Бесплатный фрагмент - Toxic friend

KRISTIN EVANS
TOXIC FRIEND

Chapter 1: The Perfect Facade

The morning sun flooded the cozy hall of the “Julien” restaurant with a soft, amber light. Its rays danced in the crystal glasses, gleamed on the silverware, and cast warm pools on the crisp white tablecloths. The air was rich with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, buttery croissants, and the hyacinths blooming in planters by the huge panoramic windows. In this place, time seemed to slow down, and the problems of the big city felt distant and insignificant.

Marina had arrived first. She’d chosen a corner table with a view of a small, bustling square. Her fingers nervously fiddled with a napkin, and her gaze drifted over the familiar interior without settling on anything. Despite the idyllic scene, a faint anxiety stirred within her. Meetings with Lilia were always a rollercoaster — you never knew which way the next twist would throw you. But today, she told herself, would be different. Today was just a pleasant Sunday brunch with her best friend.

She caught the admiring glance of a man at a nearby table and shyly looked away. Marina didn’t consider herself a beauty, but her charm lay in her modesty. She had warm, gentle brown eyes, framed by long lashes she rarely enhanced with mascara, delicate features, and thick chestnut hair styled in a casually elegant updo. She was dressed in a simple cream-colored blouse and dark jeans, while most of the women at “Julien” flaunted designer dresses. She felt a little out of place here, but it was one of Lilia’s favorite spots.

“Marinochka! Darling! Sorry to keep you waiting, those idiots in the parking lot caused a traffic jam over some pathetic Ferrari!”

A voice, ringing like a bell, shattered the calm atmosphere. Everyone turned. Lilia had burst into the room. She wasn’t just a woman; she was an event. Her entrance was pure theater. A long dress the color of ripe raspberry hugged her perfect figure, a wide-brimmed hat and huge sunglasses hid half her face, and a light, flowing cape completed the look. She removed her glasses, and her bright blue eyes, expertly lined with winged eyeliner, swept over the room with an appraising, commanding gaze, as if checking that everyone had properly appreciated her grand entrance.

She swept over to the table, embraced Marina, enveloping her in a cloud of expensive, sensual perfume with notes of sandalwood and jasmine, and gracefully sank into a chair.

“You look wonderful,” Marina said, and it was the pure truth. Lilia always looked impeccable, as if she’d just stepped off the pages of a glossy magazine.

“I get three hours of sleep, survive on a diet of sorrow and angst, and you say I look wonderful,” Lilia sighed with feigned sadness, but it was clear the compliment pleased her. “And you, I see, decided not to bother. Your favorite ‘Miss Modesty’ style again. Although,” she squinted, studying Marina, “it’s… cute on you. Very authentic.”

Marina felt a familiar pang somewhere in the pit of her stomach. A compliment? Or a jab? With Lilia, it was always hard to tell. She had learned to let it go in one ear and out the other.

“How’s your project?” Marina asked, changing the subject. “Last time you were telling me about the shoot for the new catalog.”

Lilia perked up. Talking about herself was her favorite activity.

“God, Marin, it was a nightmare!” She took a sip from the glass of water a waiter had instantly provided. “The photographer is a complete hack, couldn’t find a good angle. The models are stiff as boards. The lighting is atrocious. I literally had to take over and direct the whole process, or they would have ruined everything. In the end, only my shots were usable. They’re already calling me the ‘savior of the project.’ I’m so tired of carrying all these losers, honestly.”

She spoke quickly, passionately, waving her hands. Her bracelets jingled. Marina listened, nodding. The story was typical: a complete failure by everyone else and a triumphant rescue by the brilliant Lilia. Marina had long stopped asking follow-up questions or expressing doubt. It only caused irritation.

“And how are you?” Lilia finally asked, breaking off a tiny piece of a croissant. “How are your… interiors? Found anyone yet willing to bring your little sketches to life?”

“I’m doing well,” Marina smiled, trying to ignore the slight condescension in her friend’s tone. “I’m actually working on an interesting commission right now. A private house in the suburbs. Very ambitious clients.”

“Oh, how sweet!” Lilia said, and her voice held genuine condescension, the kind usually reserved for a child’s hobby. “Drawing your pretty little tables and sofas. I know it’s so calming for you. It’s like art therapy for you.”

Marina picked up her coffee cup. The bitterness she tasted didn’t come from the drink.

“Yes, it’s true. I enjoy my work.”

“And you should!” Lilia suddenly placed her hand on top of Marina’s. Her touch was warm but commanding. “The main thing is to find a nice, quiet hobby so you don’t have to worry about the big stuff. Not everyone is built to carry the weight of responsibility like I am. You’re such a good girl.”

They fell silent for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Marina watched as Lilia answered messages on her phone, her long, perfect nails tapping on the screen. She was the living embodiment of success and style, and next to her, Marina always felt a little faded, a little unworthy of such a dazzling creature. That’s why she had endured these barbs, this condescension, for years. After all, Lilia could have chosen anyone to be her friend, and she had chosen her. It was an honor and… exhausting.

Suddenly, Lilia’s phone vibrated, playing an insistent, jarring ringtone. She looked at the screen, and her face changed instantly. All the charm, all the theatricality, fell away like a mask. All that remained was a cold, focused, and somehow… angry expression. Her fingers clenched the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“I have to take this,” her voice became quiet and flat, devoid of its former playfulness. “Business. Wait here.”

