Boris scoffed, his voice dripping with bitterness.
“So now I’m the villain? The bad guy in your little story? Maybe you don’t see how hard it’s been for me. The loans, the pressure. I thought I was doing what was best for us!”
Larisa’s jaw tightened. “Best for us? Or just for you? You never talked to me, Boris. You made deals behind my back, like I’m some outsider in my own home.”
He stood abruptly, pacing. “Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn—”
“Don’t you dare,” Larisa interrupted, voice cold as ice. “I am stubborn because I know my worth. This apartment is mine. Our home. Not your bargaining chip to fix your mess.”
He clenched his fists. “You don’t get it. You never did.”
At that moment, Anton appeared in the doorway, silent but watching. Larisa caught his eyes—steady, protective. She nodded slightly.
Boris’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him like blood from a wound. “So what now?”
Larisa inhaled deeply, calm and resolute.
“Now, I take back control. You’ll stop making decisions for me. We’ll talk, and if you want to stay, you do it honestly. Or you leave. But this apartment isn’t collateral for your debts.”
Boris stared at her, a flicker of respect hidden beneath his resentment.
“Maybe… maybe you’re right.”
Larisa smiled faintly, the hard shell softened by hope. “Good. Because this is my apartment. Not your pawn.”