Scene at the airport
Victor Morozov never carried bags for anyone. However, that morning, under the cold light of the airport ceiling lamps, he casually held Nadezhda’s elegant designer handbag in his hand. To him, it seemed like a harmless gesture of convenience, not devotion. But each step he took across the polished marble floor echoed in a special way. Nadezhda walked beside him, slender and relaxed, her cream-coloured dress swaying gently as she adjusted her sunglasses. Her smile was restrained, meant only for herself — the kind a mistress wears when she believes she has finally won.
He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. His hand holding her bag was answer enough.
The VIP terminal buzzed around them: executives hurried by, staff in formal suits checked passports, and lounge music dissolved into distant flight announcements. A private plane awaited them, but Nadezhda insisted on walking through the departure hall. She wanted to be seen with him.
Victor did not object. Why would he? For the first time, he felt in control of his story, until… everything changed in a matter of seconds.
First came silence. Then its heaviness, as strangers stopped moving. Conversations broke off mid-sentence.
Phones were raised, but not to make calls, but to take pictures. Victor instinctively followed their gaze. His heartbeat slowed to a minimum. At the far end of the terminal, standing motionless amid the morning chaos, was Eugenia, his wife. She wore no make-up. Her face was pale with fatigue, her eyes darker than he remembered.
But the last thing Victor saw was not her face. It was four small children huddled around her. Four twin boys, each clinging tightly to her skirt.
Their small, identical coats looked ghostly against the polished floor. His quadruplets.
Victor’s hand reflexively opened.
Nadezhda’s handbag slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a sound much louder than its weight would suggest.
His lips moved, but no words came out. Sweat broke out under his expensive suit. Time split in two.
Evgenia did not move. She did not speak. She just looked — through him, not at him.
There was no anger in her expression. There was something worse. It was pity. A flash.
The first camera captured it. Then another. And another.
Passengers who had once envied Victor Morozov were now recording his fall, frame by frame, in high resolution. ‘Victor…’ Nadezhda whispered, her voice trembling.
He didn’t hear her. His legs wouldn’t move.
His mind raced, futilely replaying conversations, excuses, plans. Nothing fit this moment.
No unforeseen circumstance had prepared him for Yevgenia standing there, clutching the evidence of his neglect in her trembling hands.
The children looked at him, confused. One boy pointed with his chubby finger, tugging at Yevgenia’s sleeve. ‘Daddy?’
Evgenia flinched.
Victor’s stomach twisted violently. Now people were whispering.
Phones were tilted for a better shot. The whispering turned into a hum. Then into audible questions. ‘Is that his wife? Are those his children? Who is that woman with him?’
Nadezhda stepped back, as if physical distance could erase her involvement. She looked from Evgenia to Victor and back, her lips trembling. She realised too late what everyone else had already realised.
She was not the woman Victor belonged to. She was proof of his betrayal.
‘Evgenia…’
His voice cracked, like that of a man unfamiliar with his own name. She finally moved. Slow, deliberate steps towards him.
Not to close the distance, but to hurt him with every inch of her self-control. The children followed her, their steps uneven and uncertain. Victor’s heart pounded against his ribs, desperately, uselessly.
Evgenia stopped right next to him. Her voice was almost a whisper, but every syllable cut him to pieces. ‘Is this for her sake that you carried all this?’
She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t need one.
Turning to her children, she bent down and picked up the youngest, as if to protect him. And then she left.
Right past Victor, past Nadezhda, past the reporters gathered at the entrance. Victor watched her go, unable to move.
And somewhere in the crowd, a journalist’s voice pierced the silence. ‘Victor Morozov, can you explain this?’
But he couldn’t. Because how do you explain that you were carrying the wrong woman’s bag when your real life had just passed you by, holding your legacy in her arms? The flashes continued, but Victor no longer saw them.
Even when the first tears finally rolled down his cheeks. Victor didn’t move.
Not when Yevgenia walked past him. Not when the flashes blinded him. Not when someone shouted his name over the terminal’s loudspeakers. Only when the first journalist pushed closer, shoving a microphone in his face, did he blink.
‘Victor Morozov! Are these your children? Who is this woman with you? Has your marriage broken down?’
