom door.
Left alone with an empty pan and ringing ears, Victoria felt numb.
Two days later, Elena Pavlovna arrived unannounced as though the dealership were her home.
“Hello, Vikulya,” she said, removing her gloves at the entrance. “We need to talk.”
Victoria was dressed casually in sweatpants, hair tied in a ponytail—no armor for battle—but quickly straightened.
“Are you here for Dmitriy?”
“I’m here for you. We need to discuss Anton.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes. But you’re acting like a hurt child. Dima was worried you were on edge. You have to understand, you’re a woman; you can’t run such a business alone. My husband—may he rest in peace—always wanted Anton to have a role in the company. It’s typical for families to be involved in business.”
“This is my business, built by my father. Where were you while I wrote contracts all night and froze at the auto market?”
Elena Pavlovna sat on the armrest, hands folded on her lap.
“Victoria, family support is what truly matters—not pride or stubbornness. You may be young, but you’re not invincible. Think about your future.”
“I am thinking. That’s why Anton is out of the question.”
“You’re making a mistake,” the mother-in-law said softly, steel flickering in her eyes. “You’ll lose everything.”
“Leave,” Victoria said, standing. “I didn’t invite you here.”
“I’ll come back when you’ve cooled down,” Elena Pavlovna warned. “And you’ll thank me one day.”
That evening, Dmitriy didn’t come home—no calls, no messages. The next morning, Victoria learned he’d spent the night at his mother’s and that Anton had arrived at the dealership “by her directive” to “familiarize himself with the processes.”
“Vika,” Lidka said over the phone, “He’s actually wandering around in a suit with a tablet, trying to quiz clients. Our Stas almost threw him out. What should we do?”
“Don’t touch him,” Victoria replied, determined. “I’m coming.”
At work, she clenched her teeth when she saw Anton sitting in her chair at the reception.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, locking eyes.
He got up hesitantly but tried to hold his ground.
“I’m just helping. Dima said…”
“Dima doesn’t say anything here anymore. Leave.”
When he tried to back away, Victoria grabbed his collar and pushed him out through the service door, under the watchful eyes of staff and customers.
She then retreated to her office, grabbed a bottle of mineral water, and downed it in one gulp, trembling.
Fifteen minutes later, Elena Pavlovna called.
“You’ve crossed the line.”
“No, you crossed it when you decided I was just a decoration here,” Victoria shot back.
“You don’t know what you’re doing. Do you want to end up alone?”
“Better alone than with you.”
She hung up, realizing that there was no turning back.
“So, you think you can manage alone?” Dmitriy suddenly appeared in the doorway, carrying a bag and looking like a man kicked out of his own dacha for drunken noise.
“Last I heard, you’re living with your mom now,” Victoria replied coldly, eyes fixed on her laptop.
“Don’t call her ‘mom.’ She’s my mother.”
“Oh, really? And here I thought she was the accountant from hell.”
He strode into the apartment, dropped his bag, and headed straight to the bathroom without a word or permission, as if everything were normal.
“You really think you can kick my brother out of the business just like that?” his voice came from the bathroom. “You don’t have 100% ownership, you know. It’s joint property. And you’re still married!”
“For now,” she said shortly. “But not for long.”
The bathroom went silent, then the door slammed.
“Are you filing for divorce?”
“Did you think I’d cling to you? To a man conspiring with his mother to force me out of my own business?”
“I just wanted things to be fair! Anton is a good guy! You’re digging your own grave!”
“The door’s over there. Get out before the scene starts.”
“It already started, Vic. It already did.”
He left, slammed the door, and didn’t even take his slippers. Good riddance.
Two days later, a court summons arrived.
“Court hearing for division of jointly owned property of the spouses L.”
For the first time, Victoria felt her knees weaken. The issue wasn’t the assets. It was about control, access, and management.
If Dmitriy could prove the business grew with his involvement over the last two years, the court could recognize it as jointly owned. That would grant Anton, Mom, and their family rights to demand shares and management roles.
“Yulia, come over urgently,” Victoria said into the phone.
Half an hour later, her lawyer arrived — a familiar, strict woman with a short haircut and the voice of a prosecutor.
“Let’s review,” Victoria said, tossing the summons on the table.
