In my bedroom, the mirror reflected a familiar sight: I was straightening the creases of a modest gray dress I had purchased three years earlier from an ordinary store. Nearby, Dmitry was fastening the cufflinks on his impeccably white shirt—Italian-made, as he loved to emphasize at every chance.
“Are you ready?” he asked without turning to me, his focus fixed on brushing off invisible dust from his suit.
“Yes, we can go,” I replied, one final check ensuring my hair was neatly in place.
Finally facing me, Dmitry’s eyes revealed a well-known expression of slight disappointment. Silently, he scanned me from head to toe, lingering on the dress.
“Don’t you have anything more decent?” he asked, his tone dripping with habitual condescension.
I had become accustomed to hearing such remarks before every corporate event. Each time, the words stung—not fatally, but sharply enough to hurt. I mastered the art of hiding my pain, responding with a smile and a shrug.
“This dress is quite appropriate,” I said calmly.
Dmitry sighed as if I had failed him once again.
“Fine, let’s go. Just try not to stand out too much, alright?”
We had married five years ago, right after I graduated from the economics faculty. Dmitry was working as a junior manager at a trading company then. He seemed ambitious and driven, a young man with brilliant prospects. I admired how confidently he spoke of his future plans.
Over the years, Dmitry climbed the corporate ladder. Now a senior sales manager, handling major clients, he spent his ample earnings on his appearance: designer suits, Swiss watches, and a new car every two years. “Image is everything,” he often repeated. “People have to see success to do business with you.”
Meanwhile, I worked as an economist at a small consulting firm, earning a modest salary. I made sure not to burden the family finances with unnecessary expenses on myself. Whenever Dmitry took me to corporate parties, I felt out of place. He introduced me to his colleagues with a hint of irony: “Here’s my little gray mouse,” he’d say. Everyone laughed. I smiled, pretending to find it amusing too.
“He liked to stress image was key while belittling the humble origins of my wardrobe.”
Gradually, I noticed changes in Dmitry. Success intoxicated him. His attitude grew arrogant—not only towards me but also his employers. At home, he would boast cynically, “I’m selling this junk the Chinese make to these suckers,” sipping expensive whiskey. “The trick is the presentation; the clients will buy anything.”
Occasionally, he hinted at additional income sources. “Clients appreciate good service,” he smirked. “And they’re willing to pay extra. For me, personally, you know?”
I understood but avoided asking for details.
Everything shifted three months ago when a notary called me.
“Anna Sergeyevna? This concerns your late father, Sergey Mikhailovich Volkov’s inheritance.” My heart skipped. Father had left our family when I was seven. Mother never shared what happened to him. All I knew was he lived separately, without a place for a daughter.
“Your father passed away a month ago,” continued the notary. “According to his will, you are the sole heir of his estate.”
What I discovered at the notary’s office turned my world upside down. My father wasn’t merely a businessman—he had built an empire. Central Moscow apartment, countryside estate, cars, but the most important was an investment fund owning shares in dozens of companies.
Among the papers, one name made me shudder: “TradeInvest”—Dmitry’s company.
- Shock overwhelmed me for weeks as I processed this reality.
- Each morning, I struggled to accept the truth.
- I told Dmitry I had switched jobs to investment sector, only.
- He reacted indifferently, muttering about hoping my salary wasn’t less.
I immersed myself in the fund’s affairs. My economics background helped, and for the first time, I was genuinely engaged, feeling my work mattered.
Particularly intrigued by TradeInvest, I requested a meeting with CEO Mikhail Petrovich Kuznetsov.
“Anna Sergeyevna,” he said privately in his office, “to be frank, the company is struggling, especially with sales.”
“Could you elaborate?” I inquired.
“One employee, Dmitry Andreev, formally manages key clients with large turnovers, but profits are nearly zero. Several deals are loss-making. Suspicions of misconduct exist, though evidence is insufficient.”
I ordered an internal investigation without revealing why I was interested in Dmitry.
A month later, results confirmed suspicions: Dmitry had embezzled company funds by negotiating “personal bonuses” with clients, offering price cuts in exchange for kickbacks. The sums were significant.
Meanwhile, I refreshed my wardrobe. Choosing understated yet designer clothes, I remained true to myself. Dmitry didn’t notice; anything that didn’t scream “expensive” was still “gray mouse” in his eyes.
Last night, Dmitry announced an important corporate event tomorrow—a top-management dinner with company leaders present.
“What time do I need to be ready?” I asked.
Surprised, he replied, “You won’t come. They’re respectable people, not your crowd. This is serious. These are the people who decide my fate at work; I can’t afford to look… you know.” He hesitated.
“I don’t quite follow,” I said.
“Anna,” he softened, “you’re a wonderful wife, but you lower my social standing. Next to you, I appear poorer than I am. These people must see me as their equal.”
Though his words stung, the pain was less sharp now. I recognized my worth and his true value.
“Alright,” I replied calmly. “Enjoy yourself.”
That morning, Dmitry left for work in high spirits. I dressed in a navy Dior dress—elegant and figure-flattering yet modest. With professional makeup and a styled hairdo, the mirror reflected someone confident, beautiful, successful.
The restaurant awaited—one of the city’s finest. Mikhail Petrovich greeted me at the entrance.