She stood up and strode quickly towards the exit without looking around. Her flowing cape flashed in the doorway and disappeared.

Marina was left sitting alone. She slowly exhaled, not even realizing she’d been holding her breath. The silence that followed Lilia’s departure was deafening. The anxiety she’d felt before her friend arrived returned, but now it was sharper, more tangible.

She watched Lilia through the window. She was standing on the square, her back to the restaurant, gesticulating. She was talking about something passionately, furiously. Her face, which Marina could see reflected in a storefront window, was distorted by a grimace of anger and contempt. It was a completely different face. Not the face of a friend, not the face of a successful socialite. It was the face of a stranger, hard and ruthless.

A few minutes later, Lilia ended the call. She stood still for a few seconds, staring at the phone. Then her shoulders straightened, she took a deep breath, ran a hand through her hair, and adjusted her dress. And when she turned to come back inside, that same dazzling, captivating smile was back on her face. Marina blinked, wondering if she had imagined it all. A trick of the light, her own imagination…

“Well, sorry, darling!” Lilia sang out, retaking her seat. “Those useless agents can’t take a single step without me. My whole morning is ruined. But enough about work!” She pushed the phone away as if pushing away everything unpleasant. “You won’t believe what I saw yesterday! And, more importantly, who with!”

And she launched into a captivating story about a high-society party, about celebrities, scandals, and intrigues. She laughed, joked, her eyes sparkling again. Marina listened, nodded, smiled. But her attention was no longer fully there.

She looked at her friend and saw not just her. She saw that other woman — with cold eyes and a mouth twisted in rage — who had been talking on the phone on the square. Two Lilias. The bright, sunny one sitting opposite her, and the shadowy, unfamiliar one who had briefly broken free.

An exhausting feeling, a familiar fatigue, washed over Marina with renewed force. She felt like an actress in a play that had long grown tedious but from which she couldn’t exit. She was playing the role of the best friend, the role of the admiring listener, the role of quiet, calm Marina, who was the perfect backdrop for the dazzling Lilia.

And deep inside, very quietly, almost inaudibly, a tiny, barely perceptible question arose: “But who am I, really? And how much longer can I endure this?”

But this question frightened her even more than the sudden change in her friend’s face. So she just took a sip of her now-cold coffee, forced a wider smile, and said:

“Really? And what did he say?”

The sun continued to shine, the restaurant patrons laughed and talked, and the shadow of the stranger slowly retreated into a corner of her mind, waiting for its hour.

Chapter 2: The First Scratch

The office of the “Modern” architectural firm resembled an anthill frozen in anticipation of a storm. The air was thick with tension, mixed with the smell of freshly printed blueprints, expensive coffee from the machine, and the faint scent of wood from a nearby model. Sunbeams streamed through the panoramic glass walls, illuminating dust particles floating in the air, making them look like miniature stardust. But today, no one was admiring the play of light.

Today was the day of the presentation for the “Sparrow Hills Residence” project.

For Marina, this project wasn’t just another job. It was her blood, her sleepless nights, her soul transferred onto drafting paper and into 3D models. For the last three months, she had lived and breathed this house. She knew its future inhabitants — the Lazarev family — their habits, their dreams, even how their youngest daughter loved to read on the floor, leaning against a warm wall. Marina had woven all of this into the design, creating not just a set of rooms, but a living space filled with light, air, and a quiet, peaceful harmony.

She stood in her glass-walled cubicle, running through the key points of the presentation in her head one last time. On the table before her lay a folder with the final sketches, printed on heavy matte paper. Every stroke, every color choice, every lighting decision had been meticulously planned. Next to it, the screen of her laptop glowed with a running 3D model, ready for demonstration.

Excitement coiled inside her like a tight, cold spring. But it was the good kind. Anticipation. The very moment she had become a designer for. The chance to show the fruit of her labor, her vision, and to see understanding and delight in the client’s eyes.

“Marina, are you ready?” Artem, her direct supervisor, appeared in the doorway. His usually mocking gaze was serious. “The Lazarevs are already in the conference room. The boss is with them. Looks like a big deal. Don’t screw up.”

“I’m ready,” she said firmly, though her fingers trembled slightly. She gathered the folders, checked that the flash drive with the presentation was in her pocket, and took a deep breath. Now, the main thing was to focus. To clear her mind of everything else.

It was at that exact moment that her personal phone, lying silently on the table, shook with an insistent vibration. The screen lit up with a name: “Lilia.”

Marina frowned. She had specifically warned her friend that she had a critically important meeting this morning. Lilia had seemed to understand and had even wished her luck in her usual slightly condescending tone: “Good luck, sweetie! Don’t stress so much over your little sofas.”

The phone fell silent, and a second later, it erupted in a silent, hysterical fit again. “Lilia.” Again.

Then a message came through. Marina glanced mechanically at the screen.

“Marin, sorry for calling. I have an emergency. Super urgent. Call me back, please, I have no one else to turn to.”

A cold dread slithered down her spine. An “emergency” for Lilia could mean anything from a broken heel to a real catastrophe. But the phrase “no one else to turn to” was her signature move. It was how she always guaranteed an instant reaction.

