“Don’t expect to live here under Christ’s protection,” my stepfather’s voice sliced through the silence. “Your mother is gone, and with her, your privileges.”
I stood in the hallway of the home I once called my own, clutching the handle of a worn suitcase. After three years away, I returned as a stranger.
Gennady Pavlovich loomed in front of me, his broad figure radiating the kind of power that isn’t merely worn—it becomes part of a man’s nature.
“I just need a moment to collect my thoughts. It’s been a difficult time,” I said, quieter than I intended.
“Collect your thoughts?” he scoffed, barely concealing his disdain. “This is my house now, Anastasia. If you stay, you work. Your mother is dead. Everything belongs to me. Every inch, every nail.”
Behind him, I caught sight of the living room—our mother’s pride. Embroidered curtains. Photographs in birch frames. Her smiling face surrounded by flowers in the conservatory she built with her bare hands.
“If you stay,” he went on, tossing his expensive jacket onto a chair, “you’ll be the maid. You’ll clean, cook, do laundry. As you should.”
“Servant?” I repeated, heat rising in my cheeks.
“Exactly,” he said, pulling a bottle of Château Margaux from the fridge—the wine our mother had saved for celebrations. “Your old room’s untouched. Settle in. Chores start tomorrow.”
I walked upstairs, every step echoing memories of laughter with my mother. My room was frozen in time. The patchwork quilt. The shelf of Russian novels. The desk overlooking the garden.
I sat down on the bed, looking at my hands—calloused, broken-nailed, tired. I was twenty-five, without a job, without a home, abandoned by a man who once called our love a mistake.
And I remembered my mother’s voice, calm and assured: “Everything will be yours, Nastya. I’ve arranged the papers.” That was a month before she died. She worked until her last breath, like a captain refusing to abandon ship.
We sat under the old apple tree, drinking blackcurrant compote when she said it. I didn’t take it seriously—she seemed invincible. But four weeks later, her heart gave out.
I returned home six months later, not just grieving, but broken. Nothing to my name. And everything, it seemed, had passed instantly to Gennady Pavlovich, whom my mother had never truly trusted.
A car pulled up outside. I glanced through the window. A black Range Rover. Two men stepped out. One in a suit, talking animatedly. The other silent, carrying a folder.
They entered. Voices drifted from the study. I crept down the stairs.
“…the land under the greenhouses is mine now,” my stepfather said smugly. “We can begin negotiations with developers tomorrow.”
“And the will?” the guest asked.
“All in order,” he chuckled. “Who’s going to question it? The daughter? She doesn’t even remember what she signed.”
My chest tightened. Signed? I hadn’t signed anything. I could barely stand at the funeral, let alone think.
But something clicked. I turned and quietly went back upstairs. Closed the door. Breathed deeply. A plan began to form. One that needed patience.
I wouldn’t be a maid in my mother’s house. I would hunt.
If there was a will, I would find it.
The next morning, a loud knock on the door jolted me awake.
“Get up,” my stepfather barked. “Breakfast in fifteen. Greenhouse duty after.”
I tied my hair back, dressed, and stared at my reflection. Gone was the girl who’d come home defeated. I had purpose now.
In the kitchen, he read market reports, sipping from my mother’s favorite cup—the one with forget-me-nots.
“Your tasks,” he said, handing me a list in his uneven handwriting. “Know your place.”
I took it with a steady hand. Cleaning. Cooking. Greenhouse. Laundry.
“Of course,” I said, smiling slightly.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by my compliance.
“I’ll be back by three. The house better shine.”
The moment he left, I tore up the list and began searching the house.
In my mother’s room, her taste had been erased—velvet drapes now instead of linen, crystal trinkets where her books once stood.
I searched every drawer, checked under the bed. Nothing.
The study was locked. Too risky to force it—evidence was key.
By noon, I had done most of the chores. But my thoughts remained fixed on the will.
When he returned, his mood was foul.
“What’s that smell?” he asked, sniffing the air.
“Trout. With herbs,” I said, stirring a delicate white wine sauce.
“I hate fish,” he spat. “Throw it out. Make something decent.”
I turned off the stove. The fire inside me burned, but I said nothing.
“And my shirts,” he added, opening the fridge. “They’re in the bathroom.”
I went to the bathroom, sorting through silk shirts and ties. In the breast pocket of one, my fingers touched a stiff card.
