— Do you want to sell the apartment? Earn it first — and don’t touch mine! — Angelina snapped at her husband, every word sharp, cutting; she was no longer shouting, but speaking with a glittering, icy precision.
“Eight” knot
The wind on the nineteenth floor howled to its own rhythm: sometimes clinging to the fittings with a wailing grip, sometimes slapping her face with sharp blows. Angelina, hanging in the windowsill, methodically sealed the gaps between the panels.
The work suited her: hard, requiring concentration, and the ability to keep her knees from trembling at the abyss yawning beneath her feet. The sealant lay smoothly; in her thick gloves, her hands moved precisely, with practiced skill. Below,
cars crawled through the traffic like ants — perhaps her husband’s patrol car among them.Sergei worked in traffic enforcement. He was a man of the system: baton, reports, rules. When they met, Angelina saw in him a sure point, a “guarantee” you wouldn’t step out without.
Two years later, however, the fuse began to fray, strand by strand.The evening brought the smell of roast meat and the looming argument. Sergei sat at the table, poking at the pounded steak with his fork. Angelina was tired in every muscle, but her mind was cold, like winter concrete.
— Gelya, I was just thinking… — Sergei started, not looking her in the eye, staring at the bubbles in his sparkling water. — We’ve been together two years, and yet I feel like a stranger. What’s yours is yours. What’s mine… feels like it’s shared.
Angelina paused, water kettle in hand. Water dripped slowly into the mug, steam climbing toward the window. She knew what game this was: this conversation had already appeared thrice, like a rotten beam in a spring flood.
— And what do you suggest? — she asked calmly, but every word was tense, trembling at the edge.— The apartment… — Sergei finally looked up. Greed and uncertainty flashed in his eyes. — Your father gave it to you, yes. But we did the renovation, didn’t we? We did.
Bought the furniture too. I think it would be fair if you transferred your share to me — as a guarantee. We’re family.Angelina set down the kettle. The metal clanged on the counter like a loud crash in the silence. She turned around. She decided: she would not hold back.
She would turn her anger into a weapon. Sergei was used to obedience but had forgotten that his wife worked where a single mistake could be fatal.— Guarantee? — snapped Angelina, her face twisted into a grimace Sergei mistook for hysteria. — You need a guarantee?! And I don’t?!
— Gelya, quieter, the neighbors… — he tried to intervene, palm out.— I don’t care about the neighbors! — Angelina shouted, throwing the kitchen towel on the floor. — You’ve lived here two years, don’t pay the bills because you’re “saving for a new car,” and now you dare open your mouth about my apartment?
Sergei froze. He expected logical arguments, debate — not this emotional avalanche. He didn’t see that behind the anger, a cold, calculating gaze watched every move of his.— Do you want to sell the apartment? — Angelina said slowly, every word cutting, measured, sharp. — And don’t you dare touch mine!
Sergei clenched his jaw. The plan had failed. His wife was not wax, but granite. He didn’t want to back down, so he began looking for another path — audacity would become his second chance; he had tried to take the first from Angelina.
Slippery path
Sergei chose the slow siege tactic. If you can’t storm the castle, poison the wells. He started with his own sister: Kseniya, a straight, determined woman, a port logistics worker, who hated manipulative schemes. They met in a café. Seagulls shrieked over the water.
— Kszjuh, understand… — Sergei chimed, pouring tea. — I’m just tolerated there. And we’re planning a child. How am I supposed to feel like the man if I can be kicked out at any moment?Kseniya squinted, stirring her sugar. She knew her brother: he always colored things, always pulled the blanket over himself.
— And what does Angelina say? — she asked dryly.— She’s hysterical — Sergei shrugged. — Screams like someone’s being cut. Nothing constructive. You get it? Greed leads to the grave. I’m just trying for us.Sergei “worked” even at a mutual friend’s, Vadim’s birthday:
he pulled aside Angelina’s uncle, Misha, a kind, impressionable man.— Uncle Misha, you’re a wise man — he whispered, the scent of cognac and onions surrounding him. — Please tell Gelya. A man can’t be humiliated like this.
Week by week, Sergei wove his web. Angelina, the high-rise facade painter, seemed not to notice the whispering. But in front of the carpenters, she always checked the strings, the vibrations.At home, the “hysterics” became more frequent.
Plates were smashed, shouting, but there was no yielding. Only anger and cold calculation. Sergei thought greed was driving her mad — but Angelina had long since cut the fuse.
The fuse breaks
The resolution came at a relative’s dacha, close to Angelina. Sergei felt it was the perfect moment: the audience inflamed, the ground prepared.— Let’s drink to trust! — he shouted. — Which, unfortunately, some families lack.
An awkward silence. Angelina lifted her head, skewer in hand like an ice pick.— How dare you talk about my house here, in front of my father? — her voice chimed. — You, who haven’t lifted a finger to earn this house?!Kseniya stood up. Sergei’s smile slid off his face.
— You’re an idiot, Seryozha — she said clearly. — Your salary goes to your games. Angelina runs the household. And you talk about a share? Boundless impudence.Angelina exhaled. Her “hysteria” vanished in a moment, replaced by predator-like icy calm.
— Thank you, Kszjusa — she said quietly. Then she turned to her husband. — Did you hear? Topic closed. One more word about the apartment — and you’re out.
Life on the ledge
Two months of Cold War mode. Sergei lived in the apartment, but felt like a saboteur behind enemy lines. Angelina managed the household in short, commanding sentences:— Buy bread.— Take out the trash.— Don’t touch this.Sergei felt the heat and the lack. Every move of Angelina’s radiated control.
The fall
Company celebration in a luxury restaurant. Sergei wanted to display his status: beautiful wife, success. Alcohol loosened tongues, and Sergei loudly began complaining:— Mine would kill himself for a penny! Women take everything. No trust… — loud enough for everyone around to hear.
Silence at the table. Angelina slowly put down the napkin. She entered like perfect, crystal-clear cold. Stood up. The chair squeaked. Sergei noticed her blurred, drunken gaze.The sound of the slap drowned out the music. Not a feminine strike, but a purposeful, worker’s hand hit.
— You’re not a moved-in son-in-law, Seryozha. Parasite. Your quarantine is over. Coward.Angelina grabbed her bag and left. The neighbors didn’t dare intervene. Sergei was left shamed. A photo arrived: black bags at her parents’ house, short caption: “YOURS. TAKE IT.”
Sergei understood: nothing was left. Below, the bags waited.High on the nineteenth floor, Angelina drank tea, watching the night city. Silence. Freedom. Without fear. Only the height remained.