Marina placed the phone face down. No. Not now. No emergency could be more important than this moment. She steeled herself and took a step towards the conference room.

The phone vibrated again. This time, continuously. Lilia wasn’t just calling; she was literally gnawing at her attention, demanding it immediately.

“Marina, are you coming?” Alexander Petrovich, the head of the firm, had stepped out of the conference room. His gaze slid over her face, then down to the vibrating phone on the table. “Our important clients are waiting.”

“Yes, of course, sorry,” she said, her voice tight, and, giving in to a sudden impulse, she grabbed the phone and forcefully turned it off. Her heart was hammering somewhere in her throat. A stupid, hysterical reaction. Now she’d be worried about what was wrong with Lilia.

She entered the conference room. A spacious room, a large table of light oak, her entire project team, and opposite them — the Lazarev family. The head of the family, Vladimir, looked at her with businesslike interest. His wife, Irina, with warm curiosity.

Marina forced a smile, turned on the laptop, and laid out the folders. Her hands were shaking slightly.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lazarev, colleagues,” she began, and her voice, to her relief, sounded even and confident. “Today, I will present to you the project of your future home. I haven’t just created an interior. I’ve tried to create a space that would become an extension of your family, your worldview…”

She immersed herself in the presentation. The words flowed naturally. She showed the sketches, explained the choice of materials, demonstrated the 3D model where the virtual camera flew through bright, airy rooms. She saw the Lazarevs’ faces gradually come alive, a smile appear on Irina’s lips, Vladimir nodding approvingly at some engineering solution.

The nervousness began to give way to professional excitement, a light euphoria. It was going well. She was doing it! Lilia’s calls faded into the background, becoming a blurry spot of anxiety somewhere on the periphery of her consciousness.

She approached the key moment — the presentation of the living room, the heart of the home, the place where, according to her plan, the whole family would gather.

“And here, as you can see, we use panoramic glazing to seamlessly merge the interior space with the garden. The light will enter at such an angle that even in winter…”

The door to the conference room opened quietly. The frightened face of Katya, the intern, appeared in the doorway.

“Marina, sorry to interrupt,” she whispered, “there’s an urgent call for you. On the landline. The person says it’s a matter of life and death. Can’t wait.”

An awkward silence fell over the room. All eyes turned from Marina to the pale Katya and back. Alexander Petrovich frowned. The Lazarevs leaned back from the table with polite bewilderment.

An icy wave passed through Marina’s body. She knew who it was. She knew with absolute certainty.

“Tell them I’m in an important meeting,” she said quietly but clearly, trying to maintain her composure.

“I did!” Katya whispered, on the verge of tears. “She said that… that if you don’t come to the phone right now, you might regret it for the rest of your life. She’s having… hysterics.”

The last phrase was uttered very quietly, but in the tomb-like silence of the conference room, everyone heard it.

Alexander Petrovich’s face turned crimson. He nodded towards the door. Katya vanished.

“Marina Vladimirovna,” he spoke quietly, but every word fell like honed steel. “We are waiting. If your personal problems are so urgent, we can reschedule…”

“No! No, I’m sorry, everything’s fine,” Marina felt herself burning all over. Humiliation, rage, panic — all mixed into a tight knot, constricting her throat. She tried to catch the lost thread of the presentation. “So, the living room… the light… the angles…”

She launched the next part of the 3D model, but her fingers were trembling, and she clicked the wrong icon. Instead of views of the living room, a technical schematic of the ventilation system appeared on the huge wall-sized screen — dry, drab lines that had nothing to do with her poetic description.

Vladimir Lazarev coughed politely.

“Ventilation is, of course, important,” he remarked, and a hint of mockery touched his voice for the first time.

Marina began to explain incoherently that it was a mistake, trying to get back to the right slide. But panic had completely taken hold of her. She stumbled over her words, her explanations became disjointed, she forgot the key lighting calculations she herself had made.

She saw the interest in the clients’ eyes fade, replaced by polite boredom, and then disappointment. She saw Alexander Petrovich look at her with icy contempt. She saw her colleagues look away, embarrassed for her.

The presentation turned into a complete disaster. She mumbled something about the remaining details and gave up, falling helplessly silent.

“Thank you, Marina Vladimirovna,” Alexander Petrovich said dryly. “We will review the materials further. Colleagues, please provide Mrs. Lazareva with all the blueprints.”

He wasn’t looking at her. No one was looking at her.

The meeting was over. The clients left, trying not to look in her direction. The team dispersed into corners, discussing what had happened in whispers.

Marina was left alone in the large, suddenly empty conference room. The air, filled with energy and promise just minutes ago, was now stale and heavy. She slowly gathered her folders. Her hands felt like lead. A deafening ringing filled her ears.

She turned her phone on. Notifications popped up on the screen: 17 missed calls from “Lilia” and several voicemails.

Marina walked out into the empty hallway, leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the panoramic window. Life bustled outside, cars sped by, people walked. But inside her, everything was dead and shattered. Years of work, months on this specific project, a chance to prove her worth — all crossed out by one selfish impulse of her “best friend.”

She felt utterly destroyed. And through this all-consuming feeling, another, new, unfamiliar emotion broke through. Hot, sharp, poisonous.

