The bedroom mirror reflected a familiar scene: I was adjusting the pleats of a modest gray dress I’d bought three years ago in an ordinary store. Dmitry was nearby, adjusting the cufflinks on his snow-white shirt—Italian, as he never tired of emphasizing at every opportunity.
“Are you ready?” he asked, without looking at me, while busily wiping the nonexistent dust off his suit.
“Yes, we can go,” I replied, checking one last time that my hair was neatly combed.
Finally, he turned to me, and I saw the familiar expression of mild disappointment in his eyes. Dmitry looked me up and down in silence, lingering on the dress.
“Don’t you have anything more decent?” he asked in a tone tinged with his usual condescension.
I heard those words before every corporate event. Each time, they stung like a pinprick; not fatal, but unpleasant. I learned not to show how much they hurt. I learned to smile and shrug.
“This dress fits me perfectly,” I said calmly.
Dmitry sighed as if I’d disappointed him again.
Fine, let’s go. Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself, okay?
We got married five years ago, when I had just finished my economics degree and he was working as a junior manager in a trading company. Back then, he seemed like an ambitious, determined young man with a bright future. I liked the way he talked about his plans, the confidence with which he looked to the future.
Over the years, Dmitry rose considerably in his career. He was now a senior sales manager, serving important clients. He spent the money he earned on his appearance: expensive suits, Swiss watches, a new car every two years. “Image is everything,” he used to say. “People need to see you successful, or they won’t hire you.”
I worked as an economist at a small consulting firm, earning a modest salary and trying not to burden the family budget with unnecessary expenses. When Dmitry took me to corporate events, I always felt out of place. He introduced me to my colleagues with a light irony: “Here’s my little gray mouse for a walk.” Everyone laughed, and I smiled, pretending to find it funny too.
Little by little, I began to notice how my husband had changed. Success had gone to his head. He began to look down on not only me but also on his bosses. “I sell this junk made by our Chinese,” he said at home, sipping expensive whiskey. “The important thing is to present it well, and they’ll buy anything.”
Sometimes he hinted at other sources of income. “Customers appreciate good service,” he winked. “And they’re willing to pay more for it. Personally, I understand, don’t I?”
I understood but preferred not to go into details.
Everything changed three months ago when a notary called me.
Anna Sergeevna? It’s about the inheritance from your father, Sergei Mikhailovich Volkov.
My heart sank. My father abandoned the family when I was seven. Mom never told me what had happened to him. I only knew he was working somewhere, living his own life, where there was no room for a daughter.
“Your father passed away a month ago,” the notary continued. “According to the will, you are the sole heir to all his assets.”
What I discovered at the notary’s office completely changed my world. It turned out my father wasn’t just a successful businessman, but had built an entire empire. An apartment in the center of Moscow, a country house, cars, but most importantly: an investment fund with shares in dozens of companies.
Among the documents, I found a name that made me shudder: “TradeInvest,” the company where Dmitry worked.
The first few weeks I was in shock. Every morning I woke up, unable to believe it was real. I just told my husband I’d changed jobs; I was now working in the investment sector. He reacted with indifference, only muttering something about hoping my salary wouldn’t go down.
I began to study the fund’s business. My economics background helped a lot, but more importantly, I felt a genuine interest. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was doing something important, something meaningful.
I was particularly interested in TradeInvest. I requested a meeting with the CEO, Mikhail Petrovich Kuznetsov.
“Anna Sergeevna,” he said when we were alone in his office, “I must be honest: the company’s situation isn’t very good. The sales department in particular is struggling.”
“Tell me more.”
We have an employee, Dmitry Andreev. Formally, he serves important clients; the turnover is high, but the profit is practically zero. In addition, many deals are unprofitable. There are suspicions of violations, but there is not yet sufficient evidence.
I requested an internal investigation, without revealing the true reasons for my interest in this particular employee.
The results of the investigation arrived a month later. Dmitry was indeed embezzling company funds, agreeing to “personal bonuses” with his clients in exchange for lower prices. The sum was considerable.
By then, I had already renewed my wardrobe. But, true to myself, I chose understated clothes, only now from the world’s best designers. Dmitry didn’t notice the difference. To him, anything that didn’t stand out because of its price was still a “little gray mouse.”
Last night he announced that they would be hosting an important corporate event tomorrow.
“A presentation dinner for senior management and key employees,” he informed me in an important tone. “The entire company management will be present.”
“I see,” I replied. “What time should I be ready?”
Dmitry looked at me in surprise.
“I won’t take you there; there will be decent people, not of your standing,” he declared, unaware that I was the owner of the company where I worked. “You understand, this is a serious matter. There will be people who decide my fate in the company. I can’t afford to look… well, you know.”
“Not exactly.”
“Anyechka,” he tried to soften his tone, “you’re a wonderful wife, but you lower my social status. Next to you, I look poorer than I am. These people must see me as their equal.”
His words stung, but not as much as before. Now I knew my worth. And I knew his.
“Fine,” I said calmly. “Have fun.”
This morning, Dmitry left work in a very good mood. I put on a new Dior dress: dark blue, elegant, that flattered my figure but maintained a restrained style. I did my makeup and hair professionally. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a completely different person. Self-confident, beautiful, successful.
I knew the restaurant where the event was being held: one of the best in the city. Mikhail Petrovich greeted me at the entrance.
Anna Sergeevna, I’m glad to see you. You look wonderful.
