The evening was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the living room. Victor was in his study, immersed in one of his many work projects—or so he claimed. Anya sat on the couch with a book in her hands, but her eyes weren't moving across the page. Her mind was elsewhere, a storm of unease and questions she dared not ask.
Victor's behavior had shifted noticeably since Elena's arrival. He was more attentive to his appearance, more energetic, and increasingly absent in ways that felt deliberate. Anya couldn't ignore the growing knot in her stomach, even as she told herself she was being paranoid.
But the moment came when her fears could no longer be dismissed.
Victor's phone, left carelessly on the kitchen counter, buzzed late that night. Anya hesitated, glancing at the lit screen. Her heart froze as she read the message:
"I can't stop thinking about our talk earlier. Let's meet tomorrow. – Elena"
The words sent a wave of nausea through her. She picked up the phone, her hands trembling. She scrolled through the message history, her heart pounding with every word exchanged between them.
It wasn't explicit, but the intimacy in their conversations was undeniable. Messages about their shared memories, about how much Victor missed the "old days," and how Elena always understood him better than anyone else.
Anya dropped the phone onto the counter, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She clutched the edge of the counter, willing herself not to cry. But the tears came anyway, hot and bitter.
When Victor returned from his study, she was sitting at the kitchen table, the phone in front of her. He froze in the doorway, his eyes darting between her face and the device.
"Anya," he began, his voice cautious.
She looked up at him, her face pale but composed. "How long?"
Victor faltered. "How long what?"
"Don't play dumb, Victor," she said, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. "How long have you been in love with her?"
His silence was damning. He didn't deny it. Instead, he looked away, his jaw tightening.
"I… I don't know," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Anya laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "You don't know? That's your answer?"
"It's not like that," Victor said, stepping closer. "I never meant for—"
"Don't," she snapped, cutting him off. "Don't try to explain it away. You've been emotionally cheating on me for years, haven't you? Even before she left for Paris."
Victor opened his mouth to respond but closed it again. The truth hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Anya stood, pushing her chair back abruptly. "I can't do this anymore, Victor. I've spent years trying to make this marriage work, thinking it was me, thinking I wasn't enough. But the truth is, you were never really here, were you?"
Victor's expression softened, regret flashing in his eyes. "Anya, please—"
"No," she said firmly, her voice breaking. "I'm done. You can have her if that's what you want. But I won't be part of this anymore."
She left the kitchen, her steps unsteady but resolute. In their bedroom, she began packing a bag.
Victor didn't follow her.
---
The following morning, Anya woke to the sound of the front door closing. Victor was gone, likely to work or to meet Elena—she didn't care. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the suitcase she had packed the night before.
For the first time in years, she felt something unexpected: clarity.
The marriage she had clung to so desperately was over, and though the thought terrified her, it also freed her.
By the time Victor returned that evening, Anya was waiting for him in the living room. Her suitcase stood by the door.
"I'm leaving," she said simply.
Victor looked at her, his expression a mix of guilt and resignation. He didn't argue. He didn't try to stop her.
And that, more than anything, confirmed to Anya that she was making the right decision.