Rage. Pure, undiluted rage at Lilia.

She squeezed the phone so hard the screen protector cracked. Tears finally streamed from her eyes, but they weren’t tears of hurt or self-pity. They were tears of powerless fury.

At that moment, the phone vibrated again in her hand. “Lilia.”

Marina looked at that name, at that stupid heart emoji she herself had once set next to it. She looked at it through a veil of tears and the crack on the glass. And for the first time in many years, she felt not the slightest desire to answer that call. Only one desire arose, frightening in its intensity — to hurl the phone against the wall, to smash it, so that this name would disappear from the screen and from her life forever.

But she didn’t do it. She just slowly slid down the glass to the floor, hid her face in her knees, and cried quietly, feeling the crack run not only across her phone’s glass but through the very foundation of her friendship and her own life. And the phone in her hand continued to vibrate insistently and indifferently, demanding her attention, as it always had.

Chapter 3: “I Only Love You”

The rain started suddenly, like everything else bad that day. Heavy, fat drops drummed against the glass facade of the office building, turning the world outside into a blurred, grey-watery canvas. For Marina, it was just a continuation of the internal downpour already raging inside her soul. She stepped outside without even opening her umbrella, allowing the water to lash her face, mingling with the hot, salty tears of powerlessness and rage.

The journey home felt like moving through a thick, viscous nightmare. She barely remembered getting on the metro, getting off at her stop, walking the familiar streets without feeling the ground beneath her feet. The hum of the humiliating silence from the conference room still echoed in her ears, interrupted only by the persistent, ghostly vibration of the phone she now clutched in her fist so tightly the metal casing dug into her palm.

Her apartment, usually such a quiet and cozy refuge, greeted her with a tomblike silence. Marina leaned her back against the door, closing her eyes. The moment played on a loop in her head: the intern’s frightened face, Alexander Petrovich’s furrowed brows, Vladimir Lazarev’s mocking cough, the technical schematic on the huge screen… And overlaid on all of it — the name on her phone. “Lilia.”

She threw her bag with the folders onto the floor. The folders burst open, and snow-white sheets with her blueprints, her dreams, her pain, scattered across the hallway floor like a funeral salute to her career. Marina walked into the living room, collapsed onto the sofa, and stared at the wall. Emptiness. Total, deafening emptiness. Even the anger had subsided, leaving behind only a scorched, lifeless plain of despair.

She sat like that for an unknown amount of time. The rain tapped against the window. Dusk slowly drew the room into its grey embrace. Marina didn’t turn on the lights. It seemed any ray of light, any movement, would break this fragile numbness, and the pain would return with renewed force.

And then, a knock sounded in the silence. Hesitant at first, then more insistent. Marina flinched; her heart skipped a beat and froze. It couldn’t be anyone she knew. A delivery person? A neighbor?

The knock repeated. Firm, confident. Then she heard a voice. The very voice she had been ready to smash to pieces just hours before.

“Marin! Marinochka, darling! I know you’re in there! Please, open up! I really need to talk to you!”

Lilia. She had come. In person. Without calling first. It was so out of character that it snapped Marina out of her stupor for a second. Anger, cold and sharp, pierced her again. She clenched her fists. No. Not a chance. She wouldn’t open the door. She wouldn’t talk to her. Let her stand there. Let her leave.

“Marina, I’m not leaving. I’ll stand here all night if I have to. Please…”

Strange notes sounded in her voice. Not the usual demanding clucking, but something cracked, almost… desperate.

Marina slowly rose from the sofa and walked to the door. She looked through the peephole.

On the landing, under the dim light of the bulb, stood Lilia. But it wasn’t the Lilia who had glittered at “Julien” that morning. The raspberry-colored dress was soaked through and clung shapelessly to her figure. Her hat was gone, and her famous, painstakingly styled hair was wet, disheveled, and hung in pathetic strands. She stood hugging her shoulders, making her look surprisingly small and vulnerable. But what struck Marina most was her face. It was pale, devoid of any makeup, and her eyes were red, tearful, and filled with such genuine anguish that Marina’s heart, against her will, clenched.

She mechanically turned the key and opened the door.

“Lil… what’s wrong?” she whispered.

Lilia looked at her with her huge, tear-filled eyes, and her lips trembled.

“He left me,” she exhaled, and her voice broke into a wrenching, childish whimper. “Sergei. He dumped me. Dumped me, Marin! Said I was… that I was too complicated. That I wanted too much. And he left.”

She took a step forward, and large, heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. They seemed real. Marina froze, uncertain. Her own disaster suddenly paled in comparison to this sudden grief of her friend. The old, years-trained reflex — to comfort, to save, to be the rock — kicked in faster than conscious thought.

“Come in, you’re soaked,” Marina said quietly, retreating into the hallway.

Lilia stepped over the threshold and, without taking off her wet coat, suddenly hugged her, pressing her wet, cold face against Marina’s neck.

“He left me…” she sobbed. “And I loved him so much… I did everything for him… Gave him everything…”

Marina awkwardly patted her on the back, feeling the icy dampness seep through her own blouse. She led her into the living room and sat her down on the sofa. Lilia continued to cry, quietly, almost silently, and these tears were far more terrifying than her usual hysterics.

