“I want a divorce!” I insist to my husband. With mockery, he raises an eyebrow. This scoundrel didn’t even bother to fasten his fly—and he clearly doesn’t plan to throw his mistress out of his office.
“Dared to take a pill of courage, wife?” he cuts me off coldly. “Get out, defective! There won’t be any divorce.”
“Don’t clog my brain, Kira. Forgot your place?”
“It will be!” I say. “I don’t love you!”
“I don’t either,” he replies calmly and indifferently, as if it’s something self-evident. After fixing his shirt, he finally zips up his fly and steps close to me. With brutal disdain, he exhales into my face: “But you are mine. Were, are, and will remain mine. You don’t leave a man like me. Unless it’s to the other world.”
And I decided. I decided to part with someone who never valued me—and won’t. To him I’m nothing more than an incubator with noble origins, but I’m no longer willing to put up with it.