Yulia skimmed the document, smirking.
“So, he’s taken it to court? Good for him. Not just yelling anymore — this is serious.”
“He’s after the money?”
“No, the business. It’s a hostile takeover. You know the drill: first, they pretend it’s family involvement, then court battles, pressure, forged papers. Soon, you’ll have Antonopol security deputy in sneakers.”
“What now?”
“We start an audit: all paperwork, contracts, registration dates, participation evidence. Prove the salon is the product of your solo work. Prepare for battle.”
“And what about personal matters?”
“Everything. Property, moral damages, custody of the dog. Welcome to your life, Vic — not a marriage, but a raider’s playground. You’ve been set up: first ‘you’re incredible,’ then ‘Mom and I decided.’”
“Family support—not pride or stubbornness—forms the backbone of success.” — Elena Pavlovna (to Victoria)
That evening, Lidka called.
“They came over today.”
“Who?”
“Mom and Anton. They said you’re temporarily removed from duties due to ‘internal restructuring.’ I called security, but people are stunned.”
Victoria sat down right on the carpet, staring at the wall. Exactly as Yulia warned—the aim was to portray her as hysterical, emotional, out of control.
Two hours later, an email arrived from Dmitriy:
“Vic, you’re behaving like a hysteric. Think about your future before it’s too late. We can work things out, just don’t do anything foolish.”
She wanted to smash her phone, to yell, but instead lay down silently for twenty minutes with closed eyes, knowing that tears now meant an irreversible loss.
The following days passed in turmoil. Yulia sifted through documents, made calls, filed paperwork, while Victoria signed, sorted, recalled, and verified. Strange occurrences plagued the dealership: lost documents, clients complaining about rudeness, delayed payments from suppliers.
“They’re behind this,” Lidka whispered. “Anton pretends to hold meetings but spies on contracts, asking everyone ’How long have you worked with her?’”
“Stay out of it,” Victoria ordered firmly. “I’ll handle it.”
But handling it was becoming increasingly difficult, especially when Elena Pavlovna confronted her one morning near home.
“Have you thought it over?”
“Move aside.”
“We aren’t enemies. We just want involvement. You’ll tire alone. Women can’t be ironclad.”
“Really? And what have you accomplished besides manipulation?”
“I raised my son. That’s more than you can grasp.”
“You raised a rat informer. Congratulations.”
“Victoria…” she took a step closer, voice low. “You will tear everything down.”
“I’m protecting what you want to destroy.”
Victoria walked away, heart pounding, palms clammy, knowing there was no turning back—only forward.
Then came the trial.
The first hearing was formal—benches, lawyers, the smell of old paper. Dmitriy sat like a monk, hands folded, sorrowful expression. When the judge asked if he had helped build the business, he admitted:
- “Yes, Your Honor. I supported my wife, discussed clients, managed some correspondence…”
- “Did you receive a salary?”
- “No. It was family support.”
- “But the documents were in your wife’s name?”
- “Yes, but with agreement.”
Victoria’s lawyer stood.
“Your Honor, we have 54 documents proving Victoria started this business before marriage. All major contracts, credits, purchases were registered solely under her name. Furthermore, the plaintiff is not listed in any accounting records.”
“We were a family!” Dmitriy interrupted. “Now she’s kicking me and my entire family out—for money!”
The judge raised a brow.
“This is about ownership rights, not feelings. Please sit down.”
Victoria was silent as Yulia spoke for her, eyes watching her ex-husband. So many faces, none of them truly his own.
After court, she stepped into the courtyard, lit a cigarette—her first in three years.
Lidka approached quietly.
“How are you?”
“Like someone who survived a war.”
“He called you hysterical,” Lidka chuckled. “Ha! If only he knew what real hysteria looks like.”
“He should be glad I didn’t lose it. Not yet.”
They stood quietly, as a sparrow sang behind the courthouse.
“You know they won’t stop,” Lidka murmured. “This isn’t the end.”
“I know,” Victoria answered resolutely. “That’s why I will destroy them completely. Leave no chance.”
And she smiled—an icy smile that sent shivers down her spine.
“He’ll fail,” she whispered to herself, reviewing case files for the hundredth time. “Everything is by the law. Everything is clean…”
Until a call from the bank shook her:
“Your account is temporarily frozen pending investigation. Requested by the co-owner, Dmitriy L.”