Viktor Semyonovich Klimov. Notary.
The name rang like a bell. Mother had mentioned him when discussing the will.
I hid the card. My plan was taking shape.
That evening, while my stepfather watched television, I grabbed garden tools and walked toward the shed.
Inside was clutter. Pots. Gloves. A dusty wooden chest in the corner.
I opened it. Gardening gloves. Old magazines. And at the bottom—a simple key.
I froze.
The buffet.
The antique oak buffet in the living room. Always locked. “Family heirlooms,” Mother used to say.
I slipped back into the house.
“The living room floor,” I said casually.
“Just be quiet,” he grumbled.
I waited until the room dimmed. The key slid into the lock. A soft click.
Inside—stacks of documents, photo albums, small boxes.
And an envelope. Thick. Heavy.
I pulled it out.
The will.
“…I leave all my property, land, greenhouses, business, and bank accounts to my only daughter, Anastasia Igorevna Svetlova…”
Mother’s signature—elegant, unmistakable.
Inside was a cassette labeled “Conversation with Irina – Inheritance.”
A voice interrupted.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped, hiding the envelope behind my back.
“Just cleaning shelves,” I said lightly.
“In the dark?”
He eyed the open buffet.
“Who told you to go through that?”
“I thought cleaning rags might be in there.”
He stared, then barked, “Forget that cabinet. It’s none of your business.”
“Of course,” I said, walking away, my heart pounding.
That night, I hid the envelope under a floorboard.
I was ready.
The next morning, I slipped a tape recorder into my pocket.
“Big plans today?” I asked while pouring him coffee.
He looked up. “Since when do you care?”
“I was just thinking about how much effort goes into the business. All those crops. New tech…”
He smirked. “It’s not hard. Just sign where needed.”
“And Mother… didn’t she leave something for me? A mistake, maybe?”
His hand trembled.
“Nonsense. There was no will in your name.”
“What if I found one?”
His face shifted—an animal scenting danger.
“You searched the buffet?”
“So you knew.”
He stood. “Your mother was naive. Left papers everywhere. She never filed them properly. I fixed everything. While you mourned, I handled things.”
“You forged it?”
“Call it creative paperwork.”
“And who would believe you over me?” he sneered. “I have power. And you?”
“I have the truth. And this,” I said, revealing the recorder.
He lunged. I dodged, grabbed my jacket, and ran.
My first stop was the notary office.
Viktor Semyonovich recognized me instantly.
“Anastasia,” he whispered, shocked. “I tried to reach you…”
“My stepfather forged everything,” I said, placing the will on his desk.
He paled. “Where did you find this?”
“In the buffet,” I said, playing the recording. “And I have his confession too.”
He listened, face hardening.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “Your mother’s intentions were clear. I was misled.”
Next, I visited Irina Stepanovna. She welcomed me with tears.
We sat in her kitchen as I played the tape. My mother’s voice filled the room.
“I always sensed something was wrong,” Irina said. “But no one listened.”
“Now they will,” I replied.
The next weeks were a blur of legal action. I hired a lawyer, Dmitry Valeryevich. Young. Brilliant. Determined.
We filed suit. The evidence—will, tapes, confession—was airtight.
My stepfather threw everything at us: threats, bribes, high-paid lawyers. But truth doesn’t buckle.
At the final hearing, I faced him.
“This could’ve been avoided,” I said. “You should have honored her wishes.”
“You’ve no idea what you’ve started,” he growled. “I’ll be back.”
The judge’s voice broke the tension.
“The court finds Mr. Svetlov’s will to be a forgery. All property reverts to the rightful heir.”
Applause echoed through the courtroom.
“And,” the judge added, “evidence of fraud warrants criminal charges. Materials will be forwarded to investigators.”
My stepfather collapsed onto a bench, defeated.
Three months later, I stood in the living room—mine again. The linen curtains let in April sun. The cornflower embroidery danced.
I opened the buffet and began placing family photos into a new album.
Gennady Pavlovich had been sentenced. The business, revived. The women he fired returned. Irina kept the books. Viktor handled our legal matters.
I visited Mother’s grave with fresh flowers from our greenhouses.
“I did it, Mama,” I whispered. “I protected what you left me.”
Life continues.
I am not the servant.
I am the mistress.
I am Anastasia.
And I have reclaimed everything that was mine.