“Anna Sergeyevna, pleased to see you. You look magnificent.”
“Thank you. I hope we can summarize results and plan ahead,” I answered.
The room was packed with people in luxurious attire. The ambiance was businesslike but welcoming. I mingled among department heads and key staff. Many already knew me as the company’s new owner, although not public yet.
Dmitry appeared moments after entering, dressed sharply, hair freshly cut, exuding confidence. He surveyed the room as if assessing everyone’s rank and his.
Our eyes locked. Confused initially, then his face contorted with rage. He stormed toward me fiercely.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed close to my ear. “I told you this isn’t for you!”
“Good evening, Dima,” I said calmly.
“Leave immediately! You’re embarrassing me! And what’s with the masquerade? Dressed in your mouse rags again to humiliate me?” He spoke quietly, but with fire. Others began to notice.
Noticing people watching, Dmitry tried to regain composure.
“Listen,” he changed tone, “don’t make a scene. Just leave quietly, and we’ll discuss at home.”
At that moment, Mikhail Petrovich approached.
“Dmitry, I see you’ve met Anna Sergeyevna,” he smiled.
Dmitry instantly switched to sycophantic mode. “Mikhail Petrovich, I didn’t invite my wife. Honestly, she should go home. This is a business event…”
“But Dmitry,” Mikhail Petrovich replied with surprise, “I invited Anna Sergeyevna. She isn’t going anywhere. As the company’s owner, she must attend this reporting event.”
I watched Dmitry’s comprehension dawning from confusion to horror, his color draining.
“Owner… of the company?” he repeated faintly.
“Anna Sergeyevna inherited the controlling stake from her father,” explained Mikhail Petrovich. “She is now our main shareholder.”
Dmitry looked at me as if seeing a stranger, panic evident. He understood his career would end if I knew about his schemes.
“Anna…” he began, voice trembling with unfamiliar notes of pleading and fear, “We need to talk.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “But first, let’s hear the reports. That’s why we’re here.”
The next two hours were torture for Dmitry. Sitting beside me, trying to eat and engage, I saw his hands tremble whenever he lifted his glass.
After the official session, he pulled me aside.
“Anna, listen, please,” he spoke quickly, obsequious. “I know you might have heard something… But it’s not true! Or not entirely! I can explain everything!”
His pathetic, humiliated tone was more repellent than his former arrogance. At least back then, his contempt was honest.
“Dima,” I whispered, “you have a chance to leave the company and my life quietly and with dignity. Think about it.”
Instead of accepting, he exploded:
“What game have you started?!” he shouted, ignoring the stares. “You think you have proof? You have nothing on me! It’s all rumors!”
Mikhail Petrovich signaled security.
“Dmitry, you are disturbing order,” he said sternly. “Please leave.”
“Anna!” Dmitry yelled as they escorted him out. “You’ll regret this!”
At home, a real scandal awaited me.
“What was that?!” he roared. “Why were you there? Trying to set me up? Don’t think I’m oblivious to this charade!”
He paced, furious, face flushed.
“You won’t prove anything! It’s all your fabrications and schemes! And if you think I’ll let some fool run my life…”
“Dima,” I interrupted calmly, “the internal investigation began two months ago, before you knew who I was.”
He fell silent, suspiciously watching me.
“I asked Mikhail Petrovich to let you resign without consequences,” I continued. “Apparently, in vain.”
“What are you saying?” His voice softened but remained angry.
“The inquiry revealed you embezzled about two million rubles over three years, probably more. Documents, recorded calls, bank records serve as evidence. Mikhail Petrovich has already passed materials to law enforcement.”
Dmitry sank into his chair, as if defeated.
“You… you can’t…” he muttered.
“If luck is on your side,” I said, “you might negotiate compensation. The apartment and car should cover the damages.”
“Fool!” he exploded again. “Where will we live then? You won’t have a home either!”
I looked at him with pity. Even now, he thought only of himself.
“I have a downtown apartment,” I said quietly. “Two hundred square meters. A house near Moscow. And a personal driver waiting downstairs.”
Dmitry stared as if I spoke another language.
“What?” he breathed.
I turned away. He stood in the center of the room—confused, broken, pathetic. The same man who once regarded me unworthy to be seen with him among decent people.
“You were right, Dima,” I said. “We truly are on different levels. Just not the way you thought.”
I closed the door behind me, never looking back.
Downstairs, a black car with a driver waited. Sitting in the back seat, I gazed at the city passing by—a city that now felt transformed. Not because it changed, but because I did.
The phone rang. Dmitry’s name appeared. I declined the call.
Then came a message: “Anna, forgive me. We can fix everything. I love you.”
I deleted it without reply.
In my new apartment awaited a new life—one I was entitled to but didn’t realize for years. Now, I knew.
Tomorrow, I would decide what to do with the company, the investment fund, and my father’s inheritance. Building a future that depended solely on my choices.
And Dmitry… Dmitry would remain in the past, along with the humiliation, self-doubt, and inadequacy he subjected me to for years.
Conclusion: This story reveals the journey of a woman rediscovering her strength after years of belittlement. Inheriting her father’s legacy empowered her to confront deceit and reclaim her dignity. The tale highlights the importance of self-worth, courage to face uncomfortable truths, and taking control of one’s destiny despite personal challenges.