All my money is mine, and yours is yours,” her husband laughed, unaware that she had just received a multi-million-dollar inheritance.

“Can you imagine? The terrace faces directly east.” Igor squeezed her hand as they crossed the street. “We’ll wake up in the morning and the sun will rise over the pines.”

Vera smiled, leaning on his shoulder. The February wind ruffled her scarf, but she felt warm next to Igor. They walked along the promenade, talking about their dream house, a topic that came up more and more frequently.

“I just need a bigger window,” she said dreamily, closing her eyes. “So there’s lots of light. I’ll put an easel there.”

“And you’ll paint your pictures,” Igor agreed, gently ruffling her hair. “And I’ll make special shelves for your paintings.”

Vera leaned closer to him. A year of their relationship had flown by like a single day: long conversations, evenings together, a trip to Kazan during the May holidays.

Igor seemed so reliable and self-assured. His construction business was doing well, although he often complained about competitors and problems with contractors.

“Listen,” Igor stopped by the railing, looking out at the water, “if everything goes according to plan, by next winter we’ll have saved enough for the down payment.”

“Really?” Vera looked at him. “Then I’ll have to start doing commissioned portraits.”

Igor frowned:

—Why? I can handle it. I have a plan.

“But I want to participate too.” Vera stepped back a little. “It’s our home together.”

He smiled, hugging her shoulders:

—You better focus on decorating our apartment before the wedding. And the money—that’s a man’s thing.

Vera wanted to argue, but she was interrupted by a call. An unknown number.

“Vera Andreievna?” a deep male voice said. “We’re calling from the law firm of Konovalov & Associates.”

She stepped back a few steps, turning her back on Igor. There was something in the stranger’s official tone that made her lower her voice.

—I’m listening.

—This concerns your uncle, Gennadi Viktorovich Sokolov.

Vera instinctively clutched the phone. Uncle Gena. Her mother’s brother, with whom the family had severed ties due to an old conflict.

She only remembered his gray mustache and his big hands handing her a wooden horse.

“Did something… happen to you?” She turned toward a shop window so Igor wouldn’t see her face.

“Unfortunately, Gennady Viktorovich passed away two weeks ago. Illness.” Her voice softened. “We need to discuss some matters that require your personal presence. Would you be able to come to our office?”

Vera looked over her shoulder. Igor was a few feet away, engrossed in his phone.

“Would tomorrow at three be okay?” he asked in a low voice. “Please tell me the address.”

After the call, she returned to Igor, who looked at her expectantly.

“Who was it?” He nodded toward the phone.

“Oh,” Vera waved her hand, “wrong number. What were we talking about?”

They continued walking, but Vera was distracted. Her uncle’s news made her think about how quickly everything could change. The next day, she told Igor she was seeing a client for a portrait. In reality, she sat in the leather chair in the lawyer’s office, listening to him and unable to believe what she was hearing.

“Forty-seven million,” Konovalov repeated, handing him a folder of documents. “Plus an apartment downtown and a country house.”

Your uncle was a very successful investor and never started a family. You are his sole heir.

Vera took the documents with trembling hands. The amount was incomprehensible.

“Okay,” he could only say. “And… I’d like to keep this a secret for now.”

“Of course,” the lawyer agreed. “Confidentiality is our priority. And you’ll only inherit everything in six months.”

That night, she and Igor talked about their upcoming wedding. He talked about the restaurant, the guests, the honeymoon.

“And when we get back, we’ll start saving for the house,” he stroked her wrist tenderly.

“My little artist will soon be living in a real mansion. But let’s not rush into children—we have to establish ourselves first.”

Vera remained silent, staring at her hands. The inheritance documents were still hidden in her study, among the canvases. An inner voice whispered insistently: wait, don’t tell him yet, see how things develop.

“Do you hear me?” Igor snapped his fingers in front of her face. “I’m talking about our future, and you’re daydreaming.”

“Sorry, I was thinking about the invitation design,” Vera lied with a smile. “Let’s do them in shades of blue, to match your eyes.”

The wedding was intimate and cozy, just like home. Instead of a banquet hall, it was a café with panoramic windows.

Instead of luxurious bouquets, paintings painted by Vera. Instead of a limousine, a taxi with a cheerful driver who played jazz and told stories about his violinist daughter.

While the guests danced, Vera stood by the window, watching the rain trace paths on the glass. The inheritance documents remained untouched in her study. Even today, she didn’t dare tell Igor about them. Something inside her told her: wait a little longer.

“What are you thinking about, wife?” Igor came up behind her, hugging her tightly.

“I can’t believe I’m your wife now,” she turned to him. “It sounds so… official.”

“Get used to it,” Igor smiled. “Everything will be official. Marriage registration, house registration, registration…”

“Children?” Vera laughed.

Igor’s smile faded a little.

—Let’s not rush. First, let’s get a foothold.

Vera remained silent. Lately, he’d been returning to that topic frequently. “Strengthening” sounded strange, as if they were on their knees. The week after the wedding passed in a cloud of honey. They moved into Igor’s apartment: larger, but cold.