He opened his mouth, but his throat was dry, constricted with panic.
His eyes searched desperately for Yevgenia, but she was already several steps ahead, carrying one of the boys and leading the others behind her, their little faces confused and tired. ‘Yevgenia… wait…’
His eyes searched desperately for Evgenia, but she was already several steps ahead, carrying one of the boys and leading the others behind her, their little faces confused and tired. ‘Evgenia… wait…’
His voice broke. She didn’t stop. Instead, she paused halfway, deliberately turned around and looked at the sea of cameras.
Her voice was calm. Steady. Unwavering.
‘I am Evgenia Morozova,’ she said quietly, but the silence was so thick that her words were clearly audible. “
And these are Viktor’s forgotten children.”
The phrase exploded. For the press. For strangers. For Viktor himself.
Sighs. Endless clicks of camera shutters.
Even the airport’s automatic announcements seemed to freeze, as if the building itself had tensed up to listen. Victor’s heart pounded against his ribs. ‘Evgenia… don’t…’
He tried to step forward, but the security guards, alarmed by the growing crowd, stood between them. Victor’s hand reached out to her. Begging. Desperately. But all he caught was empty air.
His wife looked him straight in the eye, then shifted her gaze to the bodyguards standing next to her.
‘Please take me and my children away from here.’
She didn’t shout. She didn’t beg. She commanded.
The guards hesitated only for a moment before obeying, recognising not the billionaire, but the woman whose pain commanded respect.
‘Evgenia… let me explain…’ His voice was hoarse and hollow.
She approached him again, stopping within reach. The children clung to her dress. Victor could barely breathe. Then she leaned in, her lips close to his ear, her voice barely audible above the roar of the camera shutters.
‘They will remember the man who never picked them up, not the one who carried her bag,’ she whispered.
And then she stepped back. Victor staggered. ‘Evgenia…’
But she was already gone. Security surrounded her, protecting her from the chaos as they pushed through the crowd. The small figures of the children disappeared.
They dissolved into the crowd, swallowed up by flashes of light and raised phones. Victor’s mind was screaming. But his body stood paralysed. Questions continued to rain down around him, louder and more insistent.
‘Mr Morozov, do you deny paternity? Is your company in jeopardy? Is this your mistress?’
The last question snapped him out of his stupor. He spun around abruptly. Hope. He searched for her frantically. But the spot where she had been standing just a few minutes ago was empty.
No cream-coloured dress. No trembling hands. No one.
She was gone. She had disappeared into the chaos she had left him in.
Victor looked down, disoriented. Her designer handbag lay forgotten at his feet.
The absurdity of it all stirred something deep inside him.
Cameras. Noise. Betrayal, now public, irreversible.
And at that moment, he realised that he now saw the world. A billionaire, alone in the airport terminal. Surrounded by questions.
Without a wife. Without children. Only with the burden of a bag he should never have had to carry.
Upstairs, the terminal announcement sounded harsh: ‘Flight 274, boarding has begun.’
Viktor Morozov stood motionless as the world watched his collapse live on television.
Nadezhda locked the toilet door and slid down the cold tiled wall, her knees trembling. The noise of the terminal outside was muffled, but her heartbeat roared louder than any sound. She looked at her reflection in the small, cracked mirror above the sink.
Her mascara was smudged. Her cheeks were red. But now it wasn’t fatigue or fear that frightened her. It was realisation.
Who am I to him?
Her breathing was short and ragged. A few minutes ago, she had been standing next to Victor Morozov, the billionaire she once considered her future.
Now she sat alone, hugging herself and shivering despite the warmth. Somewhere in that terminal, his wife was holding his children, children whose existence Nadezhda didn’t even know about.
Her mind replayed everything over and over, fragment by fragment. Victor carrying her bag. Camera flashes. And then Yevgenia’s face. Calm. Authoritative.
The woman Nadezhda had once envied. Now she feared her.
She covered her face with her hands. But the memories came flooding back, relentless. Memory: Victor’s penthouse. The first night she stayed with him. The city lights sparkled behind the glass walls. He poured her wine, looking at her with eyes she mistook for tenderness.
‘She doesn’t understand me, Nadia,’ he whispered. ‘But you do.’
