— School? Seriously? — Valentina Sergeevna grimaced as if from a toothache. — Artyom could have found a more decent wife.

I silently poured tea into the porcelain cups, trying not to spill. My hands trembled with anger, but I couldn’t show it to my mother-in-law.

Three months of marriage had taught me one thing — in this house, I would always be a stranger.

— Mom, stop it, — Artyom squeezed my hand under the table. — Katya is a wonderful wife.

— Wonderful? — my father-in-law smirked, looking up from his tablet. — Son, you could have chosen the daughter of our partners. But you brought home… a teacher.

He spat out the last word with such contempt as if I had done something shameful. I wanted to stand up and leave, but Artyom held my hand. — Dad, I love Katya. Isn’t that what matters?

— Love, — Valentina Sergeevna snorted. — In our circle, marriages are built on other grounds. But you have always been a romantic.

She glanced me over critically — from my simple blouse to my neatly tied hair. Her eyes showed open disdain.

— Katerina, dear, — my mother-in-law’s voice became sickly sweet, — what exactly do you teach at your… school?

— Literature and Russian language, — I answered calmly.

— Ah, literature! — she theatrically threw up her hands. — So you spend your days reading fairy tales to children?

— Mom! — Artyom raised his voice.

— What “mom”? I’m just curious about your wife’s profession. By the way, Katerina, you do understand what kind of family you married into? We have certain standards.

I took a sip of tea to buy time. A lump rose in my throat, but I managed to keep my voice steady:

— I understand, Valentina Sergeevna. I try to live up to them.

— Try? — she laughed. — Dear, you have no idea what it means to be a Morozov wife. This isn’t your typical school parents’ meetings.

My father-in-law nodded in agreement. Artyom squeezed my hand tighter.

— That’s enough, — he said sternly. — Katya is my wife, and I ask you to treat her with respect.

— Respect is earned, son, — my father-in-law put aside his tablet. — So far, all I see are the ambitions of a provincial girl who married well.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I forced a smile. I couldn’t show weakness. That’s all they were waiting for.

— I’m not a provincial girl, Viktor Petrovich. I was born and raised in Moscow, just like you.

— Moscow? — Valentina Sergeevna arched an eyebrow. — Which district, if you don’t mind me asking?

— Biryulyovo.

The couple exchanged glances, and a triumphant gleam flashed in their eyes. For them, Biryulyovo was synonymous with all things low-class. — I see, — my father-in-law drawled. — Well, the main thing is that you understand your place in this family.

— What place? — Artyom couldn’t hold back.

— The place of a wife who must match her husband’s status, — Valentina Sergeevna cut in sharply.

The week passed in tense silence. Artyom apologized for his parents and promised to talk to them, but I knew it was useless.

In their eyes, I would forever remain an upstart from Biryulyovo, who had her eyes on their money. Funny — they didn’t even know that I had fallen in love with Artyom long before I learned about his family’s wealth.

We met in a bookstore, argued about Dostoevsky, laughed at the same jokes. Back then, he was just a guy in worn jeans with kind eyes.

Mother-in-law called Thursday morning while I was preparing for lessons.

— Katerina, come by at four today. We need to have a serious talk.

The tone promised nothing good. I left the last lessons early, though the principal gave me a sharp look — midterm period, tests coming up.

But family was more important, I told myself, though inside I was gripped by a bad feeling.

The Morozov mansion greeted me with oppressive silence. The staff seemed to have vanished; even the usually bustling housekeeper Marina didn’t show.

Valentina Sergeevna waited in the living room — perfect hairstyle, expensive suit, cold smile.

— Sit down, Katerina. Tea?

I shook my head. My throat tightened so much not even a sip of water could pass.

— I have thought long about how best to say this, — she leaned back in her chair, studying me. — You’re not a fool, you must understand — this marriage is a mistake.

— A mistake for whom? — I replied calmer than I expected.

— For everyone. But especially for Artyom. He is the heir to an empire, and you… — she grimaced. — You’re dragging him down.

Anger surged from deep inside, a hot wave. How much more humiliation must I endure? But I stayed silent, letting her speak. — I’m prepared to make you an offer, — Valentina Sergeevna leaned forward. — Five million for a divorce. Quietly, without scandals. Tell Artyom you’ve fallen out of love.

— No.

— Ten million.

— Valentina Sergeevna, I am not for sale.