“I called you, I called…” Lilia sobbed, raising her tear-filled eyes to Marina. “I felt so awful, so alone… I only needed you… And you didn’t pick up. I thought you’d abandoned me too…”

And there it was, the familiar, painfully recognizable blade of manipulation in her voice. But now it was wrapped in such packaging of sincere suffering that Marina couldn’t find the strength to be angry. Instead, she was seized by a burning, suffocating guilt.

She pictured Lilia at that very moment: abandoned, crying, while she, Marina, had angrily turned off her phone. She had left her alone in her hardest time.

“I had… an important meeting,” Marina weakly tried to justify herself.

“I know! I remember!” Lilia exclaimed, grabbing her hands. Her fingers were icy. “And I feel so guilty for distracting you! Forgive me, darling! Forgive me! I’m so selfish! I was only thinking of myself and my pain! How did your presentation go? Did it go well?”

The question was asked with such feigned, theatrical interest that Marina suddenly saw the full absurdity of the situation. Her career was possibly in ruins, and she was sitting here comforting the one who had caused this collapse. And that person was asking for her forgiveness, making her feel doubly guilty.

“It was fine,” Marina replied dryly, looking away. “Everything’s okay.”

“I’m so glad!” Lilia exhaled, but it was obvious she didn’t care at all. Her thoughts were back with the departed Sergei. “You’re so strong, Marin. You have your work, your talent… And me… what am I without him? Nothing. Just an empty space.”

She burst into tears again. Marina silently stood up, went to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. She needed to do something, a simple, understandable action to distract herself from the chaos in her own soul. When she returned with two cups of hot tea, Lilia was rummaging in her huge bag.

“I brought you something…” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “You know, I was walking past a store window and I saw it… and I immediately thought of you. Like a sign.”

She handed Marina a small, elegant box wrapped in silk paper. Marina took it mechanically and unwrapped it. Inside, on black velvet, lay a brooch of exquisite craftsmanship — the most delicate silver lace with a small, perfectly cut sapphire in the center. It was an expensive, wildly expensive piece. And incredibly beautiful.

“Lil… this is… why?” Marina whispered, bewildered.

“It’s so you’ll forgive me,” Lilia looked at her again with her huge, tear-filled eyes. “And so you’ll remember that you’re my one and only. My most loyal. My best.”

She took the cup of tea, but her hands were shaking so much the tea sloshed over. Marina automatically took the cup from her and set it on the table.

“Everyone leaves me,” Lilia said quietly, almost in a whisper, staring into emptiness. Her voice held such a bottomless, cosmic melancholy that goosebumps ran down Marina’s skin. “Dad left when I was little. Then my first husband. Then the second… Then all those men… And now Sergei. I knew it. I always knew it. Always. They come to me, they use me, and then they leave. No one needs me. At all.”

She fell silent, and the silence in the room became thick, viscous.

“Only you are left,” she raised her eyes to Marina, full of plea and despair. “Only you, Marinochka. You won’t leave me, will you? Really? You won’t leave? Do you promise?”

And in that moment, all of Marina’s rage, all her resentment, all the pain from the failed presentation — it all dissolved, evaporated under the pressure of this monstrous, all-consuming pity. Before her sat not a manipulative monster, but a wounded, unhappy child who had been afraid of being abandoned her whole life. She had been betrayed, her career was under threat, but it wasn’t Lilia’s fault. It was the fault of all those men who had broken her, made her so vulnerable.

Marina sat down next to her on the sofa and hugged her again.

“Of course I won’t leave you,” she said quietly, stroking her wet hair. “Silly. How could I ever leave you?”

“Promise?” Lilia whispered stubbornly, like a child, pressing herself into Marina’s shoulder.

“I promise,” Marina whispered back.

Lilia hugged her tighter and seemed to calm down a little. Her breathing became more even. Marina sat motionless, feeling the weight of her body, the cold dampness of her clothes, and the oppressive, suffocating weight of the promise she had just made. She looked over Lilia’s head at her blueprints scattered on the floor. Her dreams. Her failure.

And on her palm, as if burning it, lay the beautiful, cold, incredibly expensive brooch. A bribe for forgiveness. Payment for silence. A bright, shining sapphire that suddenly seemed to her like a frozen, cold tear.

Lilia cried quietly on her shoulder, now more for show, enjoying being accepted and forgiven again, being safe again. And Marina looked out the dark window where the rain continued to pour, and felt something important and fragile inside her finally shatter. The anger was gone. But it hadn’t left emptiness in its wake; it had left another feeling — heavy as lead and bitter as wormwood.

The feeling of a trap. One she had just snapped shut herself.

Chapter 4: A New Light

The week following the disastrous presentation and Lilia’s nighttime visit dragged on slowly and drearily, like a sweater soaked in autumn rain. Marina felt scorched from the inside. Every morning, crossing the office threshold, she caught the glances of her colleagues — a mix of curiosity, pity, and outright schadenfreude. Alexander Petrovich didn’t speak to her. The “Sparrow Hills Residence” project had been handed over to another designer, Olga, a capable and emotionless woman who now held court in the conference room with Marina’s blueprints in her hands.

Marina buried herself in routine. Small orders, corrections, paperwork. What she had once found boring now became her refuge. Here, she didn’t need to show initiative, to shine, to take risks. She could just perform mechanical work, hiding behind it from the shame and feeling of her own inadequacy.