Nadezhda, twenty-four years old and hopelessly in love, believed him. He touched her cheek, slowly, deliberately.
‘I’m trapped in this marriage. With you, I can breathe.’
She remembered the exact words. How he said them. How they seemed true. Now she heard them differently.
Another memory: her first modelling job cancelled after Victor saw the photos.
‘You don’t need this anymore,’ he told her. ‘Let me take care of you.’
She smiled. She believed it was love. In the bathroom, Nadezhda closed her eyes tightly, hating herself for this memory.
How long had she been a substitute? An empty space? Was she his rebellion against Yevgenia? Or his insurance policy?
The most terrible thought crept up on her, cold and slow.
Maybe I was never anything.
Tears blurred her vision, her fingers dug into her skin. She remembered Victor’s promises. How he talked about Evgenia as if she were ice. Domineering. Distant. But the woman she saw today was not cold. She was strong. And Victor? He looked smaller than ever.
A knock on the toilet door made Nadezhda jump. Her whole body shuddered.
‘Miss? Are you okay?’ — the cleaner’s voice.
Nadezhda’s voice trembled as she replied, ‘I need a minute.’
The footsteps receded. She began to breathe again. But her pulse was racing.
What now? She had no answer. Victor would not protect her. Not anymore. He didn’t even look for her in the chaos. Not after Evgenia appeared. Because the moment his wife arrived, she ceased to exist.
Her gaze fell on her phone. Dozens of messages. Friends. Strangers. Reporters.
Her name was trending. Her photos had leaked online. The headlines screamed: ‘The identity of Victor Morozov’s mistress has been revealed.’
She was no longer a secret. She was a scandal.
Suddenly, the walls began to close in on her. She staggered to her feet. She made her way to the sink. She splashed cold water on her face. Hoping it would drown out the burning shame.
But the water couldn’t wash away what she felt. A tool. That’s what she had always been. A tool in Victor Morozov’s war against a woman she didn’t really know. A war she had never agreed to participate in.
Her phone vibrated again. Another notification. Another headline.
She dropped it. Let it fall to the floor with a crash.
When she finally looked in the mirror again, she saw it. The end of the illusion.
No glamour. No future. Nothing.
Only Hope. And her mistake.
One thought echoed in her head. I have to get out.
Not just out of this toilet. Out of the city. Out of this story. Out of him.
With trembling hands, she reached for her phone. She opened her latest app for calling a taxi. One destination came to mind.
Somewhere he would never look for her.
She left the toilet, pushing her way through the crowd of waiting passengers. And she realised something darker. She wasn’t running from Evgenia. She was running from herself.
The refuge was modest. Bare walls. Thick curtains. Two bedrooms. CCTV cameras covered every corner outside. For Evgenia Morozova, it was a bigger house than the mansion she once shared with Victor.
She sat on the edge of a simple leather sofa. Her back was straight. The twins were sleeping in the next room.
Her lawyer, Raisa Lvovna, sat opposite her. Silent. Waiting.
Evgenia did not speak immediately. She watched the steam rise from her untouched tea. Finally, without looking up, she asked, ‘Do you think I’m weak, Raisa?’
Raisa hesitated. ‘No.’
Evgenia’s lips tightened. ‘Victor thinks so.’
Pause. Then Evgenia began.
‘At first, it wasn’t obvious. He made me feel lucky. Special, even. I believed him when he said that no one else understood his world. One evening he would bring me roses, and the next he would give me silence.’
Raisa listened, her tablet lying idle on her lap.
‘When I got pregnant, everything changed. He said it was too soon. He said it would damage his image. I wasn’t allowed to attend events. No baby showers. No public photos. I carried our children in silence while he built his empire.’
Her voice did not waver. It was too numb for that.
“I found out about his first mistress when I was six months pregnant. Not about Nadezhda. About someone before her. When I asked him about it, he said I had misunderstood. He made me think I was paranoid. That it was my hormones.
After that argument, he blocked my accounts.”
Raisa’s jaw clenched. She had heard stories like this before. But Evgenia’s restraint bothered her more than her tears.
‘The twins were born prematurely. Emergency caesarean section. I was unconscious. When I woke up, Victor was gone.’
