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.