Lilia called every day. Her story about the departed Sergei continued, but the tone gradually shifted from tragic to dramatic, and then to the familiarly demanding one. She was already planning how to “get him back just to dump him herself,” was keenly interested in whether Marina had met any new interesting men, and had started criticizing her work, her clothes, and her lack of ambition again. The sapphire brooch, lying on her dressing table, seemed to emit a cold, heavy light, constantly reminding her of that evening and the promise she’d made.

On Friday, Artem called Marina to his office.

“Listen,” he said, not looking her in the eye, shuffling papers on his desk. “We need to go to a gallery. They’re exhibiting a collection of modern furniture and art objects. The owner, Mikhail, is a friend of the boss. The boss wants us to see if there’s anything we can use in current projects. Will you go?”

It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. And a clear attempt to snap her out of her hibernation, to give her some neutral assignment.

“Of course,” Marina nodded without enthusiasm.

The “Modernist” gallery was located in a quiet lane in the very heart of the city. It wasn’t just an exhibition space; it was a true island of harmony and taste. High ceilings, white walls, perfect lighting that fell softly on the whimsical shapes of armchairs, sculptures, and paintings. The air smelled of wood, leather, and the faintest aroma of expensive coffee. A silence reigned here, broken only by quiet, unobtrusive music.

Marina involuntarily straightened her back. This place breathed the very aesthetics, the very attention to detail, that had drawn her to the profession in the first place. Her eyes automatically began picking out interesting solutions, combinations of materials, plays of light and shadow. She took out her notebook, forgetting her apathy for a moment.

“Hello,” a calm, pleasant baritone voice sounded behind her. “Can I help you with something?”

Marina turned around. A man stood before her. Tall, in a perfectly fitted dark grey cashmere sweater and simple jeans. There was nothing flashy about his appearance, nothing of the forced gloss of Lilia’s acquaintances. But there was an incredible sense of self-esteem and calm strength. His eyes, grey and very attentive, looked at her not appraisingly, as a seller would look at a potential client, but with genuine interest.

“I… I’m from the ‘Modern’ bureau,” Marina introduced herself, feeling, for some reason, a slight tremble in her knees. “My name is Marina. Someone called… about the collection.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded, and small wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. His smile was warm and slightly reserved. “Mikhail. I have a lot of respect for your bureau’s work. Especially the last project with the public space on Patriarch’s Ponds.”

Marina looked at him in surprise. That had been her project. One of her first, modest but made with soul.

“You… saw it?”

“Naturally,” he lightly touched her elbow, inviting her deeper into the hall. “I follow all the significant events in the city. The work with light there was very bold, and the zoning was very… human, I’d say. You could feel it.”

They talked for over an hour. Mikhail didn’t try to sell her anything. He talked about art, about design, about how space influences people. He asked her questions. Not out of politeness, but truly listening to her answers. He asked her opinion on this or that piece, and when Marina, first timidly and then more confidently, began to share her thoughts, he listened attentively, nodded, sometimes argued, but always — respectfully.

“This piece,” Marina stopped in front of an abstract sculpture of polished metal and frosted glass. “It’s… otherworldly. As if it flew in from another dimension. But this crack, this chip at the base… it makes it human. It’s a reminder that even something perfect and cold can be vulnerable.”

Mikhail looked from the sculpture to her.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what I felt when I acquired it. But I couldn’t put it into words. You have a remarkable ability to see the soul of things, Marina.”

Her name in his mouth sounded special. Quiet, respectful, without familiarity. Marina felt a warm blush spread across her cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had talked to her like this — as an equal, with genuine interest in her thoughts, not in her ability to listen to others.

He offered her coffee. They sat in a small office behind a glass wall overlooking the hall. He told her about how the gallery was created, about his searches, about the artists. Marina suddenly found herself telling him about her failed presentation. She didn’t go into details, didn’t mention Lilia, just said she had failed an important project.

“And how did you feel?” Mikhail asked, his grey eyes fixed on her face.

“That I… was in the wrong place,” she admitted, surprising herself with her frankness. “That maybe I’d chosen the wrong profession. That my vision was worthless to anyone.”

Mikhail shook his head.

“One failure is not a verdict. It’s a lesson. Sometimes the harshest lesson is the most valuable one. It burns away everything superficial and shows you what remains. And what remains is only the most important thing — your passion. Your vision. You can’t lose it. You can only betray it.”

He spoke not as a comforter, but as a man who had been through it himself. There wasn’t a drop of condescension or pity in his words. There was understanding. And belief. The very belief Marina had almost buried within herself.

When she gathered her things to leave, Mikhail handed her his business card — simple, matte, with embossed lettering.

“Marina, it was incredibly pleasant and useful to talk with you. You’ve given me a few ideas for a new exhibition. If you’re in the mood, please stop by again. We sometimes have private viewings, lectures… I think you might find them interesting.”

He didn’t ask for her phone number. Didn’t try to set up a meeting. He simply left the door ajar, giving her complete freedom of choice.

“Thank you,” Marina said, taking the card. Their fingers touched briefly. His touch was warm and firm. “It was very interesting for me, too.”