Evgenia’s hands clenched into fists on her knees.
‘I asked the nurse why he wasn’t holding them. She told me. He didn’t come.’
A long silence. Raisa’s throat tightened.
‘Not once?’
Evgenia slowly shook her head. ‘Not once.’
She looked up at Raisa for the first time.
‘The world thinks he’s just an absent father. Cold, maybe. But they don’t know the truth.’
Raisa’s voice softened. ‘Tell me.’
Evgenia took a cautious breath.
‘He didn’t hold his children. Because he didn’t care whether they survived or not.’
Raisa blinked.
Evgenia continued. ‘I once heard him talking to the doctor. He said that if they didn’t survive, there would be fewer complications.’
She let the horror sink in.
‘I let him take everything from me, Raisa. My name. My home. My money. And worst of all, my silence.’
Raisa leaned forward, her voice now firm. ‘But no more.’
‘No,’ agreed Yevgenia. ‘No more.’
The tea had grown cold.
Raisa leaned closer, her eyes sharp. ‘You need to decide now. Do we settle this quietly? Or do we burn him publicly?’
Evgenia answered without hesitation. ‘I want the world to know what he did. And what he never did.’
Raisa nodded once. ‘Then tomorrow we file a lawsuit.’
Evgenia’s gaze slid to the closed bedroom door, where her sons slept peacefully.
‘People think it’s about money. It’s not.’
Raisa’s voice softened. ‘Then what is it about?’
‘History.’
Raisa frowned slightly. Yevgenia’s tone was bitter. Final.
‘I won’t let my sons grow up thinking that silence is strength.’
Then Raisa understood.
Viktor Morozov’s empire was not Yevgenia’s goal. His legacy was.
Raisa stood up. ‘I’ll prepare the statements.’
But Yevgenia wasn’t finished yet. She reached for her phone and opened the gallery. Dozens of photos. Not staged. Not public. Quiet moments of four tiny boys growing up.
Raisa watched as Evgenia silently leafed through them. Finally, Evgenia whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. ‘He never even looked at them.’
Raisa said nothing. Outside, the security lights flashed. Silence fell once more upon the refuge.
But it was not safety that Yevgenia felt. It was the calm before the storm.
By morning, the world had chosen sides. Evgenia Morozova’s name was in the headlines on five continents. News anchors endlessly discussed the grainy footage from the airport and speculated about the mysterious quadruplets clinging to her skirt. Commentators analysed her silence, her expression, her unmade-up face. Was she a cold, calculating woman seeking revenge?
Or a broken, betrayed wife? It depended on which channel you were watching.
Viktor Morozov’s PR team worked quickly. A carefully worded statement leaked online within hours. ‘Mr. Morozov deeply regrets the emotional pain caused by his private affairs becoming public knowledge. He remains committed to his role as a father and asks that his children’s privacy be respected.’
The headlines spun: ‘The father who was misunderstood.’ Victor liked that phrase.
Behind the mirrored walls of his penthouse, Victor paced like a caged animal, reviewing draft after draft of his next speech. His personal assistant stood nervously nearby. ‘Control the narrative,’ he muttered. ‘That’s all that matters.’
But no script could undo what had happened. Deep down, Victor knew. He had carried the wrong bag. And now the media was carrying his story.
All over the city, Nadezhda saw the same headlines. Her name. Her photos. Her career. Destroyed. In less than 12 hours, the press found her modelling profiles. Her old photos on Instagram. Her interviews about women’s empowerment. Now each image had a new caption: ‘The mistress who destroyed a billionaire’s marriage.’ Online comments flooded her inbox. ‘Slut. Gold digger. Home wrecker.’
She turned off her phone. But the silence didn’t help.
Nadezhda sat curled up on the floor of her rented flat. Her knees were pressed against her chest. Her mascara was smeared from crying. The blinds were tightly closed against the daylight.
Victor hadn’t called. She hated herself for expecting him to. On television, analysts discussed her role in the scandal, as if her life were a side plot in Victor’s downfall. One commentator sneered cruelly, ‘Did she think she was special? All mistresses think that.’
Nadezhda closed her eyes. Maybe he was right.