Vera brought her paintings, arranged flowers, and tried to create warmth. Igor didn’t object, but he always remembered:

—We’ll save up for the house, less spending on those little things.

On Friday, he announced that he wanted to reduce his teaching hours at the art school.

“I want to work on a solo exhibition,” Vera said at dinner. “Even if I have to tighten my belt a little.”

“What do you mean, ‘squeeze yourself’?” Igor put down his fork. “Are you going to earn less?”

“Temporarily,” he nodded. “Just a couple of months. I thought now was the best time to focus on art while we’re childfree.”

Igor abruptly got up from the table.

“Listen carefully,” his voice turned cold. “All my money is mine, and yours is yours.”

I’m not going to support anyone. If you want something, earn it yourself.

Vera stood motionless, her mouth half-open. Her husband’s words hit her like a slap.

“But we’re family,” he finally managed to say. “Isn’t that what marriage is all about? Supporting each other?”

“Support, yes,” Igor interrupted. “Take advantage, no. Your job is your responsibility.”

My work is mine. We’re both investing in our future. But I’m not going to throw money away while you paint your pictures.

He left the kitchen, leaving her stunned. At night, the bed felt too wide: they each occupied their own side, as if there were an invisible border between them. The next morning, Igor acted as if the previous night had never happened.

At breakfast, he browsed movie listings, talked about ski resorts for winter vacations, and joked about a colleague stuck in an elevator with an accountant.

Vera watched him, trying to understand where she’d gone wrong. His perfectly trimmed beard, his impeccable hairdo, the creases at the corners of his eyes when he smiled: all so familiar, and suddenly so foreign. Behind every gesture of care, she now saw cold calculation. Behind every compliment, an assessment of her usefulness.

“Will you lend me five thousand until payday?” he asked, testing his theory.

Her smile faltered, her gaze froze for a moment.

“I won’t give you any money, remember that,” he gently changed the subject.

Two months later, Vera signed a contract with the Neo-Art advertising agency. Now her day started at six in the morning and ended late at night. The schedule was a puzzle: mornings at art school, days sketching for advertising, nights on other assignments that drained her energy. She arrived home when the city was already asleep. On the eighth day of this marathon, Igor finally noticed her absence.

“Did they promote you to night watch?” he said from his laptop when the key turned at almost eleven.

“I took on extra work.” Vera took off her shoes, her feet feeling numb. “How else am I going to support myself? That was the deal, remember?”

Igor grimaced as if he had swallowed something bitter.

—Don’t be dramatic. I just meant not to give up a steady income for creative experiments.

“Don’t worry,” he went to the bathroom, throwing it over his shoulder, “your budget is completely safe.”

By the end of their third month of marriage, Vera was working three jobs at once, as if she wanted to prove something, not so much to Igor as to herself. School, agency, private workshops on weekends.

She saw her husband less than she saw the food delivery man. She arrived when he was already asleep, and left before he was awake.

He knew he wouldn’t have to work soon thanks to the inheritance, but he wanted to prove he could manage without the money.

In rare encounters, she managed to do laundry, clean the bathroom, cook something for the next day: silently, efficiently, like a robot programmed for household chores.

Igor barely noticed her efforts. He stayed longer at work, came home irritated, and exploded over trivial matters. One day, he found messages on his phone from a certain Margarita, clearly flirting. When he asked, Igor dismissed him: “She’s an interior designer, we’re talking about a project.”

“At one in the morning?” Vera raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t tell me when or who to talk to,” he interrupted. “And don’t check my phone.”

The following weeks passed coldly. Vera stopped cooking for two, washing his clothes, or asking about his day. She lived like a roommate: parallel lives, never intersecting. One day before their six-month wedding anniversary, she received the first transfer of her inheritance. The amount in the account made her slightly dizzy. Igor didn’t know: he’d opened a separate account.

That night he arrived later than usual. He smelled of alcohol and perfume.

“We had a party,” he responded to her look. “We signed a new project.”

Vera nodded silently. She’d already packed her things, the few that truly mattered: paintings, paintbrushes, clothes, her mother’s photo album. On the table, an envelope containing the divorce petition. Waiting for her moment.

“Did you buy the milk?” Igor asked, his eyes still on his laptop, his fingers still typing.

A month passed since Vera packed her things, but the application remained in her desk drawer. She wasn’t held back by feelings, which had already faded, but by a painful curiosity: how far this strange experiment in her life could go.

“In the bag on the left,” he placed the bags on the counter. “And I paid for the internet; the receipt’s on the fridge.”

Igor barely nodded, absorbed in his work. Vera silently went to the bedroom and pulled out the top drawer of the wardrobe.

There, under a pile of winter sweaters, was a simple shoebox: his personal safe. In those weeks, he had turned the inheritance into a tangible reality: consultations with lawyers, meetings with financiers, paperwork, investments.

Now the money, the city apartment, and the country house legally belonged to him.

His fingers carefully scanned the new documents: bank statements with seven-digit numbers, a sealed property certificate, a bunch of keys to a spacious apartment with a river view. A collection of freedoms waiting for their moment.

At night, while they were having dinner, Igor suddenly cheered up:

—Hey, remember we wanted a house outside the city?