She stepped outside. The evening air was already cool with autumn’s touch, but Marina barely felt it. Inside, a small, almost extinguished ember was glowing. She walked along the boulevard, not noticing the passers-by, and his voice echoed in her head. “Your vision. You can’t lose it. You can only betray it.”

She suddenly realized that during the entire hour-plus conversation, Mikhail had not once interrupted her, tried to steer the topic to himself, or devalued her thoughts with a joke or a barb. He had simply… listened. And seen. Not her as a reflection of someone’s ambitions or a convenient friend, but her herself — Marina, the designer, the woman with her own inner world.

She took out her phone. There were several missed calls from Lilia and one voicemail. Marina mechanically tapped on it.

“Marin, where are you? I’m bored!” Lilia’s voice was capricious and demanding. “Call me back, we need to discuss the revenge strategy against Sergei. I’ve thought of something brilliant!”

Just a few hours ago, this message would have made her shrink inside with a sense of duty and guilt. Now she listened to it as if from the outside, through the prism of the conversation she had just had. And for the first time, she clearly heard behind that sweet, bored tone — a selfish, piercing shriek. An emptiness demanding to be filled at any cost.

She didn’t call back. She just put the phone in her pocket and continued on her way, clutching the matte rectangle of the business card in her hand. For the first time in a long time, she felt not heaviness and fatigue, but a light, almost forgotten feeling — a quiet, calm hope. And something else. Hesitant, timid, but already breaking through the thickness of disappointments and hurts — a sense of self-worth.

She wasn’t a grey mouse. She wasn’t authentic and cute. She was a professional, with refined taste and her own vision. And one intelligent, handsome man with calm grey eyes had seen it and helped her see it in herself.

The world outside the window hadn’t changed. It was the same as before. But Marina was already looking at it with slightly different eyes.

Chapter 5: Poisonous Laughter

Three days had passed since the meeting at the “Modernist” gallery. Three days during which Marina caught her thoughts returning, again and again, to Mikhail’s calm voice, his attentive gaze, that feeling of lightness and self-worth he had given her. The business card with its elegant embossing lay in a separate compartment of her bag, and she found herself touching it with her fingers like a talisman.

She had even tried sketching a few new designs. Not for work, but for herself. Bold, slightly crazy lines that conservative Alexander Petrovich would never approve of, but which made her heart beat faster. They had life in them. They had her in them.

It was over these sketches, sitting at her favorite table in a quiet coffee shop near her home, that the next call from Lilia found her. Marina sighed, put down her pencil, and answered.

“Marinochka, where are you? I need your help urgently!” Lilia’s voice rang not with anxiety, but with excitement. “Meet me at your place in half an hour! This can’t be discussed over the phone!”

And without giving Marina a chance to object, she hung up.

Marina looked at her sketches. A flight of thought, interrupted. Her focus was gone, leaving only the familiar sense of obligation. She slowly gathered her things and went home, with a sinking feeling that her little island of calm was about to be swept away by the usual hurricane.

Lilia appeared exactly forty minutes later, an act of near-unheard-of punctuality for her. She blew into the apartment like a whirlwind, sweeping everything aside in her path. This time she was wearing a short, acid-pink dress, huge sunglasses, and the expression of a triumphant lottery winner.

“Well, talk!” Lilia demanded, kicking off her heels and settling on the sofa, tucking her legs under her. “I’m dying of curiosity! I know something’s happened! You’re glowing! You’ve met someone!”

Marina froze by the kitchen counter, where she was about to put the kettle on.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“Sweetie, I’ve known you for a hundred years!” Lilia snorted. “I can see those silly little sparkles in your eyes. That’s not from a new chandelier. Confess! Who is he? Where did you meet? And why am I the last to know?”

Marina felt goosebumps run down her spine. She didn’t want to share Mikhail with Lilia. He was hers. Her small, fragile, newly-born feeling. She was instinctively afraid that her friend’s poisonous gaze would kill it on the spot.

“There’s no one special,” she said, looking down. “I just met someone. Through work.”

“Through work?” Lilia raised her eyebrows with exaggerated interest. “Who? That bearded architect from your office? The one who always wears stretched-out sweaters?”

“No,” Marina surrendered. Resisting was useless. Lilia would extract it all from her anyway, like pulling teeth. “The owner of a gallery. Mikhail.”

“Mikhail?” Lilia pronounced the name as if tasting a strange and suspicious fruit. “A gallery? What, that little shop where they sell daubs by unknown artists? Or the one with matryoshka dolls holding sickles and hammers?”

“No,” Marina felt herself being sucked into the quagmire of this conversation. “Modern art. Design. A very serious gallery.”

“Oh, serious!” Lilia snorted. “Well, go on then. How old is he? Does he even look decent? Or is he all wrinkles and grey in his beard?”

Marina clenched her hands into fists. She tried to recall Mikhail’s calm, handsome face, but it blurred under the barrage of Lilia’s poisonous comments.

“He’s… around forty. He looks great. Very… stylish.”

“Stylish?” Lilia laughed her bell-like, caustic laugh. “You mean he wears a black turtleneck and has an earring? ‘Stylish’? Sweetie, that’s called a mid-life crisis. He’s probably poor as a church mouse. All these gallery types are eternal drop-outs, playing at art on daddy’s money or some sugar mama’s dime. I bet he’s been divorced half a dozen times and pays alimony to three kids from different wives.”