Across the city, in the silence of her refuge, Evgenia sat watching the same news reports. But where Nadezhda cried, Evgenia just watched silently. Her expression was unreadable. Every insult directed at her did not hurt. Every accusation of coldness only confirmed what she had been taught: a woman who does not cry is dangerous; a woman who speaks is ungrateful.
Victor had taught her well. But now the world could watch. And Yevgenia intended to let them.
Back in his penthouse, Victor rehearsed. ‘It was a misunderstanding. My wife and I… have differences, yes. But…’ He paused. Upset. His assistant waited. Then he hesitated.
‘Sir, with all due respect, people may not believe you.’
Victor turned slowly, his eyes sharp. ‘I built this city.’
His assistant said nothing.
Victor’s phone vibrated. He checked it, hoping for support. Instead, a message from his legal advisor dampened his spirits. ‘She hired Raisa Lvovna.’
Victor’s hand tightened around the phone. Lvovna was not a divorce lawyer. She was a military strategist.
His mouth went dry.
Victor stared out the window at the city he once owned. Realising that he was no longer writing the script. Yevgenia was.
And she was in no hurry.
On screens around the world, her silence spoke louder than Victor’s carefully chosen words. The media wasn’t covering a scandal. They were watching a public execution. Victor Morozov simply didn’t know whether he was the victim or the criminal.
Nadezhda waited in silence. The hotel room was too perfect. Beige walls. Gold accents. Sterile luxury. Like the life she had once dreamed of. Now she sat on the edge of a velvet armchair, fidgeting with her trembling fingers.
Every second felt like an eternity. She almost ran away when the door clicked open. Evgenia.
She came in. No security. No lawyer. Just her.
Calm. Restrained. Frightening.
She gently closed the door behind her. The click sounded louder than Nadezhda’s heartbeat. Neither woman spoke.
Nadezhda stood up. Too quickly. Her voice trembled.
‘I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
Evgenia raised one hand. Nadezhda fell silent.
Evgenia crossed the room with careful, deliberate steps. She did not sit down. She stood opposite Nadezhda. Her gaze was steady.
‘I know why you called me here.’
Nadezhda swallowed. ‘I need to know… was it all a lie?’
Evgenia tilted her head slightly. ‘You want me to tell you the truth about Victor?’
Nadezhda nodded.
Evgenia’s voice was quiet. Too quiet. ‘Okay.’
She didn’t pace the room. She didn’t lecture. She told a story.
“I met him when I was the same age as you. 24. He said I was different. Special. The only one who could see the person behind the empire.”
Nadezhda’s lips parted slightly. Horror crept in.
Evgenia’s tone did not change. ‘He told me that his exes didn’t understand him. That he felt trapped. That I was his freedom.’
Nadezhda’s knees buckled slightly. She sat down without meaning to.
Evgenia continued. ‘When I got pregnant, he said it wasn’t the right time. He said it would ruin his future. I believed him.’
Her eyes flashed for a moment. Something damp flashed across them.
‘I spent my first pregnancy alone in the mansion, cut off from my accounts, with staff who were ordered not to talk to me unless necessary.’
Nadezhda’s throat tightened.
‘I thought you were the problem.’
‘I know,’ Evgenia said softly. Pause. ‘Do you know what Victor said when I asked him why he didn’t come to the hospital?’
Nadezhda shook her head, tears welling up.
Evgenia’s voice was pure steel. ‘He said, “They’ll survive without me.”’
Nadezhda’s tears flowed freely.
Evgenia leaned forward slightly. ‘And that’s when I realised something.’
Nadezhda looked up at her, broken.
Evgenia uttered the phrase with surgical precision. ‘You are not my enemy. You are the next version of me.’
The silence crushed Nadezhda. She began to sob uncontrollably. Shame and grief overwhelmed her at once. She shook her head, gasping for breath. ‘I didn’t know… I didn’t know…’
Evgenia watched. Not cruelly. Not sympathetically. Just finished. ‘I believe you.’
For some reason, this hurt Nadezhda even more.
Evgenia finally sat down. Her posture was still impeccable. ‘You weren’t the first. And you won’t be the last.’
‘I loved him,’ Nadezhda’s voice cracked like glass.
‘Me too.’
