The Wife He Threw Away

PART 2 — The Woman He Could No Longer Control

Mark called me seventeen times that night.

I didn’t answer a single one.

The following morning, I arrived at the restaurant before sunrise. Kirill was already there, sitting at a corner table with two cups of coffee.

“You didn’t sleep,” he observed.

“Neither did you.”

He smiled. “I was thinking about something.”

“What?”

“Your ex-husband is going to make trouble.”

I placed my handbag on the chair.

“Then let him.”

Kirill studied me for a moment before speaking.

“Dasha, I want you to understand something. You don’t owe me anything. Not your gratitude, not your loyalty, and certainly not a marriage just because I helped you.”

I looked at him.

“Then why did you call me your wife?”

“Because I wanted him to understand that he had lost you. But whether you ever become my wife for real is entirely your decision.”

For the first time, I saw something in Kirill’s eyes that I hadn’t seen in Mark’s for years.

Respect.

Before I could respond, the restaurant manager rushed toward us.

“Mr. Seversky, there’s a problem. A man is waiting outside. He says he’s Dasha’s husband.”

My stomach tightened.

Mark.

He entered moments later, wearing an expensive black coat. His face was pale with anger, and his eyes immediately landed on Kirill’s hand resting beside mine.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding!” he shouted.

Several employees turned around.

I stood up calmly.

“Good morning, Mark.”

“Don’t play games with me. Pack your things. You’re coming home.”

“I don’t live with you anymore.”

He laughed bitterly.

“You think a few viral videos make you independent? You have no business, no family, and no money. Everything you know about success came from me!”

Kirill slowly stood.

“Interesting. I thought she was the one who sold her jewelry to save your first company.”

Mark’s expression changed.

Kirill continued.

“I also reviewed the financial records of Samoilov Holdings. Your first restaurant was financed with money transferred from Dasha’s personal account.”

Mark looked at me sharply.

“That was our money!”

“No,” I replied. “It was mine. And I never asked you to return it.”

“You’re my wife!”

I took a breath.

“Not anymore.”

I pulled a document from my handbag and placed it on the table.

It was the divorce petition.

Mark stared at it as if I had slapped him.

“You’re divorcing me?”

“Yes.”

His expression twisted.

“You’ll regret this. Do you know what my mother will say? What our business partners will think?”

I smiled faintly.

“For nine years, I worried about what everyone else thought. I’m finished doing that.”

Mark grabbed the papers, crushed them in his fist, and stormed out.

But he wasn’t finished.

Neither was his family.

That evening, Elena called.

Her voice was sharp and demanding.

“Dasha, come to the mansion tomorrow. We need to discuss Alina’s situation. She’s been having complications, and Mark is under enormous pressure.”

I closed my eyes.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because you’re still part of this family!”

“No, Elena. I was your servant. There’s a difference.”

I ended the call.

For the first time, I didn’t feel guilty.

I felt free.

But the next morning, a message arrived from an unknown number.

It contained a photograph of my old wedding ring.

Below it were seven words:

You should know what Mark has been hiding.