“Don’t even enter the ceremony hall without the deed for the bakery—I won’t let our family be shamed by a pauper!”
Izolda Pakhomovna firmly blocked the doorway with her broad back wrapped in purple lurex. In her hands, a gray plastic binder with a shiny crest sticker was trembling.
“Mom, be careful—you’ll catch the veil,”
Herman lazily adjusted the lapel of his tailored tuxedo and threw a quick glance at the clock.
“Agnia, just sign it quickly, the registrar has already popped her head out twice. Mom’s right. A husband should have a strong backing in marriage. Or do you expect your provincial relatives to leap at your eclairs while I get treated like a guest?”
“With what rights?”
I slowly turned away from the mirror.
“With legal rights,”
Lolita chimed in loudly.
She spun around the vanity in a stunning floor-length white lace dress she bought three days ago, ignoring everyone’s requests to choose a different color.
“Lolita, step away from the hem,”
Vera said quietly, standing by the window holding my bouquet of white peonies.
“And you better keep your mouth shut, factory maid,”
the sister-in-law snapped back.
“You’re only a witness because Agnia doesn’t have any real friends. German, hand her the pen.”
German stepped toward me, pulling a heavy metal pen from his inside pocket. It was the very one engraved with ‘To My Chief Confectioner.’ He’d given it to me six months ago at the opening of our third shop, after paying for it with my own credit card.
“Here are the boxes marked in pencil,”
he pushed the folder right against the boutonnière on my corset.
“It’s a document for the free transfer of half the charter capital and the share in the land beneath the shop. Mom arranged everything this morning through her notary friend, Malinin. He’s downstairs in the lobby with the registry. Once you sign, we can go listen to the processional.”
“Malinin is waiting downstairs?”
I repeated, my voice sounding dry.
“What did you expect?”
Isolda Pakhomovna sneered, folding her arms triumphantly across her chest.
“You thought you’d snare my boy, waltz into a decent family with your pastries, and we’d just smile at you? There are sixty guests sitting in that hall. My relatives from the ministry, German’s cousins and their families, colleagues from the trust. Imagine the scandal if this wedding falls through. No supplier in this city will let you through their door. You’d disgrace yourself across the entire region.”
“Sixty people,”
I echoed.
“Sixty,”
the groom confirmed pointedly.
“And the banquet cost one point two million. So stop this act, Agnia. Just sign it.”
Vera stepped forward, shielding me with her shoulder:
“Isolda Pakhomovna, please step away from her. She can barely breathe.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do?”
the mother-in-law advanced on my friend, choking her with the overpowering smell of hairspray.
“Get out! This is a family matter!”
“Don’t shout,”
I carefully took the pen from German’s fingers.
The metal was cold. The engraving scratched my fingertip.
“That’s a good girl,”
the groom grinned, leaning towards me.
“See, Mom? I told you she was sensible.”
I placed the pen back on the glass table next to the powder compact. Dead center.
“Go to the hall and arrange the guests, Isolda Pakhomovna. I’ll be there in exactly five minutes. I just need to grab the bouquet from the car—this one’s crumpled.”
“Vera has the bouquet in her hands,”
the mother-in-law narrowed her eyes.
“That’s the spare. In the trunk. I ordered an extra from the florist just for the toss,”
I stared straight at her brow.
“Go. I’m not signing this paper in front of a witness. Have your notary come up to the door.”
“You better watch yourself,”
Isolda Pakhomovna hissed, tucking the folder under her arm.
“Five minutes. If you don’t come out in five minutes, I’ll tell everyone through the mic exactly who you are.”
They spilled into the corridor. The door shut with a dull click.
“Agnia,”
Vera grabbed my wrist. Her fingers were ice cold.
“You’re not going back there, are you?”
“Where’s my phone?”
I asked, undoing the pins at the hem of my veil.
“It’s in your purse. Here.”
“Take off this net for me.”
Double Rate
“Six kilograms of sterlet and twelve bottles of five-star Armenian brandy,”
two weeks ago Isolda Pakhomovna was drumming her long fingernail against the banquet brochure from Onegin restaurant.
Why do we need so much fish for sixty people?
I was trying to balance the budget on my tablet.
The main menu is veal with roasted vegetables. The portions are huge.
My relatives have a lot of respect for fish,
she snapped back.
We’re inviting people, not just to chew on empty buns. You’re the baker, so go bake your sponge cakes, and let me handle setting the table—I’ve been running a cafeteria for thirty years.
That adds three hundred thousand to the total bill,
I glanced over at German.