Nadezhda covered her face with her hands. Evgenia allowed the silence to stretch out, giving Nadezhda the breakdown that Victor never allowed her.
Then Evgenia’s tone changed. Practical. Sharp.
‘You need to decide now.’
Nadezhda looked up, broken. ‘Decide what?’
Evgenia’s gaze was icy. ‘Are you going to continue begging for crumbs of his attention? Or are you going to disappear before he destroys what’s left of you?’
It wasn’t advice. It was a warning.
Evgenia stood up. Nadezhda whispered through her tears. ‘Why… did you come?’
Evgenia’s expression finally cracked. Something maternal flashed across her face.
‘I came so that you wouldn’t repeat my mistake.’
She walked to the door. Her hand on the handle. She hesitated. Then, without turning around, Evgenia said quietly. ‘When he calls you, and he will call, don’t answer.’
The door opened. Evgenia paused. Then she said the last words Nadezhda would ever hear from her. ‘He only calls when he needs to win.’
And she left.
Nadezhda sat alone. Weeping in the luxurious hotel room she no longer believed in. Mourning a future that never existed.
But somewhere deep inside, a new thought began to form. Escape.
And perhaps revenge.
Victor Morozov sat at his glass desk. Skyscrapers were reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. The city pulsed with light. But his office was quiet. Military headquarters.
Papers lay on the table. Financial forecasts. Public opinion reports. Crisis management strategies. None of them mentioned his children.
His assistant stood nervously opposite him, clutching a digital tablet.
‘Sir, three major shareholders left this morning. The board of directors is nervous.’
Victor did not look up. ‘They’ll be back.’
The assistant hesitated. ‘Sir, Yevgenia’s interview is scheduled for next week.’
Victor’s jaw twitched once. Then he returned to the tables. ‘Cancel the press conference.’
‘But…’
‘I said cancel it.’
He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to. For Victor, words were now liabilities. Only numbers mattered. And the numbers were bleeding.
His empire needed stability. His family did not.
He reviewed the forecasts. His mind was cold and ruthless. Evgenia’s voice and Nadezhda’s tears were not important. Neither was public outrage or sympathy. Opinions change. Wealth remains. If he controlled the market, he controlled the narrative. It had always been that way.
But for the first time, doubt whispered. Victor dismissed it.
‘Send an offer to Lvovna’s firm,’ he said evenly. ‘An offer. Money. Real estate. Anything she wants. For Evgenia’s silence.’
His assistant nodded cautiously, although they both knew that Lvovna would not agree to the deal.
Victor returned to his screens. Indifferent. For him, Evgenia was not a wife. She was a cost centre. And the children? He never saw them as real. Four identical faces that he had avoided since their birth. Babies were complications. Emotions slowed down deals.
Attachment weakened resolve. Victor did not hold children in his arms. He held power.
But cracks were appearing.
That night, long after his assistant had left, Victor remained in his office. The lights were dimmed. The city spread out behind the glass like a dead circuit board.
He poured himself a drink. He didn’t touch it. His gaze slid to the only object on the far edge of his desk. A photograph. A cheap hospital snapshot taken by a nurse. Four premature babies. His children.
He didn’t know who had put the photograph there. Maybe Evgenia. Maybe a long-gone employee. He had ignored it for years, leaving it on the table like background noise.
But now, alone, he looked at it. Not with tenderness. Not with regret. With confusion.
They meant nothing to him. Not because he was cruel. It was because he didn’t know how.
Victor Morozov understood transactions. Not fatherhood.
The silence was oppressive. Finally, he stood up. He walked over to the window. He stared at the streets below, where cars and people looked equally meaningless.
His own face stared back at him in the reflection of the glass. For the first time, he didn’t recognise it.
His empire was crumbling. His narrative was slipping away. And he didn’t know how to win this war.
Behind him, his untouched drink was warming up. Next to him was a photograph. Four children and a man who had never held them in his arms.
Victor whispered into the void. ‘They will forget me.’
And somewhere in the city, Eugenia was preparing to ensure just that.
Nadezhda stopped counting the hours. Time no longer mattered. Her hotel room, once her refuge, had become her prison. The curtains remained closed. Trays of food rotted untouched.