Thank you. I hope today we can summarize the results and make plans for the future.
The room was packed with people in expensive suits and dresses. The atmosphere was formal but welcoming. I spoke with heads of other departments and met key employees. Many knew me as the new owner of the company, although this wasn’t yet public.
I noticed Dmitry as soon as he walked in. He was wearing his best suit, a new haircut, and seemed confident and important. He scanned the room, clearly assessing those present and his place among them.
Our eyes met. At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing. Then his face twisted with anger. He approached me decisively.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, coming closer. “I told you this isn’t for you!”
“Good night, Dima,” I replied calmly.
Get out of here immediately! You’re embarrassing me!” He spoke softly but fiercely. “And what charade is this? Using your rat rags again to humiliate me?”
Several people started looking at us. Dmitry noticed and tried to compose himself.
“Listen,” he said in a different tone, “don’t make a fuss. Go quietly and we’ll talk everything over at home.”
At that moment, Mikhail Petrovich approached us.
“Dmitry, I see you’ve already met Anna Sergeevna,” he said with a smile.
“Mikhail Petrovich,” Dmitri instantly switched to his obsequious tone, “I didn’t invite my wife. Honestly, it would be better if she went home. After all, this is a business event…”
“Dmitry,” Mikhail Petrovich looked at him in surprise, “but I invited Anna Sergeevna. And she’s not going anywhere. As the owner of the company, she must be present at this informational event.”
I watched as the information seeped into my husband’s mind. First confusion, then understanding, then horror. Gradually, he paled.
“Owner… of the company?” he asked barely audibly.
“Anna Sergeevna inherited the majority stake from her father,” Mikhail Petrovich explained. “She’s now our largest shareholder.”
Dmitry looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. I saw panic in his eyes. He understood that if I found out about his plans, his career would be over.
“Anya…” he began, and his voice held notes I’d never heard before. Pleading. Fear. “Anya, we need to talk.”
“Sure,” I said. “But first, let’s hear the reports. That’s what we’re here for.”
The next two hours were torture for Dmitry. He sat next to me at the table, tried to eat and keep the conversation going, but I could tell how nervous he was. His hands were shaking as he raised his glass.
After the official part, he took me aside.
“Anya, listen to me,” he said quickly, in a cajoling tone. “I understand you probably know this… I mean, maybe someone told you… But it’s not entirely true! Or it’s not entirely true! I can explain everything!”
That pathetic, humiliated tone disgusted me even more than his earlier arrogance. At least then he was sincere in his contempt for me.
“Dima,” I said quietly, “you have a chance to leave the company and my life quietly and with dignity. Think about it.”
But instead of accepting the offer, he exploded:
“What are you playing at?!” he shouted, ignoring the fact that we were being watched. “Do you think you can prove anything? You have nothing against me! It’s just speculation!”
Mikhail Petrovich gestured to security.
“Dmitry, you’re disturbing the peace,” he said sternly. “Please leave the premises.”
“Anya!” Dmitry shouted as he was escorted out. “You’ll regret this! Do you hear me?”
A real scandal awaited me at home.
“What was that?!” he shouted. “What the hell were you doing there? Trying to set me up? Do you think I don’t know what that was? An act?!”
He paced back and forth around the room, waving his arms, his face red with rage.
“You won’t prove anything! Nothing! It’s just your inventions and intrigues!” And if you think I’ll let an idiot control my life…
“Dima,” I interrupted calmly, “the company’s internal investigation began two months ago. Before you even knew who I am.”
He fell silent and looked at me suspiciously.
“I asked Mikhail Petrovich to give you the opportunity to resign without consequences,” I continued. “But apparently it was in vain.”
“What are you talking about?” His voice became lower, but no less angry.
The investigation showed that over the past three years he embezzled about two million rubles. But probably much more. There are documents, recorded conversations with clients, and banking transactions. Mikhail Petrovich has already handed the information over to the authorities.
Dmitry sank into the armchair as if he felt weakened.
“You… you can’t…” he muttered.
“If you’re lucky,” I said, “you could negotiate compensation. The apartment and the car should cover it.”
“Idiot!” he burst out again. “Where will we live then? You won’t have anywhere to live either!”
I looked at him with pity. Even now, in this situation, he only thought about himself.
“I have an apartment downtown,” I said quietly. “Two hundred square meters. And a house in the Moscow region. My personal chauffeur is already waiting for me downstairs.”
Dmitry looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language.
“What?” he exhaled.
I turned around. He was standing in the middle of the room: confused, broken, pathetic. The same man who that morning had considered me unworthy of being with him among decent people.
“You know, Dima,” I said, “you were right. We really are on different levels. Just not the way you thought.”
I closed the door behind me and didn’t look back.
Downstairs, a black car with a driver was waiting for me. Sitting in the back seat, I gazed out the window at the city, which now looked different. Not because it had changed, but because I had changed.
The phone rang. Dmitry. I rejected the call.
Then a text arrived: “Anya, forgive me. We can work this out. I love you.”
I deleted the message without replying.
A new life awaited me in the new apartment. One I should have started years ago, but didn’t know about. Now I knew.
Tomorrow I would have to decide what to do with the company, the investment fund, and my father’s inheritance. I would build a future that now depended solely on my decisions.
And Dmitry… Dmitry would be in the past. Along with all the humiliation, doubts, and feelings of inadequacy he had given me over all those years.
I’m no longer a little gray mouse. And I never was.