He was sprawled out on the leather sofa in the banquet hall, sipping coffee and twirling my car keys in his hand.
Agniya, don’t embarrass yourself in front of the administrator,
he threw out with a crooked smirk.
Why are you counting pennies? Your cafe makes that much in a week during the busy season. We only get married once. Or do you begrudge my mother some fish?
I stayed silent. I pulled out my business card, tapped it to the terminal, and paid the deposit. I needed to settle this in thirty minutes: the new location at the mall had a delayed delivery of the Italian oven, the installers were threatening to leave for another site, and the mixer in the kitchen was acting up. I just paid them off, hoping to buy myself some peace and quiet.
Peace didn’t happen.
Three days later, Lolita burst into the main café with three friends. They pushed round tables together by the panoramic window, threw their jackets onto the chairs and began snapping their fingers at the barista.
Four of your signature pistachio rolls, two large raf coffees, and a cherry brownie,
she announced across the counter.
Barista Katya glanced at her in confusion:
That’ll be one thousand eight hundred and fifty rubles. Will you be paying by card?
Paying? What do you mean?
Lolita laughed loudly for everyone to hear.
Do you even know who I am? I’m your boss’s future sister-in-law. My brother will have full rights here in ten days. By autumn, we’ll turn this place into a proper boutique, so don’t get smart—just serve the pastries.
I stepped out of my office at the sound of commotion, just as Katya was about to cry.
Lolita, either pay your bill or go outside,
I said quietly.
My sister-in-law grimaced, pulled out her phone and turned on the speaker:
German, your fiancée is making a scene over a piece of stale cake, right in front of my girls!
That evening, German met me in the hallway with a stony expression.
You humiliated my sister in front of strangers.
Your sister came here demanding free stuff and being rude to my employee,
I peeled off my tight sneakers. My back was aching after ten hours on my feet.
Family means sharing not just a bed, but risks too, Agniya,
he stood there in the hall, arms crossed, his voice sounding instructive, almost reasonable.
If you go bankrupt or get sick tomorrow, who’s going to take on your loans? My family has to carry your load while you keep all the property in your name? A man can’t be freeloading in his wife’s house, it breaks his spirit. You do everything for yourself and treat me like I don’t matter. Who would live with a woman who’s even afraid to give her husband a key to the bakery?
I looked at him and couldn’t find the words to reply. Everything he said sounded smooth—almost right. In books about strong women, they always mentioned partnership, about giving a man space to maneuver.
“I don’t think you’re meaningless to me,”
I said then, my voice tired.
“Then prove it,”
he stepped closer and kissed me on the temple. ”
Just give me power of attorney for the restaurant and the contractors. You don’t have time to deal with all the bureaucratic stuff—you’re busy with flour all day. I’ll handle all the approvals myself.”
Then Isolda Pakhomovna arrived. She brought homemade pickles in cloudy jars and sat down at my kitchen table, elbows sprawled on the linen tablecloth.
“Agniya, don’t judge me too harshly,”
she suddenly began in a hoarse, cracked voice, not meeting my eyes. ”
My father slaved away at the produce depot his whole life, and after his heart attack, the family dumped my mother in a shack with just a cardboard suitcase, because the apartment was in Grandpa’s name. For thirty years, I wore myself out working in the tech college cafeteria. Scrubbing the pots, counting leftovers, just to get Herman on his feet. I know how quickly women throw men out on the street when they get old. Herman is all I have. And as long as I live, I won’t let him get tossed out in the cold with just a suitcase because some new whim goes to your head.”
She spoke with such blunt, deep-rooted pain that I doubted myself for a moment. Maybe I really was being callous? Maybe this is how a family is built—through concessions and giving up on personal selfishness?
I signed over to Herman the power of attorney to handle all the wedding contracts. Myself. With my own hands.
Someone else’s screen
The phone screen on the bedside table by the mirror flashed with a bright white square.
This was last night. Herman had left for the barbershop, leaving his work tablet charging by the coffee machine. The device was linked to his main number.
The screen flashed again. A message came in through the messenger app. The chat was simply called: “The Knyazevs.”
I stepped over to put down a cup of cold tea. My eyes caught on the words. No hacking was necessary—the notifications were showing openly on the locked display as banners.
“Mom, notary Malinin confirmed he’s prepared the deed in our template. The main thing is to corner her right before the registration, when the guests are already inside. In front of the crowd that fool won’t go anywhere—she’ll sign, won’t want a scandal in front of the whole town.”
.