“Lil, stop it!” Marina couldn’t take it anymore. “You haven’t even seen him!”

“I don’t need to see him,” Lilia cut her off with sudden coldness. “I know these ‘creative’ types inside and out. Believe me. He’s not for you. You deserve someone… real. With money. With status. Someone who will carry you in his arms, not discuss daubs with you in his shabby little gallery.”

She stood up and paced the living room, her gaze falling on Mikhail’s business card, which Marina had left in haste on the coffee table next to her sketches.

“Oh, ‘Mikhail Somov. Modernist Gallery’, ” she read aloud in a mocking tone. “How precious. He even gave you his little card. Probably printed it at his own expense in some back-alley print shop. How cute.”

She threw the card back on the table as if it were something unpleasant to the touch.

“Marin, I’m only thinking of you!” Her tone changed again to a heartfelt, chummy one. She came over and put her arm around Marina’s shoulders. “You’re my best, my kindest girl. You’re naive. You only see the good in people. And men like him take advantage of that. He smelled your insecurity after your little failure at work and decided to move in. He’ll use your connections at the bureau, or worse, ask to borrow money ‘for the gallery’s development.’ I don’t want you to be used!”

Marina listened to her, and her initial anger began to slowly drown in a heavy, familiar swamp of doubt. What if Lilia was right? She certainly had vast experience with men. Mikhail really could be anyone. His gallantry, his attentiveness — could be a mask. And her own joy from meeting him — just the naive foolishness of a woman who felt sorry for herself.

“He… he was very respectful towards me,” she weakly tried to defend him.

“Of course he was!” Lilia rolled her eyes. “He’s on the hunt! Of course he’ll be respectful. Until he gets what he wants. Believe me, darling, I’m saving you from a huge mistake. You’re not for his world. You’re for something bigger. For someone bigger.”

She released Marina and settled back on the sofa, now with the air of an expert who had delivered the final verdict.

“Alright, sorted that out. Now for the main event!” Her eyes sparkled again. “My plan to get Sergei back worked! He wrote to me! He’s on his knees, begging me to come back!”

Lilia began to describe with delight every step of her “brilliant strategy,” which consisted of posting photos with other men on social media and hinting at a new, passionate romantic life. Marina listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places. Her thoughts were there, on the table, with the crumpled business card.

When Lilia finally left, buoyed by her victory, a heavy, oppressive silence hung in the apartment. Marina walked over to the table and picked up the business card. The paper was slightly creased. She tried to smooth it with her fingers, but a small wrinkle remained.

She looked at her sketches. All the bold lines, all the interesting solutions now seemed stupid, amateurish, unworthy of the attention of such a “stylish” and “serious” gallery owner. Lilia’s words, like poisonous needles, pierced the very heart of her confidence.

He’s not for you.

You deserve better.

He’s poor as a church mouse.

He’s taking advantage of your insecurity.

Marina slowly walked to her dressing table. Next to the expensive sapphire brooch lay her phone. She picked it up and opened the chat with Mikhail. Their exchange was limited to a couple of polite messages about her visit. He had written that it was nice to meet her. She had thanked him.

She wanted to write something to him. Maybe ask about that lecture. Or just send a neutral “good evening.” But her fingers froze over the screen.

What if Lilia was right? What if he really thought she was being pushy? That she was a naive little fool who mistook politeness for interest? That her modest sketches would only evoke a condescending smile from him?

Shame. A burning, piercing shame overwhelmed her. Shame for her thoughts, for her hopes, for that moment of stupid happiness she had experienced in the gallery.

She put the phone down. Then she took the business card, looked at it for another moment, and carefully, trying not to crease it further, placed it not in her bag, but in a drawer of the dressing table, under a stack of tissues. Out of sight, out of mind.

Then she went to the table with the sketches, gathered them into a neat stack, and put them away in a folder. She pushed it onto the farthest shelf.

The room became clean and empty. Not a trace remained of that brief moment of inspiration and lightness. Only the familiar, comfortable, grey reality remained, in which she was just Marina, the quiet friend of the dazzling Lilia, who “cared for her and protected her from mistakes.”

She went to the window and looked out at the evening city. The lights of the neon signs seemed so distant and alien. Somewhere out there was he. The “Modernist” gallery. The calm gaze. The warm wrinkles around the eyes.

Marina turned away from the window. She suddenly felt very cold. She felt an emptiness not outside, but inside. As if something important, having barely had time to be born, had been neatly, skillfully, and mercilessly excised with a thin, sharp scalpel.

And the most terrible thing was that she herself had held that scalpel. And Lilia had merely guided her hand gently, whispering in her ear with a caring, poisonous whisper: “I’m only thinking of you, darling. I only love you.”

Chapter 6: A Performance for an Audience

The air in the showroom was thick and sweet as syrup. It was a blend of expensive leather, polished wood, floral arrangements in floor vases, and the refined perfume of the guests. Soft, enveloping jazz flowed from hidden speakers, merging with the muted hum of voices. Spotlight beams fell at perfect angles, picking out velvet sofas, glossy table surfaces, and the gleam of crystal on the trays of circulating waiters.