“What co-owner?!” she screamed so loud even the dog under her couch howled.
The call ended abruptly.
She yanked out the internet cable, dashed to her car, and stormed into the bank like a starving tigress—no makeup, jeans, old jacket, eyes wild.
“What’s going on?!” she demanded, banging the counter.
“Please calm down, Victoria Lvovna. We received documents including marriage certificate, co-ownership claim, and freeze request. We have to comply until court rules.”
“He has no relation to this account! It’s a sole proprietorship registered before marriage!”
“That will be contested in court. For now, it’s a technical freeze.”
Victoria exhaled, then wept openly before collapsing against the tiled wall.
They were strangling her—methodically—using bureaucracy, lawyers, contacts in tax and banks.
“Want some coffee?” the timid cashier asked.
“I want them to rot,” Victoria whispered. “Him, his mother, and that idiot brother.”
She returned home late. Someone had ransacked the apartment—not completely turned upside down but with drawers left open, things displaced, and her box of flash drives empty. Clearly, they were searching for something vital—or wanted her to know she was being watched.
“Fine,” she said in the dark, flipping on the light. “Very fine. Now it’s serious.”
She retrieved an old voice recorder from the safe and began documenting everything she remembered: who, when, what was said, possible collusions, mysterious payments involving Anton, and hints from former employees about a ‘new order.’
The next morning found her at the prosecutor’s office, then the tax inspector’s, and later meeting a private detective.
“I want to know Anton’s whereabouts and visitors. Full list of meetings for two weeks. Here’s a photo of his car. Surveillance, phone tapping—record everything and start immediately.”
“Got it. What’s the story?”
“The story of how I foolishly married a career scoundrel with a raider mom.”
“Understood. I’ll take care of it.”
The detective’s report arrived four days later.
Anton met a lawyer at an office on the outskirts. Dmitriy visited twice. And notably, a representative from a major car dealership chain was also there.
“They want to swallow the business,” Yulia explained. “And portray you as an ineffective manager through courts and forgeries. They’re planning a merger—and you’re the surplus. They don’t want an owner, just a puppet or a dead account.”
“What can I do?”
“Intercept. Block them. Blow up their plans. If you want—I can help.”
Victoria didn’t respond, lost in deep thought for a long time.
One week later, she held a press conference—a bold television appearance as a young female entrepreneur filing suit against her ex-husband for attempted raider business takeover via a sham marriage and forged documents. She presented evidence, shared witness accounts, named names:
“Dmitriy L., his mother Elena Pavlovna, and brother Anton L.—a group attempting to seize the business disguised as family troubles. Here are the proofs and witnesses.”
The internet exploded. Some sympathized with the “poor boy so humiliated,” others cheered, “Bravo, girl! Hit them hard!”
Interview requests poured in. Clients, suppliers, even tax officials stopped by—sometimes with a smile and audit notice.
Two days later, Dmitriy awaited her at the entrance.
“What are you doing? You’re ruining my reputation!”
“Silence,” she commanded sharply. “You came to destroy me but miscalculated. Now you’ll pay.”
“You have no right!”
“Did you have any when you forged documents or opened accounts for your brother?”
He paled.
“You won’t prove anything.”
“I already did. Next, court. Hope you like jail uniforms. Tell your mom hello, if she survives investigation.”
Turning away, she strode confidently on heels. Inside, she trembled, but outside, she wore an icy armor.
A month later, she opened her second dealership under a franchise agreement. Her face on billboards, her story in magazines. And Dmitriy?
“He’s back with his mom, unemployed with Anton,” Lidka recounted. “They tried to claim the apartment, but the court refused. All they have is resentment and a car loan unpaid.”
“You know,” Victoria said, “when I started all this, I thought I was just saving the business. Turns out, I was saving myself—my life, my mind.”
“You’re a rock, Vika.”
“No. I just realized one thing: if you don’t burn the bridges, someone will cross them again—with dirty feet.”
Key Takeaway: Protecting a business isn’t just about defending assets—it’s a battle for identity, independence, and self-respect.
Her story is one of courage, resilience, and the fierce will to defend what’s hers, come what may.