“You’re not the lady of the house — you’re the SERVANT,” Tamara Pavlovna laughed loudly, the sound dripping with cruel amusement as all eyes turned toward me. The birthday guests — Slava’s relatives — chuckled uneasily, as if unsure whether to join in or pretend they hadn’t heard.
Lenochka. That was my name — a nickname I hated but had learned to endure, especially around his family.
“Lenochka, dear, a little more salad for this wonderful lady,” Tamara Pavlovna’s voice was syrupy sweet, but it scorched my skin like fiery Tabasco. I took the nearly empty bowl, my hands steady despite the heat rising in my cheeks.
The lady from Slava’s side, his third cousin who had barely said two words to me before, shot me a glare—like I was some annoying fly she wanted to squash.
I moved quietly in the kitchen, invisible as a shadow. Today was Slava’s birthday. Or rather, his family’s birthday celebration — in my apartment. The apartment I pay for, with my own hard work and money.
Laughter and chatter echoed from the living room — Uncle Zhenya’s deep voice, his wife’s sharp laughs, Tamara Pavlovna’s commanding tone. Slava probably sat somewhere avoiding eye contact, nodding and forcing smiles like always.
My hands worked automatically, carefully decorating the salad with dill. The number echoed in my mind, steady and bright: twenty million. Twenty million rubles.
Last night, the email had arrived with final confirmation. The project I’d poured years of blood, sweat, and tears into finally paid off. The transfer was done. Twenty million. My freedom.
Tamara Pavlovna’s impatient voice snapped me back.
“Well, where have you been stuck? The guests are waiting!”
I swallowed the anger rising in my throat and carried the salad back into the hall. The celebration was in full swing.
“How slow you are, Lenochka,” the aunt drawled, pushing her plate away. “Like a turtle.”
Slava twitched but said nothing. His life motto: “No scandal.”
I placed the bowl down and heard Tamara Pavlovna’s voice cut through the room again:
“Well, what can you do? Not everyone is meant to be nimble. Office work is easy — sit at a computer and go home. But here, you have to think, figure things out, fuss around.”
Heads nodded. I felt my cheeks burn, ready to crumble.
Then my hand knocked a fork to the floor. Clatter. Silence.
Tamara Pavlovna laughed — loud, cruel, venomous.
“See? I told you! Clumsy hands.”
She turned to her friend and whispered loudly enough for the room:
“I always told Slava: she’s not your match. You’re the master here, and she’s… just background dowry. Serve, fetch. Not the lady of the house — the servant.”
The guests laughed harder, nastier. I looked at Slava — he looked away.
But I picked up the fork. Calmly. Straightened my back. And smiled. Truly smiled.
The laughter died instantly. Tamara Pavlovna froze, mouth open, disbelief on her face.
I didn’t set the fork down. I walked to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, poured myself a glass of cherry juice — the expensive one she called nonsense and a waste.
Back in the living room, I took the only free seat, next to Slava.
He stared as if seeing me for the first time.
“Lena, the hot dishes are getting cold!” Tamara Pavlovna barked, her voice sharp.
I took a small sip and looked her in the eye.
“I’m sure Slava can handle it. After all, he’s the master of the house. Let him prove it.”
All eyes turned to Slava. His face drained of color, then flushed red. He stammered and fled to the kitchen.
A small victory. The air thickened. Tamara Pavlovna changed tactics, chattering about the dacha:
“We’re going to the dacha in July — a whole month. Lena, you’ll start preparing soon, moving preserves, cleaning.”
She spoke as if my opinion was irrelevant, as if I was just a shadow in the family.
I set my glass down slowly.
And smiled again — because this time, I was in control.