Her face twisted. The mask of a noble lady slipped, revealing her true nature. — Then listen carefully, — her voice hardened like a blade. — If you want to stay in this family, remember: you must be a servant to my husband, cook, clean, fulfill any whim.

No claims to inheritance, no children without my permission. You will be a shadow, understand?

I stared at her, unable to believe my ears. A servant? In the twenty-first century? Inside I boiled with outrage, but my face remained calm. — And if I refuse?

— Then I will do everything to make Artyom leave you. I have my ways, believe me. Infidelity can be easily fabricated, especially with a simpleton like you.

She stood, signaling the audience was over. I got up after her, legs trembling with rage.

— Think it over, Katerina. You have a week.

After leaving the mansion, I stood by the car for a long time trying to calm down. My hands shook so much I couldn’t fit the key in the lock.

Tell Artyom? He wouldn’t believe. Or if he did, what would it change? Valentina Sergeevna was right — she had power, money, connections.

I decided to drive around, clear my head. I turned toward the mall — maybe coffee would help. I walked across the parking lot, lost in thought, when I saw a familiar silhouette. Valentina Sergeevna was getting out of a silver Mercedes.

But not alone. A tall man held her by the waist, she laughed, throwing her head back. That was definitely not Viktor Petrovich.

Instinctively, I hid behind a pillar. My heart pounded wildly. They walked toward the restaurant entrance, and the man whispered something in her ear.

Valentina Sergeevna playfully hit his shoulder, then pulled him by the tie and kissed him.

My phone was in my hand before I could think. Click, click, click — the camera captured every movement.

They went into the restaurant, and I was left standing, staring at the screen. Here she was, Mrs. Morality, lecturing me about decency.

All the way home I pondered what I had seen. Should I use this? Stoop to blackmail?

But wasn’t she going to do the same to me? My eyes stung from tears — not from hurt, but from helplessness. How had I ended up in this nightmare?

Family dinner next Friday. The Morozov tradition — gather once a week, discuss business, plans. I usually tried to stay unnoticed, but today was different.

My purse held the phone with photos, and my soul held determination.

— Katerina has lost a lot of weight, — Viktor Petrovich noted, cutting his steak. — Artyom, aren’t you being hard on your wife?

— Dad, what makes you say that? — Artyom looked at me surprised.

— Just a lot of work, — I muttered.

— Ah yes, school, — Valentina Sergeevna smirked. — By the way, have you thought about my offer?

I looked up at her. She sat opposite — the perfect wife, perfect mother, perfect lie. — What offer? — Artyom asked.

— Just women’s talk, — the mother-in-law waved it off. — Katerina, you remember our agreement? About your place in the family?

Viktor Petrovich was distracted by his phone, Artyom frowned, sensing a trap. I pulled out my phone.

— I remember, Valentina Sergeevna. But first, I want to show you something interesting.

— What is it? — she paled when she saw the screen.

— This is you last week. With a very… close friend, as I understand.

The phone went around the table. Viktor Petrovich froze, fork in hand, staring at the photo of his wife in the arms of a stranger.

Artyom whistled. Valentina Sergeevna slowly turned crimson.

— How dare you…

— And how dare you suggest I be a servant? — I stood up, leaning on the table. — Threaten to frame me for betrayal? You care so much about the family’s reputation, yet you…

— What’s going on? — Viktor Petrovich finally found his voice. — Valentina, explain!

— This… this isn’t what you think…

— Not what? — he threw the phone on the table. — Thirty years of marriage, and you…

The rest was drowned in shouting. Valentina Sergeevna tried to justify herself; Viktor Petrovich didn’t listen.

Artyom squeezed my hand under the table; his eyes showed shock and… pride? For me?

— Let’s get out of here, — he whispered.

We left them to argue. On the porch, Artyom hugged me tightly. — Forgive them. Forgive me. I should have protected you earlier.

— No need, — I buried my face in his shoulder. — I handled it myself.

And it was true. For the first time in all these months, I felt not like a victim, but like a person who could stand up for herself.

Maybe the methods weren’t the most noble, but did they ever play noble?

We went to our apartment, leaving the Morozov mansion behind. In the morning, Artyom received a message from his father — divorce, property division, Valentina Sergeevna was moving out.

And also an invitation to lunch, just the two of us. Signed: “Forgive the old fool. You turned out stronger than we thought.”

I read the message twice. Stronger. Yes, perhaps they made me that way. Taught me to fight for my happiness, not to give up, not to bend. Thanks to them for that lesson.