Then Herman’s reply popped up:
“The main thing is to take the share in the bakery and the land plot. The land is commercial—I already talked to an appraiser, it’s worth about four million clean. Then in six months we’ll file to divide up the coffee shops with fake debts to Mom’s brother. Let that fat cash cow slave away at the oven—her job is kneading dough, we’ll be the ones running things.”
.
And then Isolda Pakhomovna’s answer with a ton of emojis:
“Make sure she doesn’t slip away. You bought a 240,000 ring from her own card, let her work it off, that country leech. Tomorrow at 12:30 is our day.”
.
I stood at the kitchen table for exactly two minutes. There were no tears, no shaking, no screaming inside—just a sense of surgical sterility, as if someone flipped on a blinding quartz lamp and flooded the room with harsh white light.
“Vera,”
I dialed the technologist’s number.
“Yes, Agniya? I’ve just finished the fillings for tomorrow’s wedding cupcakes and I’m heading out.”
“Come back to the workshop. Open the safe in my office. Take out the copy of the power of attorney I made out for German for the banquet payments. And find the contact info for a courier service with a VIP express delivery rate.”
“Agniya, what’s going on? You sound strange.”
“It’s nothing. Just know that tomorrow, things will go differently.”
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I sat at my laptop, with the banking app open and contracts for services spread out before me.
German, drunk on his own sense of power, did everything through the power of attorney—but all in his own name. The banquet hall rental contract for ‘Onegin’—Knyazev German Eduardovich. The rental of the trio of luxury white sedans—Knyazev German Eduardovich. The invoice for the live music and the light show—Knyazev German Eduardovich. As for me, I was just listed as the payer on a guarantee letter.
At eight in the morning, my company’s lawyer was already standing at the entrance of the restaurant complex’s management company. One statement to revoke the guarantee letter due to breach of contract, a copy of the power of attorney that allowed transferring the financial obligations to a proxy, the company seal—and just like that, the main payment of 1.2 million rubles was marked as “awaiting confirmation from client G.E. Knyazev.”
I put on my wedding dress myself. White, straight-cut, no crinolines or sequins. I ordered a morning taxi and arrived at the Wedding Palace exactly on time—making sure not to give them a single moment to doubt their victory.
A Special Delivery for the March
“Sixty people are in place, the orchestra is ready,”
the coordinator in a strict wine-colored suit opened the door to the bridal room a bit.
“Agniya Rostislavovna, it’s time to walk the red carpet.”
She stopped short.
I stood in the middle of the empty dressing room in black jeans, a white shirt, and a sporty jacket, lacing up my sneakers quickly. The wedding dress hung on the back of the couch like a crumpled white cloud. The veil lay on the floor next to the trash can.
“You… you’re not ready?”
the woman stammered.
“But the groom and his mother are already by the arch. They’re about to start the Mendelssohn March!”
“I’m absolutely ready,”
I swung my leather bag’s strap over my shoulder.
“Vera, do you have the car keys?”
“In my pocket,”
my friend opened the side door to the emergency exit, leading to the Palace courtyard.
“Your ride’s warmed up. The courier walked in the front entrance exactly one minute ago.”
“Perfect.”
I took one last look at the makeup table. There lay a heavy feather pen with an engraving. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands, and set it right on top of the abandoned wedding dress.
“Take it, German. The ink inside is yours, but I paid for it.”
We went down the metal stairs through the fire exit. Outside, a cold, fine drizzle was falling. The air smelled like wet asphalt and decaying leaves. I got into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut:
“Let’s head to Moskovsky Prospect, to the highway to the airport.”
At that very moment, the first triumphant notes of the brass instruments began to fill the grand registration hall.
The heavy oak doors swung wide open. Sixty invited guests—aunties in velvet berets, distinguished uncles in ill-fitting suits, and German’s colleagues from the fitness club—all turned their heads toward the entrance, ready to applaud the bride.
Izolda Pakhomovna straightened her shoulders and shot a triumphant glance at her relatives from the ministry: look at the catch her son landed! German stood puffed up with a smug grin by the arch draped in roses.
But instead of a girl in lace, a tall young man in a crisp blue courier service suit marched purposefully down the center of the carpet. In his hands, he held a bulky leather zippered folder.
The music stuttered, the violin screeched out of tune, and fell silent.
“Knyazev German Eduardovich?”
the courier asked loudly, his voice echoing through the entire hall.
“What kind of circus is this?”
the groom jerked forward, glancing around nervously.
“Where’s the bride? Who let you into the ceremonial hall?”