Vera looked up from her plate:

-Yeah.

“I found out…” He leaned forward. “There are some good options in Sosnovo. If we take out a mortgage, and our down payment…”

“Ours?” Vera interrupted. “You mean your down payment?”

Igor froze for a second, but quickly recovered.

—Well, technically mine. But it’s for both of us.

“That sounds interesting.” Vera put down her fork. “And I thought all your money was yours and mine was mine. Or have the rules changed?”

She blushed, but only for a moment.

“I don’t understand your tone,” Igor opened his hands. “I’m just suggesting we fulfill our dream. The one we talked about before the wedding.”

Vera slowly got up from the table.

“I’ll wash the dishes tomorrow,” she said. “I have to prepare for tomorrow’s classes.”

In the morning, Igor intercepted her at the door:

—Listen, I didn’t mean to hurt you yesterday. Just… let’s think about the future together. You wanted a house, a studio, a garden…

Vera looked at him for a long time. The man before her wasn’t the one she once loved. Or maybe he was, only now she saw him clearly.

“I’ll be late today, don’t wait for me,” he said.

That afternoon, Vera didn’t go to work. Instead of her usual route, she asked a taxi to take her to a glass building in the financial district, where her lawyer’s office was located, and then to an old house on the Fontanka River.

The inherited apartment greeted her with the cold of an uninhabited space and scattered light entering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She walked slowly across the parquet, listening to it crunch under her heels, as if telling the story of ancient inhabitants.

Five rooms, stucco ceilings, marble windowsills, spaciousness and airiness. Real paintings were meant to be born there, not forced advertising illustrations, but living canvases with soul.

A week later, Igor came home earlier than usual. His eyes were bright, his movements nervous and sharp.

“Vera!” she almost shouted. “You won’t believe it! I ran into Antón, remember? He works at a bank and says…”

He stopped when he saw her sitting in the chair with a box on her lap.

“What happened?” Her smile faded.

“This is for you,” Vera handed him the box.

Igor weighed it in his hands, as if assessing its importance, then removed the cover. His eyebrows rose slowly, his fingers hovering over the documents. The seconds ticked by in silence.

“Are you joking?” Her voice cracked, her dilated pupils revealing a mixture of disbelief and a newly awakened appetite.

“Look at the stamps.” Vera leaned against the doorframe, watching his expression change. “An apartment with a view of the Neva, a mansion in the pine forest, and a bank statement with seven figures. No forgeries.”

He flipped through the papers, his eyes wide open at the numbers.

—Where did all this come from?

Vera allowed herself a slight smile.

—Do you remember the call on the seawall before the wedding? It was my uncle Gennady’s lawyer. He left me his entire inheritance. Forty-seven million, to be exact.

Igor sank down onto the sofa, as if the air around him had become thick.

“And you’ve been silent all this time?” He raised his darkened gaze. “Why?”

“You set the priorities for our family.” She approached the window and ran her finger along the sill. “All my money is mine, and yours is yours.” I just followed the rules.

Turning, she looked him in the eyes:

—At that moment, I understood that for you, this wasn’t a marriage, but a profitable business. You get freedom of action and a suitable housekeeper, and in return… nothing. I needed to be sure once and for all. Now I have no doubts.

Igor swallowed, his fingers shuffling through the papers as if looking for a way out.

“Let’s not be impulsive,” her voice became falsely gentle. “This is a wonderful opportunity to fulfill our dreams! The house you wanted, your studio! We could even have a child…!”

“No,” Vera said softly, but so firmly that he stopped. “Here you are,” she placed an envelope with an official seal on the table. “Divorce petition. My signature is there. Yours is missing.”

“Are you crazy?” he snapped, throwing down the papers. “That’s our money! I’m your husband!”

—But you said it yourself…

“To hell with your words!” He lunged at her, grabbing her shoulders. “I won’t sign anything!”

Vera gently but firmly removed his hands.

“You’ll have to do it,” there was anger in his voice. “Otherwise, the court will receive a detailed report of your encounters with Margarita. And with Elena from accounting.”

And that blonde from the gym whose name I didn’t even bother to learn. Call logs, camera recordings, testimony: my lawyer was surprisingly diligent.

Igor stepped back, his face pale.

—That’s blackmail.

“No,” he shook his head. “It’s an investment in my future. And, honestly, not the most expensive one.”

Sunlight shone on the facade of the two-story building. Vera stood at the entrance, admiring the new sign: “Breath of Color Art Space. Painting School and Gallery.” Three months had passed since the divorce. Three months of absolute freedom and transformation. In that time, she managed not only to finalize the purchase of the building, but also to finish the renovations, select teachers, and launch an advertising campaign.

His phone vibrated in his pocket: a message from the real estate agency regarding the final registration of the property. Now that building was officially his. No liens. No claims. No ghosts from the past.

Vera pushed open the glass door and entered. The spacious room, flooded with light from the large windows, was filled with the voices of the first students: fifteen bright-eyed children, impatiently sitting in their chairs at the easels.

“Good afternoon, young talents!” he smiled, looking at their faces. “Ready to create your first masterpieces?”