Marina stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, struggling to comprehend what she had just heard. The words her husband had thrown at her so casually refused to settle in her mind. They echoed with such indifference, such unshakable certainty, that for a moment, she thought she must be dreaming. Surely Sasha wasn’t serious about telling her to give up on something she had worked so hard for. The car she had been saving for over six months, sacrificing every little pleasure, denying herself even the simplest indulgences, had been her goal, her escape.
“Why do you even need that heap of junk? You can’t drive. Let’s sell it, pay off my debts, and take a trip to Turkey. What’s wrong with that?” Alexander continued, reclining lazily in his chair. He spoke as if his suggestion were the most natural thing in the world, as if her dream meant nothing. As if they were discussing some insignificant purchase rather than something she had poured her soul into.
A rush of heat filled Marina’s face, her temples pounding with resentment. How could he say such a thing? How could he even think of suggesting it? If he had simply asked for help, that would have been one thing. But no—he wasn’t asking, he was deciding. Her car, her dream, was nothing more than a pawn in his selfish games. He expected her to surrender everything she had worked for just because he said so.
Marina carefully set her coffee cup on the table, her hands trembling. Her fingers clenched, her throat tightened, and a wave of suffocating betrayal washed over her. It wasn’t just about the car. It was about the complete disregard he showed for her struggles, her sacrifices. As if none of it mattered. As if her wants and needs were insignificant compared to his desires.
“Sasha, are you serious?” Her voice came out quiet, almost too controlled. “Do you really think I would sell my car to pay off your debts? To go on a vacation? After working three jobs for half a year to afford it?”
She searched his face, hoping—just hoping—to see some flicker of understanding. Some sign of remorse. A moment of realization. But all she saw was irritation, a dismissive wave of his hand as if she were making a scene over nothing.
“There you go again!” he snapped, slamming his palm on the table. “Acting like a martyr. What, you think I don’t work? You think I don’t break my back on that damn construction site? Twelve-hour shifts, no weekends! And for what? So you can sit here boiling your soups and acting all high and mighty?”
Marina’s breath caught in her throat. Him? Overworked? That was almost laughable. The same man who barely dragged himself to work by ten, who disappeared halfway through the day to drink with his buddies, now claiming to be some tireless provider? What about the endless nights she spent grinding away at jobs he never even acknowledged? What about the bills she paid when he spent his money on entertainment?
Her vision darkened, her body rigid with exhaustion—not just physical exhaustion, but the deep, soul-crushing fatigue of carrying a burden alone for too long. It was always the same. She worked. She provided. She made ends meet. And he took, demanded, dismissed. Maybe it was time to stop. Maybe it was time to say no.
Marina took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing down the words that threatened to erupt. No. She would not scream. She would not stoop to his level. She would not waste her energy on a shouting match where he twisted her words and played the victim. She would say what needed to be said, calmly, clearly. Because she had every right to.
She straightened, meeting his gaze without a trace of doubt.
“You listen to me, Alexander. Do whatever you want, but I am not giving up my car. I am not paying off your debts. And I am not going on vacation with you. If you want to travel, earn the money yourself. I won’t fund your whims. I won’t sacrifice what I worked for.”
The silence that followed was thick and heavy. Alexander stared at her as if she had spoken a foreign language, his mouth slightly open. And then, realization struck. His face turned red, his expression twisting with fury.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he hissed, standing abruptly. “You think you’re someone special now? Acting like you don’t need me? You ungrateful, cold-hearted bitch! All you do is whine, cook, and make my life difficult. I’ll knock some sense into you! We’re going to sell that car right now, and you’ll do as you’re told! Get dressed!”
Before she could react, his hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her toward him. The pain jolted through her, and then came the blow. His fist connected with her cheek, the force snapping her head to the side.
For a moment, she stood still, dazed. The kitchen blurred, the room tilting. Her mind refused to process what had just happened. He had never hit her before. Not once. And yet here she was.
Then, something inside her cracked. The last thread of restraint snapped, the years of patience, compromise, and endurance disintegrating in an instant.
Marina slowly lifted her head, her gaze locking onto him with a chilling calm. No fear. No pleading. Just a quiet, steely finality.
“Take your hands off me, Alexander,” she said, voice low and steady. “Touch me again, and I swear, I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.”
There was something in her eyes that made him hesitate. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. He saw, maybe for the first time, that she was not bluffing. That she was not the woman he thought he could push around.
“You’re crazy,” he muttered, taking a step back. “You—”
“You won’t do anything,” she cut in, her tone sharp as a blade. “You never had real strength, only the power to intimidate. But I am not afraid of you. Not anymore.”
Her hand found the door handle. She pulled it open, the cold night air rushing in.
“If you want me to stay, things change. From now on, you respect me. You handle your own messes. You never lay a hand on me again. If you can’t do that, then leave. I will not live like this.”
His face twisted with panic. He reached out, grasping at words, trying to reel her back in. Empty promises, desperate pleas. But it was too late.
Marina walked past him, straight to the bedroom. She grabbed her clothes, stuffed them into a bag with swift, practiced movements. Then she turned, walked back to the door, and stepped outside.
The night was crisp, the world stretching before her like an open road. She reached her car, running her fingers along its surface. This was hers. No one could take it from her. No one could take her from herself ever again.
The engine roared to life. She pressed the pedal, feeling the familiar vibration beneath her fingertips. Behind her, the apartment shrank into the distance, disappearing with everything she was leaving behind.
She was free.
And she was never looking back.