“Delivery with declared value, hand it personally to the recipient,”
the courier unzipped the folder and handed German a hefty stack of documents.
“Sign here to acknowledge receipt.”
“Did Agnia send this?”
Izolda Pakhomovna rushed forward, greedily snatching the papers. “She signed! I told you, where else could she go? German, get the rings!”
She tore off the top ribbon, pulled out the cover sheet—and froze.
From the very first page, enlarged screenshots of a late-night chat stared right back at her. In bold, black-on-white letters: “fat cash cow,” “country mooch,” “we’ll take over the business, and in six months, fake some debts and file for division.”
“What is this?..”
the mother-in-law muttered as the color slowly drained from her round, blushed cheeks.
The guests in the first row started craning their necks to get a closer look.
“Mom, what’s there?”
German snatched the second page.
There were the original bills.
A notice from the Onegin restaurant administration: the main payment for the banquet, totaling one million two hundred forty thousand rubles, has been billed to the client Knyazev G.E. due to the cancellation of the guarantee letter. Payment deadline—by six o’clock today, with a five percent penalty per hour.
Bill for the wedding car fleet: one hundred eighty thousand rubles. Customer—Knyazev G.E.
Bill for florals, live orchestra, and lighting: two hundred ten thousand rubles. Customer—Knyazev G.E.
And a brief handwritten note on the pastry shop’s letterhead:
“Izolda Pakhomovna, I didn’t enter the registration hall so as not to disgrace your noble family name with my pastry shop reputation. The banquet is fully set, the sturgeon is on the tables, Armenian brandy is chilling. Don’t let the relatives from the ministry go hungry. The bills are in your boy’s name—he should have a strong back. Bon appétit.”
.
“Where is she?!”
roared German, clutching the papers so hard his knuckles turned white.
“Where is that wench?! Catch her at the exit!”
“The bride left ten minutes ago,”
the courier replied calmly, tucking the folder under his arm.
“Please sign for the delivery. The service was paid for by the sender, round-trip.”
Lolita squealed, staring at her smartphone screen:
— German! She’s blocked all the company cards! My phone’s been disconnected from her family plan!
The hall buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Aunts were whispering loudly, hiding behind their programs. My uncle from the Ministry stood up from his chair with a look of disdain, adjusted his tie, and without glancing at the pale-faced Izolda Pakhomovna, silently made his way to the exit.
Boarding Call
My boarding pass rustled between my fingers as I approached desk number twenty-four in the international departures hall.
— Sladkova, Agniya?
The airline staff member in a crisp navy-blue cap took my passport.
— Yes.
— Are you checking any luggage?
— Only carry-on.
A small rolling bag was by my side. Inside were two spare sweaters, my work laptop, a notebook with recipe cards for new desserts, and chargers. My wedding shoes were still in the trunk of the car, which Vera promised to drop off at the secured lot by the bakery.
My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating in my pocket.
Notifications kept popping up and disappearing on the screen: forty-seven missed calls from German, thirty-two from Izolda Pakhomovna, frantic voice messages from Lolita. Then came messages from the manager at the ‘Onegin’ restaurant:
“Agniya Rostislavovna, the groom is refusing to sign the completion documents, his mother is having a heart attack, we’ve called the police and security services”
.
I swiped my finger across the glass, slid the slider down, and hit ‘Airplane mode’.
The screen went black. The vibrations stopped.
The waiting lounge smelled of cheap travel coffee, damp rubber from the luggage belts, and dust from the air conditioners. Out beyond the huge panoramic windows, a white airliner with an orange tail turned onto the runway. A fueler in a bright yellow vest methodically coiled a thick hose, ripples of hot air shimmering over the gray concrete.
I stopped by the newsstand. There were chocolate bars, travel pillows, and cardboard cups on display.
— Just a plain black coffee, no sugar,
I told the vendor. —
And a packet of roasted hazelnuts.
— That’s three hundred forty rubles. Tap to pay with your card.
I tapped my card on the little square terminal. It beeped, approving the transaction.
Three hundred forty rubles. No one else’s mothers to answer to. No proof needed that I had the right to spend this money.
I wrapped both hands around the hot cardboard cup. The cup was burning my palms, but it was a real, substantial warmth.
— Attention please, boarding for the flight to Istanbul with onward connection to Rome is now beginning,
came the even voice of the announcer overhead. —
Passengers, please proceed to gate number twenty-four.
I took a sip. The coffee was bitter and almost tasteless, as airport coffee always is.
I adjusted the strap on my bag and headed down the long telescopic walkway toward the cool roar of the jet engines.
